Latest Posts by jnsmeyv - Page 5

simon accidentally cracking your back in the place you haven’t been able to get a good angle on when he manhandles you during sex. he thinks that moan you just let out was because of his stroke game. you don’t have to heart to tell him he just gave you relief you’ve been looking for for two weeks. semantics.

if i survived a slasher it’s because i fucked him

Simon never heard his father say sorry, or please, or thank-you, or I love you.

In their house, when his mama would put down hot, heavy casseroles, her skin damp with sweat, eyes darting for some sweet words, his father never said one word of thanks, let alone 'some'. Only waved his thick, impatient hand.

His father never took the plates to the sink. Never noticed when she stayed up at night to sort the screws by size and purpose—organizing the chaos he left behind just to find one damn hammer.

His father never said ‘please can you—’ only grunted with that bitter mouth, glared with those unkind eyes when he needed something.

Simon never heard him say I love you. And he couldn’t believe his eyes the day his father plucked out his baby brother from his mama's arm, and didn’t spare one glance for his Ma. She didn't deserved that, did she? Her weak frail body, cracked murmuring lips — she should be celebrated with adoration, comfort, love.

Love, and an infinite of it.

His father never sat beside her just to drink tea. Never told her about his day. Never asked about hers — what she did, or liked, or wanted. Never reached out his thumb, however calloused it was, to wipe away the sprout on her chin. That he was grateful she's next to him, that he loved her.

So when life happened, and Simon was left to pick up his pieces and place them in a way he wanted to be—he thought whomever he will be, anything, but his father.

Anything but him.

And then life happened again but this time it arranged itself in beautiful ways. Because you came with it this time. You and all your silly lovely ways, you who kissed your knee before resting your chin, you who cheered up catching up with fridge' light switching off, you so beautiful, so kind, made up of sundust. His sunshine — lighting up his world.

And God, he was so, so grateful. Every moment, every day !

“I love you,” he’d say the moment he wakes up next to you. Pressing his love on your lips, on your shoulder, on your neck.

“I love you,” when you spill milk in the morning daze and stare at it like it might disappear.

“I love you,” when he wipes your chin and kisses your forehead.

“I love you,” when he takes your hand in his and rubs it between his palm, why ? Because he'll spend his whole life keeping your hands warm than anything else.

“I love you.” because he loves, loves, and loves you so much that it hurts, so much that it heals, so much that it's everything sweet ever happened to him.

“I love you.” for all the ways his father failed, and Simon too, as a son, as a brother — failed to save his mama and lil' brother. I love you, because in loving you he is allowing himself to be loved.

Masterlist

The torment on soap's face continues with more squish

He's starting to accept it

SHES BAAAACKKKK

The envelope was yellowed and creased, tucked deep between old folders at the bottom of a locked drawer Simon thought you’d never touch. You hadn’t meant to snoop. He’d asked you to find an old passport copy for a security clearance form. That’s all it was supposed to be. Not this.

You held the folded letter like it might burn you.

“DNR – DO NOT RESUSCITATE,” typed at the top in all-caps. Bold. Final.

Your breath caught. The world narrowed to the thudding of your heart in your ears. You skimmed the form again, fingers trembling, like maybe you’d misread it the first time. But no. His signature was at the bottom. Simon Riley. Dated two years ago. Long before you.

You sat down slowly on the edge of his bed—your bed, now—letter limp in your hands.

yabadabadoooo

The front door clicked open an hour later. He called out like he always did, low and casual, like he wasn’t wired to scan every room first.

“Back, love. You find the passport?”

You didn’t answer.

He stepped into the bedroom, still in his black jacket, hair slightly damp from the rain. His eyes fell on the letter in your hands. His whole body changed. Subtle, but you knew him well enough to feel the tension shoot through his spine.

“…Where’d you find that?”

Your voice cracked before you could stop it. “You signed a DNR?”

Simon exhaled slowly. He didn’t look surprised. Just… resigned.

“Yeah.”

