luxcuriousao3

[luxcuriousao3]

Hey I really like alot of ur hybrid stuff and I want to make a demi human bot on j.ai for it! Do you want a tag or anything?

Receiving this ask was like a personal third tower.

(Please, make fics from my posts, make drawings, print out my posts and make some weird as poetry, but NEVER, AND I DO MEAN NEVER make a fucking ai bot with them. I dont care what the fuck you do as long as its urs and done creatively. NEVER make AI based off anytning I post.)

[luxcuriousao3]

I just wanted to say thank you for writing that Virgin Simon Riley fic. While reading it, I came to tears bc of the way you wrote reader establishing their boundaries and Simon respecting them. Ik it's the bare minimum but I've been in so many situations like that where I felt like I couldn't speak up or that I shouldn't have and just sorta dealt w whatever was being done to me. There have also been times where my no's and stops haven't been respected. I just wanna say thank you for writing this because it gives me a space to feel empowered and it reminded me that, I can be stern and confident with my no's and that I don't need to tolerate something I don't like ♡

#metoo

- 🐾

Oh anon, much love to you 💜 I was in tears writing it for the same exact reasons. Writing that fic was incredibly cathartic for me. I've learned to become as firm as Reader in my boundaries because of how many times they've been disrespected, and hearing that my fic has helped you do the same? That is so very special to me, and I'm tearing up again thinking about it. I am so, so glad to hear that. You deserve to enjoy every single moment of sex. It's supposed to feel good. If there is ever a second where you're thinking "I don't really like this," you have every single right to speak up. Whether it's because your partner accidentally or purposefully crosses a boundary, or even if it's just because your leg is cramping (been there before lol). Sex is not supposed to be a performance, you're not supposed to be graded on how much discomfort you can take for your partner's benefit. I know as women we are socialized to do that, but it's *wrong.* And there are plenty of guys out there who will react like Simon did--genuinely remorseful for accidentally hurting you, and ready to put in the time and effort to make amends. If they don't react like that? Then they're not worth it.

[luxcuriousao3]

This is incredibly self indulgent. Not proofread, literally typed it up on tumblr when the thought struck me.

-

Virgin Simon Riley, who at his big age, has never got past second base. The closest he's come to sex is porn and the shite he's heard squad mates say during his army career. So when the two of you, after having taken it slow, finally fall into bed together, he does what he's been led to believe girls like--namely choking you and degrading you--even though he himself is downright turned off by just the thought of hurting you or saying a single cruel word in your direction. But he is so, so desperate to do this right, to please you so you never even suspect he's never done this before and go running for the hills. Except the second his hand wraps around your throat, your expression turns terrified, and you grasp at his hand, squirming beneath him as you try to pull it away. He doesn't even get to finish calling you a dirty whore before he's letting go and scrambling away from you, the look on his face mirroring yours. He's fucked up. He doesn't know how, but he's fucked up majorly. There are tears in your eyes, and your whole body is shaking as you pull the blankets up to cover yourself. He feels like his father. He thinks he's going to be sick.

"Wh-why-- what-- what the fuck?" You gasp, lips trembling as the tears spill over. There's anger around the edges of your fearful expression, now. "What the fuck! Wh-why did you-- you didn't even f-fucking ask! What the fuck, Simon!?"

You're crying in earnest by the end of your tirade, and Simon is panicking, afraid to touch you and make it worse, but unable to stand just sitting there and watching you cry. He creeps closer, murmuring a stream of apologies as he does, feeling far too exposed with how naked he is.

"I-- I d-don't-- I d-don't like that shit!" You half yell, half sob once he reaches the end of the bed. "I'm n-not a fucking whore and h-hate being fucking choked! Wh-why did you do that?"

"I-- I thought," he stutters. The big, bad Simon Riley, stuttering. Bloody hell. "I thought that's what birds liked..."

You glared up at him with eyes, clearly not believing him.

"What, every single girl you've been with has been some ultra-kinky nympho that wants you to choke them out and spit in their face the first time you have sex?" You scoff. "There's no fucking way."

Simon was terrified he'd lose you if he admitted he's never slept with a woman before, but now, it seems like that's the only way to convince you he's not some piece of shit that can only get off by hurting his partner.

"I've never..." he swallowed, sitting down in the bed and staring at his hands, unable to look at you. "I've never had sex before."

There's a long silence, and when he does chance a glance at you, he sees your fear and anger has been replaced by shock.

"You're a virgin?" You ask loudly, and he winces, ducking his head in shame, but he nods. "Christ. Then what-- where did you even learn about the-- the choking thing? And calling me a dirty whore?"

Simon winced, hearing the hurt still lingering in your voice, his shame growing.

"M'not some porn addict, but I've-- I've watched it here and there, over the years," he said quietly, the tops of his ears burning. "Every video I've seen has had that, and the birds, they all-- they all were inta it. And my squaddies, they... well, lads talk. They were always bangin' on about their girlfriends liking it rough. So I just thought-- I thought that's what ya would want."

