kiryoutann

[kiryoutann]

As much as you wished that life could always be happy and silly, that was unfortunately not the case. Between Simon going on deployment, you had limited time together but it was always well spent and you made sure to make up for all the missed hours. However, deployments weren't always homewreckers— paperwork was slowly becoming one too.

It started off working overtime one day, and Simon had left you alone so you could concentrate. That was perfect honestly, and you were grateful because you managed to still get to sleep beside him at the usual time that night. Then it came to a weekend, where instead of relaxing with him at home you were holed up in your little office once more. That was fine too— after all, you spent the morning making a tasty breakfast beside him, followed by a small shopping trip.

As usual, he left you alone to concentrate on your work, and you were making good progress. Until you went to refill your water bottle.

You stepped through the living room, about to grab the water jug when you pause, staring at Simon. He’s just sitting there on the couch, watching a movie by himself. It’s an old one, probably one you’ve watched ages ago and he huffs out a little breath at a joke, not noticing you’re there.

At first you just smile and carry on, bringing your bottle back to your desk again. Then you go and grab some fruit to munch on and you’re staring again at how he’s sitting there all on his own. It’s when you go to grab a pillow to ease your back when you finally break, unable to stand seeing him on your own anymore.

The next time, you wordlessly bring your laptop and documents over to the small dining room table, not too far from the couch. “What’re you doing here luv?” He asks, placing his hands on your shoulders as he peers over your shoulders while you look for a song to play.

Why were you here?

You’d spent time with him all morning, hell even all night. Besides he wasn't some little kid, surely he could handle a few evenings alone.

“Nothin’ “

You shrug, and he doesn't question it, instead putting the movie a little quieter so as to not disturb you too much. Though that makes you even more upset, knowing he was lowering the movie just for your sake, and so the next day you get some headphones instead.

Again though, you find yourself staring at him, how he just sits there on the couch that looks too empty even with how large he is. You’re on your last damn straw when he decides not to open the sharer bag of crisps just ‘cause it’s only him.

Dinners wrapped up and it’s time for you to retreat to your work once more. This time however, you just stand by the pile of papers, a sulking look on your face as you glance between him and the stack. 

“Something happened?” He questions, not understanding why you look so miserable as you glance between him and the work. You had just been talking earlier that day about how important it was that you met the deadline tomorrow, so what was with your current behaviour.

“Nothing…” You mumble out, and he sees you scoop up all your things, likely going to place it back into the office again. You’ll end this overtime hell soon enough anyway, and you’ve still had plenty of fun earlier in the day so it’s not like you’re not balancing yourself properly. Oh well. He turns on the tv, ready to finish the last installment in the series when you walk over and sit yourself right next to him.

“Oh? Do you want me to watch telly elsewhere?”

Before he can follow through , you tuck yourself into his side, legs folded on the couch as you open your laptop. “No.” You huff out, the little frown still worn on your lips.

“Hmm..proofreading?”

You roll your eyes and grab the remote control, pressing play on the movie he had selected before placing it back in his lap. “I didn't want you to sit here alone.”

“But we’ve talked plenty today, love.” He chuckles, his hand tracing small circles over yours as the intro credits start to play. 

“Doesnt matter— it’s not fair, I don't like having to leave you here.” You mumble, watching as his eyes soften at your pout. 

“Fine, fine. As long as you don't get distracted.”

That evening you spend with your headphones on, blocking out any noise all while his arm is firm around your waist, gently rubbing every time you get a little frustrated. Not to mention how you devour an entire pack of cheese puffs together, and he presses a kiss to your temple whenever he has to get up to grab you a drink or one for himself.

It’s safe to say that he’ll never escape you, and well, your mind won't ever escape him either.

---------------------

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[kiryoutann]

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[kiryoutann]

Hello! I was just wondering if you plan to continue the Redemption for the Damned series. No pressure at all though!

yes ofc bebe, i'm just pretty occupied with commission and rl stuff. i'll write once i'm free. sorry for the wait! :(

[kiryoutann]

SOMETHING CALLED LOVE, AND SIMON RILEY

ghost x reader 2.85k words cw: non sexual intimacy, blue eyed simon, 09'simon tbh, very fluffy and simon is a good man. note: and i am back, did you all miss me? even if i was already here under a different name.

summary: where you and simon crash a wedding, it feels a little too mesmerising and loved.

 

The view out of the car changes, little trees running with you wherever your eyes follow. The air kisses your skin, a soothing sting to your cheek as you look over at Simon.

  He’s there in flesh, fingers tapping on the steering wheel, eyes neutral but still holding the small warmth from before. It’s not unsurprising that he turns mellow near you, tender, even if like a bruise— but still a good pain to be pressed on.

  A pain you don’t mind wanting to carry.

  “It smells the same in here” you grin, lips curving into a soft smile, cheek resting on your hand as you let out a dreamy sigh. Perhaps it may feel like a teenage dream, you here with him; an impossible possibility of you existing in his orbit.

  “Same? In what sense, love?” his hand wraps around yours, fingers feeling your skin as if it will be the last time he’ll ever feel, pulling them to his lips, a soft kiss against your knuckles. “In a sense… How long were you gone?” you ask, your smile widening as your teeth peek from behind. 

  You can hear him chuckle, a deep rumble that situates itself in his chest and spreads through his body, a warmth you’re not unknown too. Some of the days, when he’s at your small apartment, he’s roll you over him, tangling both of your legs as you feel the crass hair there tickling your skin, his face pressed in your neck as he inhaled your scent, a scant want and need for you to be under him.

  Simon once swore in his sleep, if he could, he would mold both of your skin together.

  He doesn't answer your question, his lips pressing against your knuckles repeatedly as if apologising for how long he had been gone. 

  Gone long enough for you to forget the feeling of his skin underneath yours, his lips against your cheeks, his touches; tender in their way of molding you the way he loved— yet not enough at the same time. You remembered him in his works, the way his voice would brush against your ear, breath against your neck— an intimacy you don’t really recall.

  “What are we going to do?” you ask, turning yourself towards him as you stretch your legs behind the shifter and over his lap, toes curling and wriggling in his abdomen as you nudge him there. You lean back, one hand on the seat as you help yourself in a comfortable position.

  “Don’t know, you tell?” he murmurs, his hand on your legs, rubbing up and down your skin as you giggle when he pinches the skin of your calf. He doesn't chuckle but there is a soft mirth that you can see, the sliver of humor slipping through his eyes as he hums. 

