i block minors, ageless blogs, and users of AI in creative spaces. i do not give you permission to copy/paste my writing anywhere, INCLUDING REBLOGGING TO TUMBLR COMMUNITIES.
i use @bee-has-written for writing updates. i post longer works onto my AO3.
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141 as trailer park boys quotes
141 as trailer park boys pt. 2
141 as dennis reynolds
141 as mac mcdonald
141 as charlie kelly
141 as 90s talk show guests
141 as talk show guests
141 as whose line is it anyway prompts
141 as king of the hill
141 as portlandia
141 as buster bluth
141 as the roy children
141 as sex and the city characters
141 as i think you should leave
141 as nathan for you
141 as the simple life
141 as rhoslc's lisa barlow
141 as rhoc vicki gunvalson
141 as america's next top model
141 as the og vanderpump rules cast
141 as jersey shore
141 as hannibal
141 as desperate housewives
141 as mr. g
141 as the 4/5 of the twilight movies
141 as veep
141 as curb your enthusiasm
141 as 1979-1984 movie survivors
141 as kids in the hall
141 as three men and a baby (gaz is baby)
IDEK
141 as novelty t-shirts
141 as dads at the park
141 as sexual "top" positions
141 as dnd 5e classes
141 as terrible come-ons
141 as dril tweets
141 as texts you send your friends about him
141 as newspaper clippings
141 as knock-off halloween costumes
141 as florida man
141 as charles barkley quotes
141 as most popular porn search by state
141 as more porn searches by state
141 as youtube video titles
141 as police sketches
141 as porn video comments
141 cast as beefy boys (for me)
141 as patients at the dentist
141 as car messages
141 as tubi titles
141 as zillow listings
141 as novelty hats
141 as manicures
141 as chuck tingle books
141 as car mods
141 as patches
141 as bad first dates
THE LADS
gaz as texts
gaz, to me
ghost and soap, to me
ghosts as texts
price as texts
soap as texts
soap, to me
i am doing a little better! awaiting a call from the doctor tomorrow for more test results. my pain has decreased at least, which is good.
my last day of work at one of my jobs is this week, and my second job is too physically demanding for me to work until i am back to full health, so i'll be out of work for the foreseeable future which is a little frustrating.
i always hate doing this, but i thought i'd just plug my patreon if any of you are interested/able to perhaps toss a coin or two my way. it's been three weeks of nonstop doctors appointments, imaging, procedures and tests and if i think too hard about what the medical bill might be, i start to cry lol. i haven't been able to write in a long while but i do have some original works up on patreon, as well as a few chapters of an in progress simon riley x reader fic on there as well.
right now i'm just taking it one day at a time. thank you all so much for your kind comments on that other post, too. i don't have the energy to respond to them, but just know i've read every single one of them and i appreciate all of you endlessly.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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tags | angst, abusive relationships, reader is married to another man, blood, killing of animals, graphic depictions of domestic violence, graphic depictions of violence, religious guilt, infidelity, please read at your own risk
ch. 7 | masterlist | ao3
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There’s blood everywhere.
Crimson staining the concrete under you, and splattered on your husband’s sleeves. The juxtaposition of your husband and Simon solidifies itself then. Something that made your mouth water and heart race with desire when it came to Simon is repulsive on your husband. Something that lodges a lump deep in your throat, makes it difficult to swallow the tears running down your cheeks.
Your hands shake as you reach out to the bunny lying there motionless. Fear runs through your body, raging anger, but the guilt is the heaviest.
It’s your fault. It’s all your fault.
The bunny was innocent. A sweet, pure thing that had nothing to do with you and Simon or your deceit. And still, your husband took his anger out on it, snapped its neck in two like it was the one coercing you to Simon's doorstep. The poisoned apple.
He’s too narcissistic to realize it was him. Too much of a coward to confess he was the one who forced you down this dark and moldered path. One that made you lose your wedding ring somewhere in the backroom of Simon’s butcher shop when you left your dignity on your knees.