"You didn't consider, I don't know, asking me?" Your reply is sharp, and Simon hunches his broad shoulders, curling in on himself. He feels so fucking stupid. He let his fear of rejection get in the way, and instead of looking like a fool, he looked like a monster. A monster that hurt you. Even if you manage to forgive him, he doesn't think he'll ever be able to forgive himself.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and he sounds pathetic even to his own ears. "I'm so fucking sorry, lovie, I swear ta God I never wanted ta hurt you. I didn't even like doin' that shite, makes me feel like my bloody father. Never want to be like him. I just-- just wanted ta please ya. Make ya feel good."

You sigh, and Simon's sure you're about to tell him that the two of you are over. But instead, he feels your hand on his shoulder, and he looks up, startled. You've got a conflicted look on your face, and he doesn't move, not wanting to interrupt whatever decision you're mulling over.

"I'm still mad at you," you finally say. "You really, really scared me, Simon. And you hurt my fucking feelings. But I-- I also still like you. A lot. So... I'm going to give you another chance. Just one. If you fuck up like this again, we're done."

Simon straightens up, eyes wide. He can't believe what he's hearing. He opens his mouth to thank you, tempted to get on his knees and kiss your damn feet, but you hold up a hand, cutting him off.

"And we can't pick up where we left off, either," you continue. "You broke my trust, and that's going to take time to get back. I'm certainly not going to be comfortable having sex with you anytime soon. But if you can accept that... then I won't leave right now and never look back."

"I can accept it," he says immediately. "I'll do whatever ya want, lovie. Whatever ya need. Don't care how long it takes-- only care about you."

Your expression softens a little at his earnest words.

"What I need right now is some space to get dressed," you answer. "And then I'd like to cuddle on the couch and watch a movie. I just-- I want to be touched gently, right now."

Simon nods, standing up and grabbing your clothes to hand them to you. He grabs his own as well and goes to step out of the room. But before he does, he turns to look at you one last time.

"You're not dirty," he says, thinking you might need to hear him say this, too. When your eyes tear up again and a vulnerable expression crosses your face, he knows he's right. "An' you're not a whore. You're beautiful, an' smart, an' far too bloody kind. You're fuckin' perfect, lovie. An' I'll do whatever it takes ta make ya believe that again."

"Thank you," you sniffle, and he gives you a half smile before he leaves the room and closes the door behind him. He quickly gets dressed and queues up the new movie you've been talking about seeing, before grabbing a pint of ice cream from the freezer. It's your favorite flavor. He'd popped out to the shops to get it before you came over.

Simon knows how lucky he is that you're giving him another chance, and he's going to do everything in his power to deserve it.

[luxcuriousao3]

Just thinking about Rich Girl!Reader x Ghost

tw: none

-

He's meeting your parents for the first time. You're all at a fancy restaurant. His suit is rented and two sizes too small. He has never been somewhere this opulent in his life. He has no idea why there are so many fucking spoons.

"What are your intentions with our daughter?" Your father asks him in the poshest voice he's ever heard. Simon tries to figure out a tactful way to say "to love her more than anyone else till I die in the dirt in some foreign country. And also breed her."

He fails.

Instead, his answer comes in the form of unintelligible grunts and mumbles. Your father is not impressed. Your mother clutches her pearls. Next to him, you take a very large sip of your wine.

The meal goes on. After a course of shrimp cocktails, the waiter brings over bowls of clear soup. Simon picks up one of the many, many spoons and starts to eat. It tastes like lemon water. But hot, because it's soup.

Your parents are looking at him in horror. You whisper "oh no" under your breath.

For some reason, you all have your fingers in the lemon water soup.

He is lost. He doesn't understand rich people. You have so many spoons. Why do you have so many spoons if you are going to eat it with your fingers.

"What are you doing?" Your mother asks. She is scandalized. She is disgusted. She is clutching her expensive-looking pearls, again.

Simon looks down at the soup. A lemon wedge sits at the bottom of the bowl of hot water. It does not look very appetizing. It does not taste very appetizing either.

"It's to wash your fingers, baby," you lean over and tell him quietly. "So they don't taste like shrimp for the next course."

Simon slowly removes his spoon from the not-soup. He contemplates suicide. He decides against it.

"Right," he says, delayed. "I knew that."

He hates rich people. Except for you.

"Of course," you reply quickly. You are trying not to laugh at him. He can tell.

He feels betrayed. You are no longer an exception to his hatred.

The dinner goes poorly. Your parents do not approve of him. You don't seem to care. On the car ride home, he asks you why.

"It doesn't matter if they like you or not," you say easily, looking at him with those soft eyes he loves so much. "They can cut me off for all I care. I don't need anything but you."

Simon's hands tighten on the wheel. He clears his throat and blinks his eyes to make them stop stinging.

He hates rich people. But he loves you.

