get up.

Lately, I’ve been thinking about Demon!Nikolai.

The age old trope of being part of a village that owes its peace and prosperity to a deal made with the demons of the mountain hundreds of years ago, every decade or two one of them will come down and pluck up a little spouse to take home with them. Some will stay in the village for years to scout and gather information before making their choice. Others throw the first pretty thing they see over their shoulder and whistle their way back to the mountain.

Nikolai has visited many times, always disguised, to watch and judge the lambs of the village. And you’re perfect. A red leather cord laced around your neck in a bow, showing that you’re ripe for the taking. Layered, practical cotton dress that professes your innocence. You are not favored by your peers— instead spending much of your time alone with the livestock. Your Sundays are spent sitting under a tree, scribbling in a little book, a chicken or a goat kid snoozing away with its head rested on your thigh.

It’s a surprise to everyone, most of all you, when Nikolai appears before the village, towering, and selects you for his bride. You’re knock kneed and shaking as he guides you away with a hand at the nape of your neck, clawed fingers fiddling with the little leather cord— switched out for black in the wake of your engagement.

He has to add a bell to you, you live so quietly in his temple on the mountain, a little ribbon in your ankle with the tinkling piece of pewter on display. He goes around the place, coming to the courtyard and often hearing the little jingling grow further as you slip away. He enjoys the coyness of the chase, but he worries you may actually fear him.

But when he asks your village elder about you, she excitedly opens a chest— she has many trinkets and gifts from her community, alongside them are the drawings of the village children. She cards through the parchment until she finds what she wants— explaining that at a young age, all of the children are taught about the demons of the mountain, and the traditional marriage between them and the villagers. She proudly produces your drawing from back in your school days, a crude little figure in a dress representing you holding hands with a two-horned beast with tusks, surrounded by hearts, flowers, and scribbly animals.

Interesting.

i miss skull dude

“He wants to make me dead.”

-Laid to Rest

THE COLLECTOR (2009) dir. Marcus Dunstan

You’re half-asleep on the couch, legs tangled in a blanket, phone forgotten on your chest. Simon’s been watching you for a while—quiet, soft in that way he only ever is with you.

He steps closer, brushes his knuckles along your jaw, feather-light.

“Y’know,” he murmurs, voice low and wickedly warm, “I could end wars with the way you look at me.”

You blink up at him, confused, breath hitching. “I wasn’t looking.”

“That’s the problem.” He smiles—slow, devastating. “Still got me ruined.”

He leans down, foreheads touching, his thumb tracing the curve of your lip like he’s memorising it. His voice drops, intimate, like a secret meant only for your bones.

“If I kiss you right now,” he whispers, “you’ll forget what day it is. And I’ll spend the rest of the night reminding you who you belong to.”

Your heart stutters. He feels it—of course he does—and his grin turns soft, reverent.

“There it is,” he breathes. “That sound. That’s my favourite.”

Then he kisses you—unhurried, deep, like he has all the time in the world and every intention of stealing your breath again.

thinking about an accidental witch!reader accidentally tying themselves to a very dangerous Ghost

maybe you read too many fairytales as a child, maybe your grandmother was too indulgent, maybe you were too much your father's child, too focused on doing things the "right" way, but you'd been small and hopeful and you'd mixed together your herbs and borrowed your mother's lighter and scrawled in messy pink crayon your spell for a prince charming.

and when dragons had felt too specific you'd crossed that out, amended your magic:

you burned your paper with your herbs, said your magic words, and promptly forgot to go and play with the neighborhood cat. you grew up, you met many people who were definitely not prince charming, you forgot about magic. you forgot that just because you can't see the threads of the universe, doesn't mean you can't alter them.

so when ghost finds trying to get your cigarette to light outside the pub, you don't pay him any mind. it's only when his own lighter flips open that you look up from your hands at the smile that twists at your acknowledgement. the fingers that are illuminated in the dark are wet, pungent with iron. he clicks his tongue when your stomach clenches nervously, when you peak around to see the feet laying still beside the bins.