  Your eyes drift to the catering service truck in front of you, another grin curling up your lips, sly in its nature.

  “Have you ever been to a wedding you weren’t invited to?” you asked, the mischief is not missed by him that laces your tone and intention. As simple as your nature— the mischief and unruliness came with you.

  Unarticulated coordination, no sense of time and discipline, doing whatever you want; whenever you want. You were a burst of star, fragments spread across this system, shining, harrowing and absolutely ruined and magnificent in your nature.

  You were a starburst.

  “No?” he muttered, realising what you were indicating. “But no we are not crashing someone’s wedding.” he states, deadpan, yet a smirk curved upon his lips. “Yes we are” your grin turns into a full fledged smile as you lean forward, his hand brushing the edge of your cotton shorts.

  “Boring, yes we are.” you state, mocking his deadpanned tone as you look forward, “Follow the catering service truck.” You mutter, now smiling ears to ears. “Love, what you’re suggesting sounds ‘bout wrong” he muttered, brows clenched at the centre as he looks at you, a little comical reaction— as if trying to distract you from your pursuit.

  “Yes we are and now follow the care, because I am craving some very sweet wedding cake and some expensive champagne.” you argue, eyes blow wide to match his reaction, albeit in humor.

  “What if we get caught?” he retorts.

  “We won’t” is your answer, your toes nudging the plush fat underneath his shirt.

  He snorts, hand massaging your feet now, “Okay, do we have any dress?”

  “Aren’t we on a long drive to fucking to Manchester from London. A little break will do us some good.” you murmurs, fingers rolling down the windows.

  “That we are in love. Eager now, aren’t we?”

You had imagined this once when you were a child, a baby perhaps, girlish dreams when your aunt and uncle had taken you on a trip and crashed a wedding prior to their own. Love, in your book, is crass, risky, sticky and sweet— it will rot and attract insects, it will make your stomach churn.

  Love in your book is messy.

  You find yourself sneaking in a bathroom, helping yourself into a flowy dress, pretty enough for a party. Simon dressed himself in a tux, without a tie or anything else, unbuttoned at the top and looking untidy. 

  Unlike his usual composer.

You have known Simon for a long time, a scrawny little kid in a bad neighbourhood with bleeding gums. He would pass by your house, his on the corner and oftentimes loud with shrikes and wails of his mother and brother. No one bothered to help them, not really.

  But you found him one day, behind the park almost in the woods, hollowed cheeks and blue eyes. Dead— in their nature, staring back at you like a wounded animal, but he’s rabid. He was wild back then too, muttering swears to himself as he tried to get up but couldn’t. His leg, it was sprained, bent wrong.

  Didn’t scare you, you thought, crouching beside him and asking if he was okay. 

  Tying your handkerchief around his ankle, the small scratch that bled now dull and clotting. He thanked you, you thanked him, you got up and left. You don’t know how long he was there. 

  The next time you met him was at the school football game, scrawny but tall kid, muscles and all crude. You heard his dad died, but didn’t go up to him. He found you, his eyes did actually, smiled and greeted you, nodding.

  And you think that’s enough to fill your definition of love, Simon.

  The scrawny boy with bleeding guns and too little shame to not be crude, but always the gentlemen to women, you— his mama specially.

  “Come here,” you murmurs, winding your fingers with his and pulling him in front of you. It’s dark almost evening and he’s looking so pretty, dead-blue eyes looking at you with so much love, cold ocean, deep sea blue that withers your skin— you breathe in softly, fingers fiddling with his collar and patting his chest. 

  “You can clean up pretty nice” you tease, fingers still fixing the collar and hair, the buzz cut scratching your skin softly. He hums, eyeing you— he seems a little lost, his hands coming up to wrap around your wrist as he presses a kiss there again. 

  “You look beautiful.” he murmurs, a soft smile, lips gently pressing against the corner of your eyes.

  And that’s the most you’ll get out of him, that’s the highest form of verbalized praise he’d give you.

  Yet Simon may lack in words, he never lacks in actions. Arm wrapping around your middle as you both head towards the bar stand, he greets the bartender, orders you both a drink, you both get a piece of cake each and then run off. 

  Perhaps avoiding interaction with any other guests to avoid questions.

  You find both of you sitting in the backseat with the doors open.

  “It’s sweet” you mumble, mouthful as you take a swig of the campagne. “Good f’me”  he murmurs, wiping his mouth with the tissue and gulping down his drink. He looked at you again, fingers teaching patterns over your legs mindlessly. 

  “You’re staring” you giggle, having finished the cake and putting the plate aside. He hums, softly taking your hand in his— “Don’t know, Can’t help.” he answers.

  You hum, leaning in closer, your lips brushing his in a soft kiss, “You don’t need to act like a gentleman now.” you murmur, a giggle ripped out of your throat. He sighs, helps himself to spread his legs and make you sit on his lap.

  “No, not really sweet’eart” he murmurs, fingers brushing the stray strands away from your face. You don’t really know what to feel. Maybe you do, you just don’t want to act on those whims anymore. 

  You both have danced around each-other, on eggshells always, but here you are in his arms, his skin over yours. You might wanna kiss him stupid. You feel his fingers tracing mindless patterns on your thigh, just the shy of your skin under your dress. 

  “You want to get married?” he asked, leaning in as you breathe your air, his fingers hiking your dress up your calves, pulling them over your hips. You both know this dance well enough. You both round each other and do such dances often. 

  You nod, a small action really, almost not noticeable if he didn’t know how to ignite your skin. You bite your lips, tenderly, roll it until they feel sore when his hands squeeze the soft fat of your rear. You think you know how falling in love feels and it feels a lot like Simon Riley.

  His lips graze the skin underneath your neck, pulse thudding. Your palm finds itself on his chest, searching for the familiar lub-dub that calms you down. If Simon feels nervous, he shows no sign of it, his lips brushing over your jaw, a kiss, tender and reverent as if you’re glass.

  A delicate gift heaven has given to him. 

  You murmur something inaudible, about people around, but the car is parked far off from the wedding venue. A slow song plays there, something close to slow dancing with your partner and you grin, a sweet thing, it sticks to his mind— your smile.

  “You hear the song?” he asks, his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent, a deep breath filling his lungs and senses. Getting drunk of you— his fingers find the zip at your back. He pulls his face away from your neck, gaze fixed on your face as he traces your features. There is no smile, just a frown, as if he’s in pain, too much of it to bear. 