“Why?” It came out smaller than you intended.

He scratched the back of his neck. “Wasn’t expecting anyone to find it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He didn’t sit. Just stood there near the door like he was ready to run.

“I signed it after Manchester,” he said quietly. “After the last op. Things were bad. I figured if I ever went out… there’s no point pulling me back for what would be left.”

You shook your head. “That’s not—Simon, that’s not just something you casually keep in a drawer. It’s your life.”

“It was my choice.”

“Was.”

Your voice cracked, and that was what did it. His whole expression softened. That damn, unreadable mask slipped a little.

You stood, shoved the paper into his hands. “You really thought no one would care if you died? Not even your team? Not Johnny?”

He looked away. “Didn’t think about it like that.”

“And now? What about me?”

He was silent.

Your voice dropped. “Would you still let yourself die now, if something happened? Would you still want them to just… let you go?”

Something flickered in his eyes. Fear. Regret. Guilt.

“I didn’t think I’d ever have this,” he said finally. “You. A life. I signed it ‘cause I didn’t think anyone would miss me if I was gone. Just another dead man with too much blood on his hands.”

You took a step closer. “You’re not just that anymore.”

His hand reached for your wrist before you could step away again. “I know.”

You swallowed hard. “Then why didn’t you change it?”

“I forgot it existed. I don’t even think about dying anymore. Not like I used to.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t have words for the tight ache in your chest, the thought of him just… letting go, letting the world take him without a fight because he thought he was disposable.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I should’ve shredded it a long time ago.”

You nodded, though your jaw was clenched tight. “I’m going to shower.”

He let go of your wrist slowly, eyes never leaving your face.

Later that night, you fell asleep curled into his side, arm draped over his ribs, your breath warm against his shoulder. Simon lay awake long after you slipped into soft, rhythmic breathing.

Guilt churned low in his chest like a stone.

He hadn’t meant for you to see that. Hell, part of him forgot it existed. But the real truth? Deep down, he still wasn’t sure he deserved to live—not if it meant someone had to suffer watching him bleed out on a gurney again, someone having to make a call, to fight to save someone who didn’t even fight for himself for half his life.

But then you cried over that stupid letter. You sat on the edge of the bed like it had cracked something inside you. You looked at him like he mattered.

And that scared the shit out of him.

Simon carefully eased himself out from under you, tucking the blanket up to your chin. You didn’t stir. Your lashes fluttered once, mouth soft in sleep.

He walked out barefoot, quiet, the house still. In his office, he pulled open the same drawer, stared down at the now-crumpled DNR.

His name. His choice. His cowardice.

He picked it up, turned it over once, twice. Then he grabbed his phone.

(i forgot where i put my divider.)

The printer hummed quietly in the corner an hour later.

Simon sat at the desk, new paperwork in front of him. He filled it out slowly, precisely, the same way he always did with death-related forms.

But this time, the box was unchecked. The line read:

“Resuscitate: YES. Consent to Life-Saving Measures: YES.”

He set the pen down.

In the quiet, he looked toward the doorway like he might hear your voice again. He didn’t.

Still, he whispered into the silence, voice rough and sure:

“…Yeah. I’ve got something to fight for now.”

Can someone pls give me a lost of more cod angst or fluff IM SO SO SO SO TIRED OF SMUT ON MY FEED

i hate to be that girl but simon would NOT want sex after coming home from deployment. (reader x simon riley)

he would want SLEEP. i know for a fact this man doesn’t even care enough to shower most nights. so you know to hold off on changing them until the day after he comes home. he doesn’t care if the sheets are dirty. besides, your scent helps him sleep better.

he comes home and no matter the time of day, he strips off his clothes down to his boxer briefs.

side note:

price wears briefs

johnny wore briefs until he accidentally wore simon’s underwear and realized boxer briefs are far comfier

kyle wears boxer shorts, definitely has designs on them. beneath his exterior, brother is whimsical asf

he grabs you by the waist and moves you by pushing on you with his entire body weight, essentially forcing you into bed.