[luxcuriousao3]

feeling the slightest spark of writing motivation and approaching it carefully as if trying not to spook a horse

[luxcuriousao3]

"why do you only torture johnny" "why don't you ever torture ghost"

fool. torturing the loud mouthed scot is torturing that sad british man in a halloween mask. it's torture thru osmosis

[luxcuriousao3]

writing is so funny because i could write nonstop for 9hrs and then hit a block where im like "how do i transition between this moment and the next?" and then i just dont touch it for 6 months

[luxcuriousao3]

Summary: After discovering that it was Captain Price to get you home safe last night, you visit the base to thank him in person. Word Count: 2583 Warnings: sfw, unrequited love (for Kyle), blink-and-you'll miss it mention of a past eating disorder Notes: Part 2 my Price/Reader fic where he takes care of you after you drink too much (someone please help me come up with a title for this fic since it's getting multiple chapters now). (Masterlist)

You get a call from Kyle the next day while you’re cooking dinner. Your agent would be pleased at the interruption. She keeps telling you you should skip it, but you refuse to—you beat that eating disorder from puberty fair-and-fucking-square—so you quickly hit accept and put the call on speaker, glad your bitch of a roommate isn't home.

“Christ, luv, I’m so fuckin’ sorry about last night.”

You pause in your chopping of onions, and then immediately regret it when the fumes make your eyes water. Squeezing them shut, you carefully set the knife down and walk away, leaving the phone behind. It’s a convenient excuse to stall for time as you try to remember… well, anything about last night.

For some odd reason, all you can come up with is a cartoonish image of a glaring, stab-happy ghost, big black eyes squinted with malice behind a blobby white sheet.

Kyle calls your name worriedly, distracting you from your strange thoughts.

“Er… you’re forgiven?” You ask more than say as you wander back over while blinking rapidly. You pick up the knife and begin chopping again. Damn, why must onions taste so good but hurt so bad?

“Do you even remember what I did?” Kyle asks incredulously. You cough as you feel your cheeks heat up. Caught.

“We both got home safe and sound, so it couldn’t have been too bad,” you answer dismissively. “Thanks for that, by the way. I’d probably have woken up in an alley if it wasn’t for you.”

Kyle is silent for a long moment, but you’re too focused on your toxic relationship with your onions to really notice.

“I didn't take you home.”

You stiffen, looking sharply at where your phone lay on the counter, small and unassuming.

“What?” You nearly bark, and it's your turn to be incredulous. There’s no way you managed to get home by yourself, not based on the massive hangover you woke up with, let alone leave out some aspirin and a glass of water on your nightstand. And your shoes! Your strappy heels were neatly put away. Absolutely beyond your capabilities when sloshed, this you know from experience.

You briefly consider that your roommate had come to your rescue. But when you glance out the window to see that the world is, in fact, not ending, you know that can't be what happened.

“I’m a fucking arsehole,” Kyle says, and you can hear the grimace in his voice. The guilt, too. “But I swear, I didn’t realize you were that drunk. I never would’ve left you there if I did.”

You swallow thickly, your blood running cold.

“Kyle,” you say shakily. “What are you talking about? What— what happened?”

Kyle must hear the fear in your voice, because he rushes to explain.

“Nothing! Nothing bad happened, luv, you weren’t ever alone, I trust Price with my life—”

“Price?” You echo, your brow furrowing. A fuzzy memory of steely blue eyes that crinkle at the corners wavers in your mind, the details just out of reach. “Isn’t that your Captain? What’s he got to do with any of this?”

“He's the one that brought you home,” Kyle admits sheepishly. “Said you managed to tell him your address, and he drove you back.”

Kyle’s voice drops to an irritated mumble, one you aren’t sure you’re supposed to hear.

“Gave me latrine duty for a month too, the bastard.”

“Oh my God,” you groan, ignoring his complaints. “Your Captain got stuck cleaning up after my sorry arse? So much for good first impressions… Christ, Ky, he must think I’m horrid.”

“Oi,” Kyle barks. “Don’t talk like that about my best friend.”

You blush brightly, suddenly glad the two of you aren't FaceTiming.

“And he doesn't think that. He was pissed at me, not you.” Kyle sighs. “I’m pissed at me too… was a real prick move, leaving with that girl like that. S’just— well. It’s been awhile, you know?”

Kyle sounds a bit awkward, now, like he regrets bringing this up at all. You also regret him bringing it up, because your heart feels like it's being run over by a lorry.

“Dumping your sloshed best friend on your Captain so you can get laid, Kyle?” You ask, forcing your voice to sound light and teasing despite the fact that you think you’re about to start crying—and not because of the onions, this time. “That's a new low, even for you.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Kyle shoots back in the same tone, but you can hear relief in it too, that you aren’t mad. “You’d do the same if you were stuck in a tiny safe house with three other blokes and not a hint of privacy for months on end. A man has needs that ought not be neglected for that long, or he’ll do stupid shite. Like dump his sloshed best friend on his Captain so he can get laid.”