  One thing you have learnt from Simon Riley is, love resides in actions. Not fake promises or wordy letters. They lay in early morning kisses and tender baths, they lay in cooking food and helping you dress, love lay in every bit and bobs with Simon. 

  Perhaps it may have been a hard thing for anyone else to imagine, but Simon Riley was the epitome of love. A tender ten fold prayer that God built from all the pain.

  You feel his fingers trail behind the zip, the dress now pooling over your hips as you sit on his lap. Never once did he look down as he muttered his words, soft and aching in their way of foreboding.

  “Beautiful” he mumbled, his breath hitting your neck as he pressed a kiss to the column of your throat. “Gorgeous” he continues, his palm flat on your back and the other on your waist as he kisses his way down to your sternum. “Lovely” he breathed heavily.

  “God I’d be a lucky man to marry you” he muttered, kissing the skin where your shoulder and neck met, a bite then, urging you to let out a soft hiss of pleasure, fingers curling around his collar, hand over the column of his neck. “No— No I’d–” you fail to complete your sentence, fingers uncurling against his collar. 

  “No, No sweetheart,” he argues, fingers wrapping around your nape, trying to fix your gaze on his. “It’s always you, always.” he murmured.

  Perhaps you never realised it, but Simon Riley has you engraved in his bones and marrow, has you written in his fate over and over again. He has you— as his fate over and over again.

[kiryoutann]

IT'S HERE IT'S HERE IT'S HERE!

a ticket to the sun. [prologue]

masterlist

mafia au | simon ghost riley x strip dancer/ sex worker oc cw: someone is getting hit and almost killed, description of abuse, implied mentions of sexual abuse but not described, vomiting, sex workers.

Simon looks back at the time when he was thirteen, the first time his father hit him. The resemblance to the currency situation may vary as he’s decades older now, with a sense of morality that never co-exists with other’s, it’s not his father who is hitting him but someone whom he looked up to, someone who claimed he would help Simon out of the gutter he put himself into.

  The only similarity to this moment is the way the blood on his hand drags its droplets down his epidermis, it’s not his; or his father’s.

  Simon thought he might have got used to the feeling of blood over his skin, the way it gets under his nails or the stale metallic odor clings to his flesh; but he never did. It doesn’t surprise him, the reaction he’s having to getting hit, involuntarily training his body to react before his mind can catch up to pain. It’s a fight mechanism he developed ever since he killed his father.

  His brain turns hazy as he tries to blink out the fog that’s settling over his senses. An impedable sense of doom, guilt, bone chilling feeling of getting dragged down to hell. He’s sure god has written his name on the top of his list— he’s an atheist, but naming such a god, in his mama’s memory, Simon thinks he’s the spawn of Satan.

  Tommy’s battered face comes to his view, swollen face and eyes, at a distance he can hear the music from the club thrumming its walls. Someone’s phone is ringing, something has gone wrong with him. There should be a sense of loss, right now it should punch the air right out of his lungs and make him fold over, someone needs to slap him or execute him.

  Tommy's body slumps down onto the damp floor of the alley, dirty clinging to the man’s cheek. Simon gets it, blood is thicker than water and it has been years he loved Tommy; he believes he still loves him— but this isn’t the Tommy Simon loved. He’s the ghost of someone he once loved, a body void of humanity that his mama instilled in them.

  And even if his brother dies, Simon doesn’t think he’s feel remorse for punching the fuck out of his brother.

  “Stay the fuck away from Joseph,” he huffs, nostrils flaring as he points his bloody fingers at Tommy, who now lay on the cemented stree, dirt and damp clinging to his swollen cheek and eyes, blood pooling down the corner of his mouth. It’s a ugly sight that Simon’s trying not to take a picture of mentally. His brother groans, something inaudible behind the layers of broken tooth and damaged muscles.

  “And Beth and Ma. If I fuckin’ see you near any of them, I fuckin’ swear you’d wish I had put you six feet under” Simon’s voice breaks at the end, chipped sound as he tries to recollect his thought, spilled milk on the floor, spilled guilt flooding his system. It’s anger though, that Simon feels the most, the burning in his ears and the condensation of his heavy breath in the chilled air of December. 

  When Simon was thirteen, he killed his father the same day he got beaten by him. For all sorts of reasons, it wasn’t revenge he sought for himself, but the cruelty that his father threw at his ma and his brother. It was the first time the belt hit his back, the first time he was scarred by him, lesions building underneath his muscles. 

Simon believed his ma and Tommy were his life, the sole reason for his existence, perhaps believed in his mother and Tommy more than he believed in himself.

  But this Tommy isn’t his brother, certainly not the boy who fought tooth and nail to keep Simon alive when their dad came for Simon but Tommy took the beating. This wasn’t his brother, it was some scourge body that had crawled itself out in his life, an infected limb that would ruin whatever good he tried to keep within himself.

  This was the outcome of something Simon couldn’t stop— a being too fucking gone to care for his family. When Simon saw the bruises and cuts over Beth’s arms, he asked where she got them. Beth, being the sweetheart denied, told Simon that it was nothing. 

  Simon always knew better.

  Tommy got his face, his temper, his eyes, his words and actions and habits. Tommy was his father reincarnated by circumstances, and even if Simon would never forgive himself for letting Tommy go so far away from morals (Simon isn’t moralistic himself, he’s a rotten would too, infected and infested by insect gnats)

  When little Joseph called in, sobbing and voice hitching, U-Uncle he’ll— he’ll kill mama— followed by a series of high pitched screams and crashes; Simon forgot what Tommy was to him. 

  It’s better to cut off a rotten part, than rot the body itself.

  Tommy coughs, blood splattering on the dirt as he turns over, “S-Simon listen—” he wheezes, lungs aching and full of blood, not enough oxygen to punctuate his words out to Simon. “You know what? You fucking bastard—” Simon bellows, kicking his legs right at Tommy middle, making him hunch over and cough, arms faltering with another gurgle of blood.

  “I fucking swear Tommy, if I fucking’ see you any’where near Manchester, or anywhere my family is, I fucking swear you’ll wish I killed you today”

  Simon crouched down, grabbing a fistful of Tommy brown hair, turning his head towards him. “You surely do look like that bastard Tommy, and I’ll make sure, I’ll kill you. Just like that bastard” he grunts, heaving and kissing his teeth. It’s an odd satisfaction that starts to churn itself in his chest, the feeling of victory— painful albeit, yet it’s victory for Simon.

  “S-Si— P-Pleas—” Tommy’s voice fades out as Simon drops his head back onto the pavement.