on typical nights, he’s a back sleeper. almost vampire like. learned habit.

on nights coming back from work? he collapses onto his stomach. face in pillow. out like a light. one arm draped over your stomach, pulling you closer. he definitely ends up with shoulder pain after. though he doesn’t really care.

in the late afternoon when he wakes up, he finally takes a shower. during his shower you change the sheets.

i imagine earlier in the day you would’ve washed his gear. out of the kindness of your heart. simon insists you don’t have to. he doesn’t need you to do it. he’s capable.

but he appreciates the gesture all the same. half the time he does it he forgets to take the chapstick out of his pocket and ends with oily gear. you always remember.

maybe after a day or two of just sleeping and eating he finds the energy. and it’s always soft. you do most of the work. his bones are tired, muscles weak. half the time he’s injured aswell.

but you like it all the same. you love this routine you have.

You know what?

I love you, fics that take months to update. I click on the newest chapter and have no memory of this place and get to go back some chapters and rediscover how much i love everything about this story.

I love you, fics that take years to update. I think of you fondly, and know your names, go search for you and see an update from this year and scream, diving in uncaring of any missed details (i will finish the update and read you in reverse because this is a treat you have bestowed)

I love you, fics that probably will never update again. Thank you for being a roman empire for my mind, thank you for teaching me about the ephemeral fandom experience, for inspiring a thousand million what if-s, for being a comfort read and a nostalgia read and a reread.

I love you fic writers, who jump into projects and stories with enthusiasm. I love you when you succeed in pumping out those chapters and that love doesn't go away when you stop.

I love you fic writers who post and then get in your own head and never feel confident enough to update, whether it's at all or whether it's just that one story.

I love you fic writers, who have a fandom or media hurt you to the point of abandoning or having a hard time with their WIPs.

I love you fic writers, who lose interest or have life changes or illness or bad memory. Thank you for being part of the fandom, a core part of the fandom. Thank you for the time spent in the fandom.

I love you, fic writers who try out something new and then stop. You're so valid.

I love you, WIP fics that may or may not ever get finished. Thank you for brightening my day in the way only you could have.

I hate Price. He's hard to draw. Stupid hat…. >:0(

STOP CENSORING YOURSELF ON THIS WEBSITE. FUCK SHIT SEX MURDER ALCOHOL DRUGS FAGGOT DYKE QUEER TRANS BITCH SLUT WHORE SEX SEX SEX SEX!!!!!!!!!!!

me going home after a long day to see my husband (he is fictional)

john price who hates family channels because they exploit such raw and intimate parts of a daily life,

before seeing your dolled up face in the thumbnail of a video, your assumed husbands animated expression next to the words “It’s a Boy!”

recognizing the subtle lines of dissatisfaction and sadness that run from your nose to your mouth when you smile. the small flinches when your husband raises voice.

feeling the unexplainable need to show you what a real family looks like.

what will it be, boss? the comfort of misery or the pain of change?

Big military bois 🫡

Cap and Bear together

@deadbranch

Simon motherfuckin Riley

masked brainrot

"I can't understand you", that hurts more than being burned alive.

I know it is my father's first time on this Earth, too. And I know He had it worse when he was little.

But I was little too.

— Franz Kafka, from letters to his father

GUYS. IS THIS A SAFE PLACE TO THIRST OVER SAMUEL WITH BEARD!?

when someone doesn’t wanna tell me what i did wrong and suddenly i’m 8 years old wondering what i did to make my mom mad again

Accommodation I should have: someone to follow me around and whisper in my ear, medieval court advisor style, how to correctly respond when presented with different social situations

"My liege, that was a rhetorical question you just heard. Do not answer it."

"mental health matters!" until your screaming and crying in the early hours of the morning over losing something as miniscule as your phone charger. but the reason your crying isn't actually about the charger, or your favorite pen you can't find.

little things add up.

Barry studies

When’s it gonna be my tuuuurn

K

dad!Price