“Good lord, Kyle! Too much information,” you protest, clapping your hands over your ears. “I don’t want to know about your wanking habits!”

A lie. You are incredibly interested in them, actually. You think about it often. What he looks like in the throes of ecstasy, what he thinks about when he touches himself. If he ever thinks about you the way you think about him…

You want to know so fucking bad. And that’s why you can't.

You can hear Kyle’s deep chuckle over the tinny speaker of your phone, and you slowly lower your hands.

“You're a prat and I hate you,” you grouch. Kyle laughs harder. “Enjoy latrine duty.”

With that, you hang up on him. You sigh loudly, staring down at your onions with a frown on your face. You wish you didn't love them so much. Maybe then you wouldn't cry all the time.

But you do love onions, and no matter how many times they break your heart, you think that you always will. Life isn't nearly as good without them, and you’ve loved them for so long, you’re not sure you even know how to stop.

You just wish onions loved you back.

“You made me cry, you fuck,” you whisper, bottom lip wobbling as tears drip down your face.

Your onions don’t answer for their crimes. They never do.

He never does.

-*-

By the time you finish sobbing and messily stitching your heart back together, the dinner you made is done. It smells amazing, and if you had any appetite at the moment, you’d devour it. But you don’t, so you decide to kill two birds with one stone, and hop in a cab to deliver your home cooked meal to Kyle’s captain as an apology-slash-thanks for not leaving you high and dry like a certain someone.

It takes about an hour to get to Credenhill, and another half an hour for someone to actually let you into the base. You debate giving up and heading home, but you remember the aspirin and glass of water on your nightstand and know you’d be an arse not to tough it out.

Finally, a man dressed in fatigues and carrying a very large gun escorts you inside after telling you he’s been given orders to deliver you to Captain Price’s office. You think it’s a bit overkill—surely you could find the office yourself—but again, he has a big gun, so you don’t question it.

He drops you off outside a wooden door with a little golden placard on it. In black letters, it reads John Price, and just beneath that, Captain.

“Call me John.”

The voice in your head is deep and warm and fond, and you can’t help but wonder if it belongs to the man on the other side of the door, or if it’s a product of your imagination.

Definitely the latter.

Before you can so much as knock, the door opens, and you come face to face with Captain Price. Though your memories of last night are a gaping black hole in your mind, he does look familiar. Tall and broad with dark brown hair, small blue eyes, and an impressive beard. He looks like he’s in his early to mid-forties, and like wine, he’s aged well. Your embarrassment over last night ratchets up another few notches—it’s bad enough that Kyle abandoned you to fuck a stranger and you undoubtedly made a fool of yourself in front of his Captain (you know how you get when you’re drunk), but did the man have to be so bloody handsome?

“I brought you an eggplant,” you say before the Captain has a chance to speak. His mouth closes at the interruption, and he looks at you in bewildered amusement.

“You brought me an eggplant,” he repeats flatly, brows raised. He looks down at the tinfoil-covered tray in your hands, and a smile makes his mustache twitch as he taps a single finger on the glass. “I take it it’s in here, then?”

You nod, feeling so, so stupid, but knowing it's far too late to back out now. No. The only way out is through.

“I meant— eggplant parmesan. I made it for you,” you clarify, holding out the glass pan towards him. “As a thank you. And an apology. I hope you like it. I’ve been told I’m a good cook.”

“I’m sure you are,” Price says, making no move to accept the meal. “But I’m afraid I’m lactose intolerant.”

Your lips part in shock. Your mind blanks. You hadn’t considered allergies. Oh God, how could you not consider allergies? What if he’d had a deadly eggplant allergy instead, and you sent him into anaphylactic shock by shoving your cooking under his nose? You could have killed Kyle’s Captain! What is wrong with you?

A finger touches your chin, gently closing your mouth.

“Just windin’ you up, darlin’. Eggplant parmesan sounds lovely.”

Your racing thoughts screech to a halt, eyes refocusing to see Price clearly trying not to laugh at you as his hand drops back to his side. Your face cycles through a multitude of expressions—confusion, anger, disbelief—before landing on relief.

“You scared me,” you complain, and you are not whining. You are not. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to get here? And for a moment, it was all for nothing.”

Price’s eyes soften, and he steps back, inviting you into his office. You enter after a second of hesitation. It smells like cigars, herbs, and paper, and below a large window, opposite the door, sits a stately, wooden desk. There’s a sleek, black computer atop it, along with stacks of paperwork, several mugs of half-finished tea, a handful of pens, and a picture frame that’s facing the opposite direction. Behind the desk, to the left, is a metal filing cabinet, and to the right is a wooden bookshelf. Tucked into the corner behind the door is a worn-in, leather couch. A faded quilt is thrown over the back of it. You wonder how many times Kyle has been in here. If he’s sat on that couch, if he’s in the hidden photo on the desk. You’ve never been to his base before, and you find yourself suddenly curious about the rest of it. How does Kyle live, most of the time? Is his room as cozy as his Captain’s office? Or is it cold and impersonal? You wouldn’t know, and that eats at you.