  Getting back up Simon looks around to find no one in the alley. Nodding his head unconsciously to himself Simon walks away, glaring at his hands, bloodied. 

  Blood has always been heavier than water.

  On his walk back to the building, The Icarus: an abode for some hellsign; where he originally had to deal with somethings before Tommy interrupted his work. The lights glittered, room dark, only illuminated by the neon lights that flickered around the stages where the women danced. Too much skin and too little dignity, but then again, Simon was no saint— and the things he had to do for money was nothing compared to half naked dancers.

  The music blared around Icarus, dolled up women cheering as he passed by, calling him handsome and clinging to his arms, kissing up his neck as they tried to pry him in as their customers. The Icarus, was also an abode for sex workers, a little back in the building away from the club and dancer’s section. A small crossway came by, a bouncer standing there.

  “Get me a box tissue,” he muttered to the bouncer, “And a bottle of whiskey” his hand patted the bouncer’s shoulder, ducking in through the doorway.

  The Icarus is a maze for those who have never been inside it, you will get lost in here, will forget the hallways and get caught at the wrong place. It’s never pretty, the blood that stains the walls of the southern block of Icarus. A dance school in the morning, a whore house at the depths of the night. 

  Things people do for money and power, Simon thinks to himself as he finds the VIP room. The cursive letters in gold plated against the door. He doesn’t bother knocking, turning the knob and pushing the door open. The room is illuminated in warm yellow lights, stark contrast to the neons outside the room.

  “Ah, Ghost. Come in son” Price grins, legs crossed over with a woman on his lap, her fingers dragging against Price’s chest with a grin. She looks up at Simon, biting her lips while he shut the door behind him. There are a few more people in the room, sitting opposite to Price. He can feel their stare on him, not surprised at them eyeing him as he’s a killing machine.

  He is a killing machine.

  “Aye, Yes gentlemen. Here is my best man, Ghost” Price gives the men sitting in front of him a big smile, patting the seat beside him, “Come on son take a seat” he urges Ghost, “He’s our best” Price flaunts, eyes narrowing with his smile, cheeks curving up with his mutton chops. “Exempelliray in his work, I think you must have heard ‘bout him. Didn't you?”

  The question John poses here makes Simon smirk, leaning against the sofa, spreading his legs to accommodate space for his feet. “Evenin’ Gentlemen” he nods a little, some sort of respect, the sliver of it being shed here to the men who sit in front of him. There is a girl on their side too, not on anyone’s lap, just sitting there timidly with a soft smile as she whispers things into a man’s ear.

  Three men in front of him, dressed in tuxedos, hairs gelled back nicely, they look not so threatening. At least not like John who once showed up at his apartment door covered in blood in his new tux. “So, what can I and my man aid you with Sir?” Price offers, more like a question coated sweet, hostile in its pursuit but interested nevertheless.

  The Sir in question, Robert, a fancy casino owner aged with time and causes— speaks, exasperated in his notion. “John you need to stop—” he begins, voice holding desperation laced with greed. Simon knows greed, he can feel it in his bones when someone becomes greedy for power, money, pursuit— greed is his only companion in this race.

  John raises his hand off the woman's thigh, immediately cutting off Robert. The other two men, still unknown, exchanged tense glances, worrying, scarring their features. “See— you see Robbie, that’s the issue between you and me. You really don’t look into my issue and dig into yours.” John states, voice light with mirth, underlined with an unsaid threat that hangs like a loose noose that could be wrapped around the men’s neck and snapped in half.

  Simon takes a look at John, knowingly glancing at the way he tapped his fingers on the table, tapping. 

  There is a knock on the door. 

  “Come in” 

  The bouncer that was at the door appears with a box of tissues and a chilled bottle of beer. “They didn’t have whiskey aye?” Johnny, Simon knows the bouncer too well, grins at him passing him the box of tissues and the bottle, precipitation clinging to his fingers as he takes the bottle.

  “Thanks Johnny.” Simon mutters.

  It’s a few seconds after John continues his talk with Robert, asking Simon to step out and he’ll be called in when required. 

  Simon finds himself on the roof of Icarus, the red lights around the door bleeding over his frame. There is no one else there, or so he supposed. There is a sudden click-clack of heels behind him, just around the other unlit corner of the roof. He turns his head back slowly, the cigarette between his fingers half burnt, on the edges of touching his skin.

  And that’s the first time he saw you. A little distressed perhaps, as you looked with your mascara running down and glitter eyeshadow smudged around your eyes. You are in an overcoat, clasped loose around your waist, by the scene of it, Simon knows you’re a worker here at the Icarus, he doesn’t miss the brand bracelet that all the workers here have to wear.

  “You lost?” he speaks gruffly, his cigarette pointing towards you in question. You quirk your eyebrows, pinched together between. You nod your head in a no, lower lip between your teeth as you chewed on it nervously. “Alright” he mutters and goes back to his smoking, looking down the rails.

  You’re nervous, he can smell it off you perhaps, because he turns back again and finds you there looking like a deer caught in headlights. “Everythin’ a’right Miss?” he questions again, flicking the butt down the roof, facing you now. You open your mouth, close it, like a fish out of the water— on the verge of gasping.

  “D-do you h-have any? W-water?” you ask, taking a huge gulp of air in, taking shaky steps towards him. He frowns, opening his mouth to speak, but you collapse into him, shivering and gasping. “Oi, Miss? You a’right?” he speaks again, his hands wrapping around her shoulder as he pushes her away, still holding her up.

  “No! No— Please— Don’t they are going to catch me—” you sob, a gurgule leaving you smudges lips as you try to press yourself closer to him, “Please! They are going to—” you choke, coughing and hunching over as you vomit all over him. Simon grimaces with a grunt, trying to hold you up, but you’re already on your knees emptying your stomach over his boots.

  Simon would have called someone from the office, which he did. Even asked Johnny to take you back to your room— but he didn’t. “Aye mate, there ain;t a single person ‘ere who knows her” Johnny mumbled somberly as Simon cleaned you up, unconscious still. His brows pinched together as he looked backed at Johnny, “Doesn’t Price know her?” he asked again, “Isn’t he the one who runs The Icarus?” Simon grunted picking you up.

  “Don’t know mate” Johnny grunts.

  If this day could get any worse, He thought to himself hiking your body up to hold you up better. In his head Simon would dump you off at some shady bus stand or just at the police station reporting you missing. 

