Im finally making progress with the monstrosity again thank fuck.
I think part of it is because i decided to split some chapters that 1. Had an easy split point and 2. Were way too fucking long. So, just through doing that, I feel like I've made more progress. Number go up brrrrrrrr.
But also ive made actual tangible progress! I finished what had previously been chapter nine, but is now chapter 12 and 13. A 'chapter' that I'd been struggling with since *checks notes* 26th march apparently. So not the longest stuggle, but im glad its done now!
Best bit is. If i finish what will be chapters 10 and 11. (Really, just one big scene needs finishing.) Then i will have 13 chronological chapters dunzo. Which is big for me. Because i wrote everything out of fucking order like a dumbass. Like. I have chapters from the middle of the fic all done before the ones closer to the start, ones near the end of the fic in progress... urgh.
Im thinking once i get 14 and 15 done, I might start. Actually releasing the monstrosity. I dont think id give up on it at this point. Ive put nearly a year of work into this.
Itd probably be one chapter a week to give myself slack time to write more chapters. (Timing may change if i run out of chapters to post in a complete way idk.)
I want to have at least the first chapter out before ruins anniversary. Which'll be coming up sooner rather than later! So i better get a wiggle on!
I guess its just. What do you guys think? Any advice?
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the tale of how simon got himself a gf without stepping a foot outside of base.
anyone can tell you that alcohol reduces the ability to use logic. to see reason. it lowers inhibitions and blurs the boundary lines you've drawn in the sand.
but indulging in drink tonight is justified. you're in need of reprieve after this shit week: broke up with your boyfriend, deadlines at work appearing out of thin air, a flat tire on your morning commute. you even stepped on the end of your cat's tail.
miserable. (she's okay, just giving you the cold shoulder. you'll buy her some tasty snacks tomorrow.)
but for tonight, you're wallowing in your own misery. some uninteresting show is playing on the television, you're cradled by the cushions of your couch, a fluffy sherpa throw over your socked feet.
if only there was a way to melt this week's accumulated stress away even further.
cue the drunk texting your ex cliché.
anyone can tell you that it's detrimental to moving on. it's akin to reopening a wound that's already begun to heal. a step back when you should only be moving forward. your friends would drag you by your hair for being so dumb.
but there's an incessant throb in between your legs that's only getting stronger with every glass of wine you toss back. you're wound tight, violin strings stretched to the brink. a couple of bow strokes away from snapping.
you'll deal with the consequences tomorrow, along with your hangover.
typing in his (deleted in a fit of heartbroken rage) number with fumbling fingers and send a picture of you with the hem of your sleeping shirt between your teeth, the swell of your bare breasts on full display with a cheeky little missing you <3
he responds in minutes even though it's 2:30am.
send a vid and show me how much you miss me.
it makes your pussy clench around nothing, already slick, drooling, begging to be filled. you sink your teeth into your bottom lip as you bring up the camera.
when simon first gets the text, he's on edge, gripping his phone hard enough to crack. no one should have this number except for price, johnny and kyle. he's made sure of it-- had laswell pull strings to give him a secure line. no scam likely's, no cold calls, nothing.
but then some silly little bird dials his number by mistake and the sweet cherry on top is that you've sent a nude. breasts on full display-- soft looking, hard peaked. it makes his mouth water, his gums itch. he'd love to sink his teeth into them, into you, hard enough to bruise. mark. claim.
but that's for later, once he finds you.
he texts back and what you send him in response fattens his cock. a small hand tucked beneath the waistband of your flimsy knickers, gusset dampened with warm arousal. you lick your bottom lip, leaving it glossy with spit. your chest heaves with the sharp gasps of breath you're drawing.
but there's a problem. he can barely see what you're doing. he doesn't have x-ray vision, your knickers are in the way. while he can understand the allure, he himself doesn't have the patience for it. either you let him see your bare cunt or don't waste his time.
he wasn't expecting you to agree this fast. maybe a bit of push back, a little snapping of teeth until you relent but no. you're an obedient thing. submissive. just how he likes 'em. (if he wants to break someone in, that's what johnny's for.)
soft, inviting thighs spread wide, a couple of fingers curling inside your glistening cunt. (duly noticing how your 2 fingers are the size of 1 of his.) your moans spill from your lips unreservedly when you roll your pearl in tight, precise little circles. he spits on his hand, heavy length resting in his calloused palm and tugs himself at the pace you've set: jerky, quick, messy.
you come with a whimper, eyes shut and pliant body coiled tight. a frothy, sticky cream coats your fingers, dripping down to your arse, pooling on your couch.
you miss me too? sent 3:27 am
(he decides to keep you. simon can't remember the last time he's had a climax that spine stiffening in a while.)
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This is why you don't sleep with the Tyrant King - The consequence is children
Constantine avoids involvement with the Infinite Realms for two reasons.
Who wants to deal with all those Ancients in the first place?
He’s avoiding yet another unhinged ex of his.
Of course, hooking up with Pariah Dark wasn’t really an actual relationship, more like a one night stand via dream walking (Nocturn owed Pariah, but seeing as it would be insane to release the Tyrant King from his endless sleep, he’d give him a dream partner every couple centuries) - regardless, Constantine doesn’t want to deal with that.
So yeah - the fact that the Justice League is attempting to summon the High King into the Watchtower has him wanting to drink more than usual.
Of course he gave warnings, but they’re dead set on doing so. A green folder had appeared in the secure “cursed artifacts” vault with no trace of whoever left it there. How else were they gonna find out how it got there?
So Constantine’s stuck there to set up wards, and is trying to find his way out of this one.
When the summoning circle worked, no one expected the teenager to pop out of it.
Instead of Pariah Dark, or even the sarcophagus showing up, there was a white haired ghost boy with glowing green eyes the same color as the flames of the Crown of Fire. Except he didn’t look exactly like the others ghosts. He had a human skin tone, his proportions were exactly like a human teenager’s, and he was wearing a black and white hoodie with black sweatpants, for God’s sake.
… Were ghosts able to reproduce with humans?
Before any of the Justice League can get into questioning, Constantine speaks up:
“You’re not the Ghost King.”
Green eyes settle on him, lighting up with recognition - Danny knows exactly who this is, with the amount of complaints on his desk about the blonde. Clockwork also informed him (he didn’t want to know but now he does) of the man’s stint with Pariah.
Daniel “Commit to the bit” Fenton chooses to do just that.
“Of course not,” The confusion crosses the face of the heroes present- “That’s just because I haven’t had my coronation yet! I’m the Crown Prince, it’s practically the same thing!”
Oh, and the dread and realization crossing Constantine’s face is almost enough to make his core purr in amusement.
“Now I will gladly answer all your questions, but first!” His eyes swept over the heroes before raising his hand and pointing accusingly at the British warlock.
“John Constantine,” his voice boomed, the temperature of the meeting room dropping as his face stretched with a smile too big and too pointy, “You owe me fifteen years of child support.”
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