But it shouldn’t. You’re just a friend, nothing more. No matter how badly you wish otherwise.

“Why are you here, love?” Price’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, and you turn back to him. He sounds oddly concerned. “You should be at home resting, after last night.”

You blush and let out a little cough of embarrassment into your shoulder, an excuse to look away.

“Like I said. I wanted to apologize that you had to clean up after me. And thank you for getting me home safe,” you answer. “I would have been royally fucked if you hadn’t.”

“And you didn’t just ask Kyle to pass along the message, why?” He asks, and you purse your lips, annoyed by the interrogation. God. You try to do something nice…

“Do you want the free food or not?” You ask, and the bushy brow he raises at you makes you feel about six inches tall. You reel back the attitude immediately, ducking your head meekly, like a scolded child. “Sorry, I— I’m still a bit hungover. It makes me irritable.”

“I can tell,” Price says, and your cheeks burn with embarrassment, worsened when he chuckles. “S’alright, love. You’re forgiven.”

“Thanks,” you whisper, only looking back up when you feel the tray being taken from your hands. Price clears a spot for it on his desk, knocking half a dozen pens off the edge when he brushes them away just a little too hard. He sighs deeply, then crouches down to start gathering them up, knees cracking loudly as he does. You immediately rush over to help, waving him off, eager to make up for your earlier attitude.

“I’ve got it,” you say, quickly gathering up all but one of the pens, which is held between his thick, scarred fingers. His knuckles are dusted with dark hair, and your gaze lingers on them for a beat too long. You delicately clear your throat and straighten up, clutching the pens to your chest. Price follows a second later, groaning loudly. Your blush deepens, the dirty part of your mind wondering if he sounds like that during sex.

Good lord. It’s been way too long since you last got laid.

“Here,” you say, leaning into his space to drop the pens into one of the tea mugs—one that’s fully empty, you check with a quick glance. You get a whiff of his scent, and you’re hit with a fuzzy memory of hugging someone who smells just like him, face buried in their chest. It only takes you a second to realize it was him, and that you must be remembering part of last night.

You’re pretty sure that if you ever recover the rest of those memories, you’ll die of embarrassment.

“Thank you, darlin’,” he answers, and you are much, much too close, because it feels like he’s rumbling right in your ear. You take a step back, unable to meet his eyes.

“Right, so, I’ll just— I’ll be going, now,” you stutter, feeling flustered in the way you only ever do around Kyle. Probably because you’re worried about running into him and having to explain that you’ve made a fool of yourself in front of his captain again. “I hope you like the eggplant, Captain Price.”

“M’sure I will,” he says as you turn tail and practically flee his office. But then he calls your name, and you freeze, feeling rooted to the spot by his tone of voice alone. It isn’t angry, isn’t displeased at all—but you feel like you can’t disobey anyway. No wonder he’s a Captain… “Thought I told ya to call me John.”

Your eyes widen when you realize the voice you’d heard in your head earlier—the one that sounded far too warm for a stranger—wasn’t your imagination. Your heart skips a beat, and nerves squirm in your belly as heat spreads from your chest to your neglected pussy.

Oh. Oh no.

“Goodbye, John,” you somehow manage to squeak out, and then you really do run—from John’s office, and the damning realization that you’ve got a schoolgirl crush on the man within.

[luxcuriousao3]

WE NEED MORE KÖNIG!!!!! 😖😖😖

-- me, every day of my life

Which König do you want to see more of anon?

[luxcuriousao3]

The fic with Price taking care of drunk, heartbroken-over-Kyle reader… 🙂‍↕️ delicious. I hope u find the inspiration to continue with it some day xx

Omg I'm sorry for the late reply, I didn't see this until now! You're in luck, I'm actually writing a part two as we speak 👀 I've got to finish editing it, but it should be posted tonight!

[luxcuriousao3]

ABSOLUTELY CRIMINAL that you write this specific genre of könig characterization i like AND you write him as a pathetic lover boy mommy kink haver but have so little fics for him !!!!! (not demanding)

Askebfjdbdjdb pathetic lover boy mommy kink haver is being added to my vocabulary as we speak

It's so accurate for König too. He just wants to be loved so badly but he's also so incredibly weird. He's my baby boy

I have more könig fics in the works--I will def add more parts to the not-so-creepy-landlord!König series bc that one is just so fun to write lol. And ofc Mutter will get updated once I figure out how exactly I want to write chapter three (I've rewritten it several times already 🥲). And I have a König/reader fic in the works for my FTH recipient. Also might post my HG AU, though that one isn't exclusively/König bc it's poly, but he features most heavily in it. The König thoughts just never stop tbh

I'm curious, which is your fave König fic I've written anon?