  But then again you seemed like someone who worked with dogs like him, such a respite. He would dump you off in the morning wherever you’d ask him to. For now, he’s back at his childhood with his dad hitting his mom.

  And it’s better to protect you.

© ichordrunk limited 2025, copyright not authorised.

[kiryoutann]

i'm gonna cry this is so beautiful

back with a varka

he made me to back on twt i hate it here, feel free to follow :) @/dan_rar

[kiryoutann]

i read a mans heart is truly a wretched thing(every chapter) in one go while listening to merzbow, and the whole experience just fucking ascended for me. i dont know can i express everything i felt while reading it but, if im not reading this in public, id cry my eyes out. even right now i feel like i have a rock stuck in my throat. and the twist at the second half where it turned out to be a self saving fic? goddamn i didn't see that coming. i was waiting for ghost to somehow peek his head in and save the reader after the worst. but he didn't, and...well after what happened the last time they met, that felt sensible. i just can't express how good this is. sorry for a long ramble and for everyone thats still willing to read this, i suggest you listen to entirety of 2R0I2P0 by Merzbow and Boris, especially at the rising action, when everything just straight up unhinged. i promise you, it'll make you feel even more melancholic reading it. personal recommandation, to the beach.

this just made my whole fucking life. i'm complete and ready to ascend to nirvana. i honestly dont know what to say whenever someone said things like this cause, i just don't think there's even a word to express how grateful i am to be reading this and knowing that u gave me your time to express these thoughts to me.

i'm pretty occupied rn, but i already saved the album to listen later. i'm linking the full album here for myself and for everyone: x (i hope it's the right one!!)

thanks so much for this!! i appreciate you. have a great day!

[kiryoutann]

Rainer Maria Rilke in a letter to Lou Andreas-Salomé, published in Rilke and Andreas-Salomé: A Love Story in Letters

[kiryoutann]

Hiya! I love your Simon fics!!! The fluff is so goooood!!

I was wondering if you would be ok with doing one where there’s some kind of situation (where fem reader isn’t *exactly* in danger) where reader gets insulted/followed or something by someone (she doesn’t get hurt though!!!) and Simon just loses it and is overcome with the need to protect his love?

Ofc it’s up to you!!! Pls continue writing! You’re so good! 💕💕

Thank you for all your support! Sorry for the late reply, here’s the drabble you wanted :), if you want it with a bit more comfort let me know, i can make a second part

——————

Working a desk job was far simpler than any field work, that was for sure, and working in admin was far easier too. Though, that didn’t mean it was all sunshine and rainbows there, infact a lot of people used it as an excuse to treat you harsher.

The door almost slams behind you if not for your foot slightly catching it, letting it shut silently as you drop your bag by the front door. Luckily, Simon got home before you so you can walk over to the back of the couch and wrap your arms around his neck, letting out avery loud groan. “Did you just exorcise a demon?” He grunts, making you giggle and press a kiss to his temple— you like how his eyes always instinctively close when you do that. “The demons of work, yes.”

After sliding your socks off and into the laundry basket, you patter your way over to drape your body against him, his arm quickly curling around you. “Do ya know a guy called Jason?” You ask, tilting your head up at him and he hums, his fingers coming to rest on your chin, lightly rubbing your cheek now.

“Know a few. Blonde buzzcut? Sergeant?” He watches as you nod in agreement, and then you sigh, hands settling on his arm.

“Keeps asking us to do all sorts for him, and then gets mad when we have other things in priority first. It’s just annoying.”

“Is he being rude to you?” You can only shake your head and sit upright once more— there was no time to rest when dinner had to be made, and you were still in your work clothes anyway. “Nah, he’s smart enough not to act up. I mean, if he annoys us then who will do it for him?”

Simon can only smirk at your cheekiness, standing up and tugging you upright too. “Tha’s right, come on, let’s get some food in ya.”

———————————————-

The guy was not smart enough.

“I’m sorry, we can’t tell you who's in your new troop because we have to request permission for you to access their files.” You argue, still trying to finish up other requests for at least 10 other lieutenants about far more pressing matters. Not to mention how messy your desks are right now; orientation for the new rookies starts soon and it’s hell trying to organise them all.

“This is stupid! I asked you three days ago.” He lays his palm flat on your desk, staring down at you in a way that’s almost threatening. Another woman opposite peers over, narrowing her eyes at him. “Sir, they havent finalised the details. We cant give any files without confirmation.” She insists, trying to make him back off and you silently thank her when he turns.

“Can we try to get it for you tonight?” You offer, before she strangles him— you cant blame her either, he’s being so annoying. It’s common knowledge on base how secure each process is, but he just can't seem to fathom it.

“Tonight then. And i’ll be waiting.”

—-

He follows you around for nearly the entire day.

It’s creepy, suspicious even and you sometimes try to hurry up your steps only for him to conveniently walk past you like it’s a warning of what could come. To be honest, you’re a little scared, even if you know he can't really do anything. The action alone is intimidating, especially when you’re just trying to drop some files off with officers and they laugh saying you have a ‘secret admirer’. No, that’s a man with a grudge, an anger boiling inside of him.

When you make it back to the office, your body fills with relief, since he doesnt dare to come inside before he gets chewed out again. But still, with every trip across base you watch your back, swallowing every time you see a glimpse of blonde.

The end of your workshift starts to near, and you anxiously tap your foot, looking at the email declining the permission for him to have the files. It’s clear as day, but he just cant take no for an answer.

“Give it to me already.” The sergeant scoffs, walking over as soon as the clock ticks six, standing right before your desk.

“They’ve declined the offer— i cant give it to you.” You show him the email on your screen but he just spits, like some stupid dog, his broad arms crossing over his chest.

“That’s a lie. Why wouldn't I have permission? Do you know who I am?”

“Yes but—“

“No. Tell me, who am I, missy? Come on, use your words.”

You’re at a loss for them though, staring at him like he grew a tail or something.

“What? Are you scared now? I’m pretty strong you know; i dont hit women, but..” He sneers, leaning down towards you with his teeth flashing in an ugly smile. “Who am I, Miss?”

“Wanker, that’s what you are.”

His shoulder has sharp indents from where Simon’s fingers press into the skin, bypassing the muscle like it’s nothing but jelly as he grips him. You watch in shock as the man tries to struggle only for Simon to shove his knee into the back of his legs, making him buckle.

“L-lieutenant-“ He whimpers, struggling to compose himself when the hold on him is so harsh, almost akin to how they would treat an enemy soldier. “I was just- just asking for—“

“For some directions to the nearest toilet I hope, I think you just wet yourself.”