"don't worry about 'im," he'll chuckle, blood smearing across your cheek as he brings you back to the light and holds you there, cigarette dangling precariously from your lips until the smoldering end brings you back to the pinch of his fingers on your jaw, "did ya a favor didn' I? 'e's been botherin' you, yeah?"

you don't know, can't see the face, couldn't say if it was a friend or a stranger resting peacefully with the garbage.

Another click of the man's tongue, his thumb wiping through the blood on your cheek, eyes sparkling with glee. "Messy ain't ya, need a bath when ya get home."

His laughter will follow you out of the ally, promising that the man will be soon to follow.

He'll find you no matter where you are, he'll love you no matter where you go, and he'll kill anyone who gets in his way.

“Are you ugly?”

found my old sketch…uh…I miss him so much.

i haven't done a personal update in so long, which is also why i haven't wrote any stories and posted anything (myself) to this blog. i went through a divorce the beginning of this year 2025 (Feb-May) which completely drained me. i will admit i haven't recovered from. that relationship completely drained everything from me and i haven't recovered just yet. i am still digging myself out of the hole that i allowed myself into, so please give me grace while i find myself

the first thing i want to do is post some of my personal poetry that i wrote and used to help me through this very difficult phase

going to therapy and talking to someone besides the voices in my head has helped me so much. i would talk myself into circles and how i deserved the "love" he gave me. therapy has helped me so much and helped me build strength that I didn't even know i had

141: Why doesn't anyone talk to us?

𝒯RAILER PARK DARLING!

♥︎ summary . simon teaches his neighbour's innocent daughter how to smoke.

♥︎ tags . 5.1k wc! nsfw mdni , retired/veteran simon riley , DRUG USE ( marijuana ) , unspecified legal but big age gap , virginity loss , piv sex , fingering , creampie , DUBCON bcz she's stoned but this is fiction and as the author ive decided it's fully consensual , reader is short but u can imagine the height difference is only bcz simon is canonically over 6ft :)

— likes &&. reblogs r greatly appreciated ! xx

The diffused glow of the overhead saucer light swathed the sepia-toned living room in haze. Striped wallpaper rose along the walls of Simon's caravan, a 1970s double-wide he'd settled into in Hampshire after retiring. Retirement was doing nothing and doing it well. He had waited in Manchester less than a week before leaving.

From outside, the faint thump of music traveled through the soil, multicolored flashes from the string lights dappling through the blinds—until he rose from his seat and pulled the cord, the armchair dipping slightly where he'd been sitting. The slats clicked into a neat line, leaving just faint neon hues peeking through persistently, but it was better than nothing.

Just as Simon began sauntering back to his seat, beer bottle in hand with the front of his flannel undone, the light patter of footsteps beyond the door captured his attention—followed by a timid knock. Then another, braver this time, as if whoever was outside thought Simon hadn’t heard. A troublemaker from the party, he thought. He steeled himself, muscles coiling in his forearm as he dropped the Heineken onto the table with a solid thump and marched to the door. An empty doorway nearly caught him off stride as he threw it open, then his eyes lowered to meet the top of your head. “What the hell is it?” 

You blew out a breath past your Cherry ChapStick lips at the man's non-greeting, wringing your fingers together with an apologetic smile as he peered down at you. 

“Sorry, Simon, you sleeping?” you tried innocuously, hunching your shoulders up sheepishly. The faint sweetness of strawberry bubblegum cut through the sour tang lingering on you, though he didn’t know you to be much of a drinker. 

He shook his head. Evidently, he wasn't sleeping. 

“No, whaddaya want?” he reiterated gruffly, fingers curled around the top of the door as he leaned out. 

“Can you help me with something?”

shoutout to AO3 authors who write 100k fics for free while juggling mental illness, academic burnout, 3 jobs, and a deep-rooted need to fix fictional people.