Your husband had hardly noticed really, it’s not like he paid attention to detail when it came to you. You were shocked when he did notice, stuttering over your words, and you offered a weak apology, saying you had lost it while washing the dishes.
It was a lie, he knew it. A part of you thinks you didn’t try to convince him on purpose. That you lost it on purpose because you didn’t know how to end this any other way. It’d be easier if he was the one.
Everything else after that is black, a flurry of running after him as he storms to the backyard shed. You had screamed so loud when he picked the bunny up, the poor thing kicking its hind legs in the toughest fight it could muster. It looked so tiny in his palm, trapped in his confines.
“Been letting you feed this damn pest in my backyard and this is how you repay me?” He spat it out with fury, globs of saliva landing on your cheeks.
“Put it down, please." You spoke calmly, masking the way your chest was vibrating with anxiety. "I don't even know what you're talking about, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart. There's that damn word you trickle in. A front. Appeasement of sorts to show you still care, that this is a marriage you want.
“I should’ve known, marrying a whore like you.”
Whore. He says it so often you don't even bat an eye. Sweetheart, whore, the words have become analogous at this point.
You were too late after that. The sound of its cracking neck came first. Its thrown limp body on the floor. Its head makes a thud as it lands hard on the gray cement at your feet, blood splashed underneath it.
It all happened so fast you didn't have time to react besides falling to your knees next to it. The worst part is you didn't even name it. A part of you afraid of the attachment you would've grown when you knew it would eventually lead to this. Afraid of what it would mean when he finally did.
You think you black out for a few seconds, coming to in short fuzzy bursts as reality dawns on you. It's funny the way raw meat did not affect you, not when Simon was the one meticulously handling it. Funny how you were willing to lie on the butcher block next to it all, be the sacrificial lamb instead, but this draws a vizierial reaction.
You stay still, despite your quivering fingers, until the fog clears, until your hands stop and your heart calms. Everything clashes together then, morphing into this ugly, angry monster in your chest that takes over. Years of just burying it down, pretending you were okay, boil over and your pretty bow that sealed it all together unravels. Tears in two for the first time since you've laid eyes on your coward of a husband.
You look up at him then, at the ugly figure that has the audacity to call himself a man. You won’t be too late this time.
“You’re right.” You stand, saying it with the same conviction he spat at you, except yours has reason, a deeper meaning than insecurity. "It’s the butcher. Had me on my knees last week.”
He storms across the distance then, an anger in his eyes you're not quite used to. You don't move though, not even a flinch when he wraps his hands around your throat and slams you against the wall of the shed. Your head throbs from the impact, a panging tightness radiating from your skull down your spine. Your hands find purchase on his forearm, dragging your nails along his skin until it draws blood, legs kicking out as the bunny had in his grasp too.
“Right on top of the meat you eat for dinner every night.” You say it between your strangled breaths and stinging lash line with tears you try your best to hold back.
His fingers tighten around your neck after that and the edges of your vision go dark, hands losing their grip on him when you physically can't fill your lungs with air. You see your mom at the edges, the abuse she endured when you were young. When she wasn’t brave enough to do something about it and leave. When she put her faith above reality. Above you.
You think maybe you should be thinking about your faith instead of hers. Muttering a prayer you were forced to memorize growing up, but none of them come to mind. None of them could help you now. This God should’ve saved you years ago.
The rest is a blur, you don’t know what you grab, or how you even manage to, but it’s heavy, and you can barely wrap your fingers around it. All you know is it makes your husband’s hands fall from your throat, falling back after repeatedly bashing his head with it.
Your cross necklace follows him, silver jewelry ricocheting off the floor. You think it has to be a metaphor, a sign from this God. Being set free from the expectations of religion, set free of the shackles that weighed you down for so long. The cross scalded on your skin melted off.