The man visibly panics and Simon just snorts when he grabs at his pants, only to find nothing there. “Made you look, idiot.” You crack a smile, though hide it behind a cough before you start bursting into laughter at the act.

“Lieutenant Riley- surely, surely we can t-talk this out..?”

Simon pushes his hand firmly against his back, pushing the man against the front of your desk before finally letting go, standing back with his arms crossed.

“An apology.”

“I’m sorry-“

“To her, idiot.” Simon grabs him by the arm and spins him around to face you, one hand on his back as if threatening to break his jaw on that table next. “Go on.”

“I- i’m so sorry Miss..”

“Say her name.”

The man falls silent, faltering as he doesnt know your name, hell he could only barely tell you apart from the girl who worked next to you. She was now snickering behind her desk, her phone out as she sneakily filmed the whole ordeal.

“Tsk. You dont even know her name?” Simon scoffs, yanking him upright by his collar before shoving him back again. “Fine. How about i take you up on your offer, since you’re ‘pretty strong’?”

Jason squirms instantly, his throat bobbing nervously as he shakes his head over and over. “No— that was a joke, i swear. I didnt mean it like that. I just— i mean she might know me- because i’m strong-“

“No.” The word is so firm he shuts up immediately, staring at Simon who could only stare down at him. “Go get yourself in the second training room now. If I don't find you there in five minutes, you’ll be taking a very nice solo trip across the world.” Before you know it, he’s scurried off, rushing down the halls with his boots stomping against the floors.

“Bit much?” You tilt your head at your lover, though your grinning from ear to ear, clearly amused by the whole ordeal. Meanwhile his eyes soften at you, walking around to place a quick kiss to your cheek.

“Never too much. I’ll be late home tonight, put in an extra fish for me will ya?” You nod, letting his hands cup your cheeks as he checks you over, before silently glancing over the other women in the office. “Didnt touch ya, did he?” You shake your head and he hums in satisfaction, reaching back for the small box he brought you. “Came by because they had your favourite cake in stock. Bought some for the girls too, share it ‘round.”

Your eyes light up in glee as he hands you it, having not had it in months now. “Really? Thank you Si!” You hug him tight, before pattering over to where the girls have conveniently decided to have a coffee chat— aka leaving you two love birds alone.

He watches you all with a smile beneath his mask, before it curves up into something a little more sly as he thinks about what’s waiting for him in that training room. Well, he has been a little rusty recently, and the training dummies just arent realistic enough for good practice.

[kiryoutann]

FOR MY GOJO SATORU LOVERZZZZZZZZZ

i don't know, something about satoru being a certified whimpering mess? 18+ nsfw. enjoy because i'm serving cunt and mouthing him off.

gojo satoru who's fucking sensitive when you touch his dick, fingers wrapping around his length as your lips wrap round his bulbous head, sucking whilst your fingers run up and down him.

he's cerulean blue eyes watering almost instantly as he bucks his hips into your mouth, whimpering as you give him as cheeky smile and take him whole.

he wonders if this is the feeling you feel while squirting, so warm and so taken, hands gripping the roots of your hair as he pushes your head deeper onto his length, and god bless you don't have gag reflexes.

so you take him all the way down to your throat, a visible bulge in there as he glances down, fucked out and bitten lips, licking and drooling over himself. he whines as he thrusts into your mouth, at a soft pace firstly— but then slamming it in as he grips your head.

fucking your mouth even if he's overstimulating himself, on the verge of cumming, so he pushes you down one more time before keeping you there and making you swallow his load, warm and filthy.

but that's not the ending, as he starts to fuck into your mouth almost again, manhandling your face by keeping a bruising hold on your nape and at the back of your head, fucking you mouth over and over and filling it until its overfilled and his cum dripples down with your drool.

bonus to this, he's a whimpering mess.

[kiryoutann]

my to-be-read!!!!!!

over the dead sea, keeping you company.

4.18k | simon ghost riley x reader

warnings: DD:DNE | mention of many deaths and death of a v imp character happening. simon is mean and emotionally unavailable, nothing serious just heavy angst and wordy. metaphorical co-relations. that's all.

note: it's angsty. @theorist-fox ; thanks to theo for her amazing idea. i could have written it ten times better, but ;-; i got impatient.

cross posted on AO3

Simon can hold his world between his palms.

  A desire, really. The mundane effects of being overly human for the past few days has him softened, edible in a sense. You can mold him into any shape you like, break his ribs a little, tear off his limbs. Soft puffs of his condensed breath drift up in the air, along with the cigarette smoke.

  Worship. Vengeance. Love.

   It’s the latter one you’d believe, which lets him be an open book to you, with ink faded along time, unable to read except the few pages where the ink still remains strong. You lean against the railing, fingers cold and numb, knuckles turning white as you grip on them.

  It’s the memories that haunt him, as always.

  The first time Simon got hit by his father was around the age of ten. Over spilled milk, a bruised back, Simon went to sleep with tears running down his cheek. He told you about this particular memory one of those nights at your apartment in Amsterdam. It had rained the whole week when he was there, you both hadn't got any time to spend outside.

  Not like he would go outside. You had asked if he wanted to go for a walk or to a pub for drinks;  I'd rather sleep, he had responded offhandedly, and so you let his body rest, which it seeked more than peace.

The smell of cigarettes, an odor you have come to hate yet make peace with, it’s stagnant in the air around you– you think it would have been better if you could start a coughing fit, fist over your mouth, making a dramatic face as you cough your lungs out. Pulverise your sanity for this man, who’s beside you, in his human skin even if he’s something vile inside. 

  Something that has made him believe that he’s all rot and not enough flesh, decaying nerves and organic matter scattering his vicinty. The pungent smell of the dead hangs in the air as he enters the room, you would have believed the same if the smell of earth and rot made you uncomfortable, made the insides of your stomach churn with bile and a strange auction of helplessness.

  He takes another swig of the cigarette, you both are in Manchester; his apartment. It’s another one of those weeks where you both got off and decided to visit each other’s home; this time his. You take a look back inside, the living room floor scattered with books; a whole lot of them, some gun manuals and cigarette boxes. 

  Empty albeit.

  “I’d reckon if you smoke so much you’d die by the age of fifty Sir” you smile, a teasing grin that curls around your lips while you glance back at him, his hand wrapped around an almost empty box of ciggies, a lighter in his left hand as he takes a quick peek at you. “That so?” his lip curls into a rare smile; not a smirk, perhaps not even a taunt— genuine. Rare occurrence for the year.