[luxcuriousao3]

gritting my teeth and screaming through them bc the tags on my post last night didn't save. so if you see me repost it tonight sorry 😂

[luxcuriousao3]

Do you think you'll get back into writing Avatar???

Damn i wrote a whole long response to this but tumblr ate it 😭

Short answer is: yes, definitely

Long answer: yes, definitely, I just don't know when. I go whichever way my hyper fixations take me 😂 but I'm always happy to talk about avatar or my fics. The more I'm thinking about it, the more likely I am to write about it.

[luxcuriousao3]

Bumblebees

Summary: Simon doesn’t want kids. Then he sees you with one. Suddenly, he's not so sure anymore. Word Count: 2759 Warnings: sfw for the most part but some dirty talk (no smut, Simon's just got a filthy mouth) near the end, fluff and feels, emotional hurt/comfort, mentions of canonical child death (Simon's nephew) Notes: This was supposed to be fluff and smut... then it turned into fluff and hurt/comfort lol. Oh well. I would've posted this for mother's day, but I completely forgot about it. So it's been sitting in my drafts for months. Just finished and polished it up today. No beta as usual. Hope y'all enjoy, remember that feedback is love, feedback is life. Also, would anyone be interested in a fic featuring single dad!Kyle and his daughter (who you'll meet if you read this)? Lmk. (Masterlist) (AO3)

Simon doesn’t want kids.

Simon doesn't want kids, and he’s made that more than clear to you. No amount of pouting, reassuring him he’ll make a great father, or cute baby videos changes his mind. For a while, you think about breaking up with him because of it. You want kids, and he doesn't—how can it ever work?

But after spending six long months talking about it with your therapist and asking Reddit for advice (big mistake, that last one) you come to the conclusion that you want Simon more than you want children.

It’s by no means an easy choice, but for you, it’s the right one. You can’t imagine your life without him. You don't want to imagine your life without him. It hurts you just to think about it. So quietly, and without telling Simon—who doesn’t know just how badly you want little ones of your own, because you haven’t told him—you let your dream of being a mother go.

If you expend all that unused maternal energy on any child you come across—well, Simon never has to know exactly why.

One of Simon’s teammates—Kyle, a nice bloke, handsome in a pretty boy way—has a five year old daughter. You've met them a few times before, and every time, you offer your services for babysitting. Kyle and his wife finally take you up on it one night, and little Amira is dropped off bright and early at the flat you share with Simon.

Your hulking boyfriend isn't exactly thrilled about it, you know, but he doesn’t complain, just makes breakfast—chocolate chip pancakes with whipped cream smiles, Amira’s request—while you play “fairy princess” with the young girl, who had apparently insisted on wearing her ballet costume that morning.

After breakfast—which, according to Amira, is not nearly as good as her daddy’s pancakes—the three of you head to the nearby park. Amira walks between the two of you, one tiny hand in yours, and one Simon’s. He’s stiff the entire journey, uncomfortable as ever around kids, but he doesn’t pull away. As much as he seems to dislike children, he’s never, ever mean to them. Just… avoidant.

Sometimes, you wonder if there’s a story there. But Simon is an incredibly private man, and asking him questions about his past puts him on edge like nothing else. You try not to push, to simply make yourself available as a listening ear, ready to hear him out and comfort him whenever he’s finally ready to tell you. You’ve learned very few things so far, most gleaned more from his reactions and habits than confessions, but you’re patient. For Simon, you’d wait forever.

Once you arrive at the park, Amira promptly recognizes a friend from school, and takes off to go play with her. You and Simon settle on a bench, keeping her in your sights at all times. Simon is tense as a live wire, and you take his hand in both of yours, rubbing your thumb soothingly across his knuckles.

“It’s just for a few hours,” you murmur, leaning into his side. Slowly, slowly, the tension melts from his massive frame, letting you in. You sigh, beginning to feel bad for roping him into this. You can hear your therapist’s voice in your head, prompting you to examine why you were so eager for Simon to come along today. Do you think that deep down, you’re still trying to change his mind? You bite your lip, unsure what the answer is to that question, but still feeling guilty. What if it’s true? What if you’re forcing Simon to play an unwitting role in your fantasy of being a happy family—a fantasy he has no interest in being a part of? “You can go home if it’s too much. I won’t be upset.”

“Not leaving ya an’ the tyke here alone,” Simon grumbled, not looking at you, but squeezing your hand to let you know he’s not mad, just grumpy. “Ain’t safe.”

“It’s a public park, Si,” you reassure him, feeling bad enough to try and convince him to leave like he so clearly wants to, even though you’re desperate for him to stay. To indulge in your selfishness just a little bit longer. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

As if the universe itself is intent on proving you wrong, you hear an earth shattering scream.