There’s blood dripping from his forehead when you finally stop, and he’s looking at you in shock, fingers dabbing at the wound like he hadn't just had his hands around your jugular. It makes you laugh, a sound that comes out half broken from your strained throat.
“We’re done.” It's raspy, but final.
You don't look back as you walk back inside the house you've lived in for years. Don't even give him a shred of acknowledgement when you pack a duffel bag.
You find you don't have much of importance in this house besides Simon's jacket.
You don't even realize you've got blood on your shirt and under your finger nails until you're outside Simon's door and he looks at you concerned.
You’re not even surprised when you see your ring glimmer out of the corner of your eye, pinned to the wall like a trophy he’s won.
neighbor!simon riley who can't say no to you asking him for help (and still does things without you having to).
pt.1
ever since asking simon for help on your car, it's like a floodgate has opened up. first you're asking him for help on your car, and the next thing you know, he's in your house every few days with a new repair you've roped him into. he doesn't talk much. actually, you haven't been able to get another word out of him since he was on his back, under your car.
you've tried, you really have, but the bastard won't give in. you think he's just closed off—in reality, simon's heart is beating a mile a minute, and his mind is repeating over and over again not to make himself a fool in front of his pretty neighbor.
so you figured that asked him to help around your house would do the trick, luring him into your space in order to open him up. it's not like you'd get around to these tasks yourself. they just weren't your area of expertise.
and for a decently new house, you sure had a lot to be repaired.
first, it was those squeaky hinges on some of your doors. now, in the beginning, you were still hesitant to wander over to his front door to get his help, but after his eagerness the first time, it gave you the confidence to return. simon was in your house faster than you were, already taking a guess as to which door it was—since he knew his way around from bringing in groceries and such. armed with a lubricant and a few other tools, he got to work. within a few minutes, they were good as new. you couldn't thank the man before he was out the door.
it was off-putting, but you were still determined. it was unlucky that the first thing you asked him to do took only a few minutes of his time, and even less for cleanup.
with every day that passed, you were grasping at straws. how could you get this man over here? your house was in perfect condition, and you barely saw the recluse of a man, as he remained in his house most of the time. save for the times he takes in your groceries or takes your bins out, you don't see him.
until you notice something odd.
coming home from work—this time, your car light remains off—you get out of your car and notice a bit of chopped grass that's been left behind. with furrowed brows, you took a moment to look at your lawn.
what are the chances that, after living here for a few months, the grass doesn't decide to grow?
yeah, none. the bastard has been doing it for you, and you never noticed. he never mentioned or made a big deal out of it, and somehow, it got missed on your motion activated doorbell cameras that has a perfect view of the lawn. even the hedges are trimmed.
so what do you do? take the opportunity to stop over to his doorstep, rapping your fist on his door until he opens. eyebrows raised, ready to take on the next task at your house, he steps out and shuts the door behind him. with a nod, he gestures you to lead the way.
except you don't have a repair for him. "have you been mowing my lawn?" the words spill from your lips before you have a chance to reign yourself in. the absurdity of the situation is making you loose-lipped.
his eyes widen, and you swear you see a faint blush on the pale skin behind his balaclava. he just nods, gaze softening as he stares down at you.
"thank you." you sputter out, in shock at his brazen admission. he just nods again, and you're at a loss for words. how do you keep his attention, keep his eyes on you? "well, I'm gonna need your help planting flowers."
planting flowers? that's all you could come up with? your face flushes with embarrassment, bracing yourself for his reaction. the man could easily say no because mowing the lawn and changing your lightbulb and fixing your squeaky door hinges is considered masculine. you could've insulted his masculinity by suggesting he plants flowers.
but he just stares at you some more. "let m'know when," and he shuts the door in your face.
but you turn around with the goofiest smile on your face and pump your fist with a soft "yes" before skipping back down the path and road towards your house just next door. little do you know, simon's face wears a smile just like yours as he watches the dorky display.
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