  You’re as deranged as him.

  Or so you’d like to believe.

  You mentally click a picture of his smile before turning your face towards the streets, taking in a breath, “it’s bad for you” you breath out, before looking back at him. The smile disappears as he lets out a sigh looking away. “Don’t you smoke too sergeant?" he questions, voice in a slight mock as the cigarette dangles between his fingers.

  Ignoring his question, your hand darts forward— “Stop smoking” you grumble, fingers wrapping around the small butt of the cigarette, a failed attempt to pull it off his lips.

  You want to press your lips to his, get him addicted to your flavour, the taste of your lips and pull away, play games about— just to see if he would lean back in to press them back onto yours. Turn you into his favourite relief; but your dreams are short lived as his hand wraps around your wrist before you could tug the nicotine tube out.

  There is this big defile between you both, you have crossed the bridge between being good friends, colleague as he likes to call you in front of others; but colleagues don’t behave this way. They don’t dance around each other, even if it’s more like you’re dancing on eggshells and he’s very persistent to break them.

  Colleagues don’t think about each other in the way you think about him.

  Fingers prodding at old wounds, salt being rubbed against the open gashes over his corroded skin. Regret and formaldehyde sticks like sap over his being and he smells too strong of rage. He is rage and grief humanified, the definition of all his rage was once grief— eyes up at his lips in a quirky smirk as his fingers wrap around your wrist to get you off. It’s a mere thought, poignant wanton want of wanting him to pull you closer.

  Close this gap between your bodies, press his chest to yours as he presses his forehead to yours and breaths in your air. The intimacy you crave is physical and emotional— you aren’t special, just a woman at the end of the day. You are invincible or immortal; you’re still human, shamefully so.

  Want has been in your blood ever since you were a child, the want to be special, the need to be first, the ache— the greed of always being better tainting your life.

  “Limits Sergeant" he grunts, taking a particularly long drag from the cigarette. You wonder how long this conversation will last. The condensed rain drops dribble down the rails, your palms wet, you can feel the cold pry inside you, a sneeze crawling up your nose. Cold, always crawls in deeper when you’re beside him. Too fucking far away to have his warmth.

  Limits Sergeant; awfully close to the first time you met him. A mission, the first mission and you were placed under him, his dog. His loyal mutt— goody two shoes. You went beyond orders to retrieve Gaz from underneath the rubble. Compromising, selfless, selfish again because I want to be better.

  But you cannot be better, you’re the replacement.

  For the team? You don’t know. For him. Yes.

  Even if Gaz doesn’t push you away and welcomes you, and even if Price considers you as a team— there is a picture at Simon’s desk, a small one signed by four of them; it’s not you there. A ghost haunts them and you’re here to fill the void, you may have gone beyond your walls to reach Simon, but Ghost won’t wait for you.

  Simon sits still somedays, as if the demons in his head have eaten him up and spat him onto the floor. Spat out remains of his life. You have tried to reach him but all you found is barks & bites. Scars that are beyond healing, an ugly mutt biting onto your skin and tearing your limbs apart.

  He’s a rabid dog.

  He’s a dog, worse one than you. You’re loyal to your master, he’s a rabid hound. Blood thirsty. Inhumane. Dog. Warhound. The first time you saw Simon kill, you questioned Price if he was fit to be enlisted here at this position. It was an overbearing work for you, being nosy and commenting on people you didn’t know yet.

  But slowly and painfully so you became aware of the dynamic being shared between the men, realising that Simon may have been the lonely, whom everyone has discarded— because he bites. His teeth dig into your flesh, and tugs, rabid. Blood everywhere; he’s wrong in his notion of morality. 

  Price took him in despite his teeth and wounds.

  He’s all bites and no barks.

  He’s mean, because he thinks being mean makes him look stronger.

He lingers around you because he thinks it’s better than being alone.

  You don’t know why.

  You want to kiss him, the heat of it crawling up your neck as you look at him. He looks different here, in this setting, of his home. A loose tee hanging over his broad back, warm sweat pants, you’re in your fluffy pyjamas— a contradiction to your military life where all you wear is cheap t-shirts in black and white.

  The box of cigarettes is almost empty between his palms. There is an itch, you want to have one, take a drag and break this streak of purity you like to claim upon yourself. Purity my ass, you think to yourself before plucking the last cigarette from the box, a scoff leaving his lips as you sigh.

  Simon gives you a look that makes you think he’s judging you, you really can’t make out. 

  You think he may offer a lighter, but he doesn’t, perhaps in mock insult. “Sir” you voice out your thoughts, “May I have a lighter?” your question, drowns in hypocrisy. For you atleast, it has been a good two months without a smoke, but at this moment you’d need to keep your head off from the thoughts that try to invade your mind.

  A little something, to take the thoughts out.

  He sighs, flicking up a lighter from his pocket and handing it over to you. A feeling of disappointment rushes through you before you take it from his hands, skin brushing against each other for just a moment, before you’re trying to click it up into the little flame. 

  You click it once, your fingers slip, a tsk follows your mouth, the filter getting crushed between your teeth. A second click, and again no avail. You try for a few more times before a large hand comes into your view and takes the lighter from your fingers and flickers it to flames in one click. 

  Your eyes meet Simon’s, the soft blueish orange glow before you swaying with the cold air it dances with. You mutter a small thanks after the ciggy starts burning, the first drag of solitude you have offered yourself. “You’re prone to addiction” he mutters, crushing the butt of the cigarette on the rails and throwing it down the street.

  You don’t answer him for a good while, looking down at the streets and counting raindrops even if that could be possible.

  You remember when you were fifteen, you had your first smoke, with a bouncer who dragged you out of a club because he knew you were young. You had made yourself cozy on the side walk at the dead of the night when the club was closing down. It was a sad night, your mum was out of the town, you don’t remember the rest.

  “Simon” you taste his name on your tongue, it’s bitter at first, but a smile curls up onto your face when you feel a soft flutter in your chest. He raises an eyebrow, “Yes?” he questions, eyes on the half burnt cigarette but you have taken only a single drag from it. 

  “Am I a bother to you?”

  Your question hangs in the air, for a good while before you hear him take a deep breath, arms brushing against yours, fingers plucking off the fully burnt cigarette of your own. You look up at him, but find an empty space there— his silhouette disappearing in the living room at the back. You crane your head back, trying to make out where he went.