You’re on your feet in a blink of an eye, but Simon is halfway across the park before you’re even fully standing. By the time you take two steps, he’s got a crying Amira in his thick arms, shushing her in a voice softer than you’ve ever heard him use. You rush over, and Simon deposits Amira in your arms immediately, despite doing an admirable job at calming her himself.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” You coo, settling the little girl on your hip and starting to sway back and forth. Amira has one chubby fist twisted in her halo of dark curls, as if clutching it for comfort, and the other is rubbing one wet eye, scrubbing away her tears.

“Th-there was a b-bee!” She yells, and you do your best not to wince at her volume. “It almost stinged me!”

“A bee?” You echo, rubbing Amira’s back as she lays her little head on your shoulder, sniffling. “You know, bees are our friends. I’m sure it didn’t want to sting you.”

“It did!” Amira argues, yelling right into your ear this time. It starts ringing faintly. You ignore it.

“If it tried to sting you, it must have been scared,” you say calmly. “Sometimes, we lash out when we get scared, don’t we? Bees are the same.”

Amira sniffles again, but she doesn’t protest this time. You smile slightly, knowing you’ve got her attention.

“The best thing to do when a bee buzzes by is stay very, very still,” you continue. Your eyes land on the bee that had terrified the baby in your arms, a few metres away. You carefully set Amira down next to Simon, and she immediately hugs one of his long legs. She barely reaches his mid thigh. You mentally apologize to your boyfriend, but important lessons need to be learned right now, so you hope he’ll forgive you for leaving him stuck like that. You smile encouragingly at Amira. “I’ll show you.”

Confidently, you walk towards the bee, watching as it flies over to you curiously. You’re not surprised—you’re wearing a pink sundress, and you know bees are attracted to bright colors.

“Be careful!” Amira’s little voice rings out as the bee gets closer. She looks incredibly nervous, like she’s sure she’s about to see you die. You valiantly hold in your laugh.

“Bees like flowers,” you tell Amira as the insect in question flies around you in circles. “So they’ll investigate anything colorful to see if it is one. Isn’t that nice? They think we’re flowers.”

Amira is clearly skeptical, but she’s still listening. At least until the bee lands on your glasses, crawling along the frame—which is pink on the inside. You aren’t phased, but her eyes go wide as saucers, and she whimpers in fear.

“Bloody hell!” She gasps, and you just know she learned that from Kyle. Simon coughs to cover his shocked laugh, and that only makes you grin wider, eyes crinkling up at the corners.

“Language,” he scolds her, voice gruff as always but uncharacteristically gentle. Amira sticks her tongue out at him briefly before looking back at you. As she does, the bee flutters its wings, tickling your eyelid, and launches off your glasses. You think it’s going to fly away, but it hooks a U-turn and bumps up against your lips before finally buzzing off towards the other side of the playground. You laugh, delighted.

“It gave me a kiss!” You say, turning your grin on Amira, whose wide eyes have turned from fearful to awed. “Did you see that? She was telling me that we’re friends.”

“Friends?” She asks tentatively, and you nod, walking back over to her and kneeling down to her height.

“Best friends,” you wink. “Just like you and me.”

Slowly, a smile spreads across her face again, and she throws her stubby arms around you in a hug before running off to join her schoolmates again. You watch her go longingly, heart aching at the knowledge that being best friends with a five year old is the closest you’ll get to having a child.

“You’re good wit’ tha li’l one,” Simon’s gravelly voice states, low enough that only you can hear it. You look up at him, still crouched on the ground, and shrug, trying not to show how his words affect you. You accept his outstretched hand, letting him haul you back to your feet. “I mean it. Always knew ya liked kids, tha’ they liked ya too, but…”

He trails off, and you give him a strained smile, eyes drawn back to Amira. The bee has found its way back to her and her little group, and while the other children start yelling and running around, Amira stands still as she repeats your words—”Bees are friends! It just thinks we’re flowers!”—and you suddenly cannot breathe from the pain in your chest, knowing you’ll never impart the same lesson onto a child of your own. Never get to feel the pride you feel for Amira right now directed at your own flesh and blood.

“You want ‘em.”

It’s not a question, and your broken heart skips a beat. You don’t look at Simon, you can’t look at him. You’ve managed to hide this from him for the entirety of the time you’ve been together, knowing he’ll leave you if he finds out. But that time has come, and you feel sick with fear.

“Yes,” you whisper, because there’s no lying to him, not anymore. He can read you like a book, and the only reason he hasn’t before is because you’ve danced around the topic your whole relationship. “I always have.”

Simon is quiet, the both of you staring at Amira as she plays with her friends, adorable and innocent in the way only children can be. The silence between you stretches on for so long, that you start to think he’s so pissed he won’t even speak. But then he does.

“You’d make a great mum.”

The words feel like a punch to the gut, and you gasp like you’ve been hit, turning away and covering your mouth to stifle the sob that escapes. Your eyes are watery, tears threatening to spill over, and you hunch your shoulders, trying to hide yourself from Simon, from what you know is coming.

But Simon doesn’t walk away, doesn’t utter the dreaded breakup speech. Phrase, really. He’s never been one for words.

Instead, he pulls you into his arms, resting his chin on the crown of your head, and lets you cry. He holds you together while you fall apart, the strength of his embrace keeping all your shattered pieces in place, no matter how jagged the edges.

“I had a family, once,” he says once your sobs have finally died down. Your eyes snap open in shock, though you can’t see anything, face buried in Simon’s chest. “A nephew. His name was Joseph. Loved ‘im like he was my own.”

You shudder at the grief in his voice, your arms tightening around his waist, trying to be the same steadying presence that he is for you. You don’t talk, not wanting to interrupt. Not when it feels like Simon is finally draining a wound that’s been left festering for far too long.

“I still see ‘is body whenever I look at a li’l one. Eyes blank an’ empty. Hole in the middle of ‘is fore’ead. He was scared when he died. Could tell from the look on ‘is face when I found him.”

You bite your lip to stifle the noise of horror threatening to escape. You’ve known for a while now that Simon’s parents were dead, but you didn’t know how, and you didn’t know that he’d had sibling, let alone a nephew. But now that you do, his wariness around children makes a painful amount of sense.

“An’ I’m— I’m scared, birdie,” he whispers, more vulnerable then you’ve ever seen him. “Joey died because o’ me. It’d destroy me all over again if we had a kid an’ somethin’ happened to ‘em. I wouldn’t survive it. Didn’t survive it last time, either. Was a dead man walkin’ til I met ya. You brought me back ta life… I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t,” you reassure Simon, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “I’m not leaving you, Si, I— I can’t. I love you far too much to walk away.”

“You deserve to be a mum,” Simon said, voice low and pained. “Deserve more than I can give you.”

“You deserve to be a father,” you echo, staring into his glassy eyes, your own just as wet. He flinches at the words, but you take his face in your hand and make him look at you. “You do, baby. You would be such a wonderful Papa… I know you’re afraid. But since when have you let fear rule you, Simon Riley?”

The corner of Simon’s scarred lips quirk, a hint of a smile, and you lean forward to gently press your own to them.

“They’d want you to be happy,” you whisper, watching his eyes close in pained acceptance. “Just as much as I do. Don’t miss out on the future because you’re too busy running from the past.”

Simon doesn’t say anything to that, but he pulls you impossibly closer, holding you so tight it almost hurts. You don't dare to try and make him let go, though, not when that’s the last thing you want.

“Olright,” he rumbles, eyes still closed. When they open a long moment later, your breath catches in your throat. They’ve never been so unguarded before, and you realize that this has been weighing as heavily on him as it has been on you. “If ya want ta be a mum, I’ll make ya a mum, lovie. Christ knows I'd be robbing the world of the best one there ever was if I didn't.”

You laugh wetly, delighted and relieved beyond words, surging forward to capture Simon’s lips in a bruising kiss. His hands settle on your hips as he returns it, squeezing lightly.

“Can’t say m’not lookin’ forward ta seein’ these grow,” he murmurs when you pull apart. A smirk tugs at the edge of his scarred mouth, and his gaze drops down to your breasts. “Those, too. Think you’ll make enough milk f’me ta try some?”

“Simon!” You scold, smacking his chest, your face growing hot. But you can’t keep the big grin off your face, just like you can’t stop your core from tingling at his words. Like a bloodhound, he scents it, smirk growing as his eyes darken.

“Thinkin’ we should start tryin’ tonight,” he whispered in your ear before giving it a little nip. Your body trembles under his hands in anticipation, breaths coming fast. “Ya have no idea how many times I’ve dreamed about comin’ inside that sweet l’il cunt o’ yours…”

You hide your face in his chest to muffle the breathy moan his words pull from you, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. You try to collect yourself, but the deep chuckle he lets out sets your nerves alight all over again.

“Hug!”

The little voice startles you, and you pull back just in time to feel a chunky baby arm wrap around your legs. You look down to see Amira, hugging both you and Simon tightly. You coo, successfully distracted from your menace of a boyfriend's filthy mouth, and bend down to scoop her up, holding her between the two of you.

“Are you ready to go home, Miri?” You ask, and she nods, swinging her little legs. Her feet repeatedly hit Simon’s belly, but he’s unaffected, too busy staring at you and imagining what you’d look like with his child on your hip.

“Ice cream first,” Amira negotiates, the little businesswoman. You laugh, but give in quickly, too elated to try and be strict.

“I could go for some ice cream,” you say, then look at Simon with soft, happy eyes. “What about you, Si? In the mood for something sweet?”

“Whatever ya want, birdie,” he answers easily, and you know he’s not just talking about the ice cream. “Anything' f’my best girl.”

[luxcuriousao3]

The rest of the thread is here.

tl;dr: Don’t monetize AO3, kids.  You won’t like what happens next.

[luxcuriousao3]

*sits down to write a smut fic* The plot of this smut fic is that Character A believes himself abandoned by God.