  He comes back after a few minutes, an ashtray between his hands. The balcony door creaks open, his eyes on you. Your gaze narrows on the scar on his cheek, dragging itself against his epidermis, from his lips to his ear. His left ear is disfigured, you think, someone might have tugged it clean— not a bullet wound.

It’s four months back, your memory a little rusty here and there but still intact in a way where you remember him.

  Amsterdam is moderate, less humid and much more lively sometimes than Manchester. Simon doesn’t seem to mind the idea of spending time with you, as much as you thought he’d reject the offer of having a trip to your hometown, he didn’t.

  “Sure Sergeant, why not?”

  His answer still rings in your ears as you both sit on the bench, waiting for the train to arrive. It has been exactly two years since you had joined the task force, enough time to familiarise yourself with others, enough time to let your walls down and let them talk to you. 

  Enough time but never enough for him.

  Ghost, has grown closer, but in the sense where he still looks at your warily.

  The train ride ends up with you sleeping and him reading a book. 

  The door is jammed, rusting at the corners as you make an annoyed sound, fingers rummaging through your bag for the key. Simon stands behind you, hulking and intimidating in his sense, you can feel Ms. Poppins, an aged lady at the corner of the hallway, peek at you and Simon. You’re sure Simon can feel it too.

  “Is she always this nosy?” he asks, turning his head in an exceptionally creepy pace, just to scare her off. It does its work, the door shuts and you're here trying to turn the key through the keyhole. 

  Your apartment is spacious, studio like with a bathtub behind curtains and just a bed in the middle. The kitchen is set beside the balcony, you can hear the people walking around the streets and screaming greetings. There are a few duffle bags around the room.

  Not very cozy, just enough for a person.

  You look back at him, standing at the doorway, staring at you while you toss your bag over the bed.

  Does the world see him as a monster? That’s the first thing your brain can come up with.

  And perhaps, in a sense the world does see him as a monster more than human, eyes void of any emotions staring back at you all those months ago, something tangled inside your heart, a thought of being broken by 

him even if it may hurt you. 

  You have fallen in love with him slowly, in that antagonizing manner— a particular thought that had rooted itself in your head; it’s okay if you don’t get that love back.

  You were eight when your father died, car accident; you were in the car with him. Eight years old and staring at the world in red, blood in your mouth and the scars that map your skin for your future. There was this particular scar under your thigh, a glass shard lodged into there during the accident, you don’t look at it.

  You don’t know why you co-relate these two factors. The death of your father and you falling in love with Simon; but you can’t help it. It’s the same feeling with him, the death that stands over your head and you wonder if you’ll ever have a second chance with him. 

  Ever get the chance to say that you like him.

  Okay perhaps, Love him.

  But you do look at Simon’s face; he’s not Ghost here, or your Lieutenant. He’s Simon, he has graced you with that opportunity of calling him by his name. He’s not a good man, and you’re clearly not chasing good here.

  You think you have known him life long, acrid need to be correct always.

  You have known him.

  In the ways you wanted to know him.

  That’s your victory for life.

  The cold kisses your skin, cheeks tinted pinks and lips turning down in a pout. He’s not looking at you when his fingers wind against the cigarette between your fingers and tug it off. “No smoking for you sergeant" he grunts, taking a drag of it himself.

  An indirect kiss. 

  A kiss—

  A failed attempt.

  As always.

  A great star always needs to collaspe.

  If life wasn’t cruel to him, he would have been a better man if not this. Whatever mangled being he has made himself into. It’s cruel, in the way where you’d pity a dying wolf. It’s cruel in the way you’d hold his face between your palms and tell him it’s okay, but you can’t. The scant need to hold him against you is physically and metaphorically impossible; in this world you both have built walls around yourself.

  Because at the end of the day, you're a replacement. Always have been such— you have heard the name, Johnny, Soap, McTavish— none of them tell you what kind of a person the man was, the man whose pic Simon has as his wallpaper. The man whom Garrick talks about, tells you how brave he was. It makes you feel alienated.

 Like some intruder in a team where they chose you.

  “I want to be brave like him” you had told Simon. You did, and it was again a selfish want, to be brave so that Simon sees you, talks to you— you crave that thing called appreciation even if it’s just an approved nod. You want it, always.

   You’re some cheap plaster he’s using to keep his heart intact. Death has been an old friend, and it has taken him away in bits and bobs, chipped at the demons inside his head and ate him whole. It feasts on his grief and rage, his want to be more human than a monster that he claimed himself to be.

  He’s in your living room, in sweat pants and a loose shirt, he’s reading the newspaper. It feels odd to watch him do mundane things, things normal people do, things unlikely for Simon Ghost Riley ; because Simon Riley isn’t normal. 

  You’d make a good civilian, your words feel hollow to your own ears. It was meant as a compliment, a praise that he suited normal, he was normal, but came out as an insult. Pulse buzzing underneath your neck, you turn to look towards him, his reading glasses crooked over his nose. 

  You had heard Gaz talk about how Ghost broke his nose once or twice before. It healed up wrong, looked wrong somedays, but it was

  “Sounds ‘bout wrong love.”

  Love. The word itches a specific part of your brain, peeling away the years worth of scant need for affection, albeit false. It falls deaf to your own ear, the way he mutters about the birds chirping too loud, eyes fixated over his face, the scar that drags itself to his mouth— ugly ugly thing, but it’s another one of those things that make him even more humanoid to you.

  He’s ugly, in the way where his humanity has started to corrode, between his chest. He’s ugly and it shows in his mug, the dead eyes; even with the most beautiful pools of browns, irises that feel like Mars' dirt, earthy, yet no sense of kindness between them. His lips are chapped, dry almost, spewing filth to the news on the paper again, the crooked curve of his nose, the undignified scar down his throat.

  He’s raw, animalistic— looking like the god of war.

  You snap out of it, attention diverted by the way the sun kisses his paper pale skin, the artery under his neck throbbing in a soft lub-dub. There is this scant want to press your lips against it, fingers raking through his buzzed hair as you count his freckles. You gulp, feeling the flutter in your chest grown, a buzz between your lungs. 

  It’s pathetic.

  You feel thirsty.

  Thirst for your heart between his fingers, squeezing it harshly and culverting your blood.

  Greedy greedy want, a kiss to your lips, you’re out of your fucking head.

  Simon Riley is a dying star, albeit failed.

  He’s the test subject of god, the experimental way of twisting a human just to have fun and see how long it takes from them to break, and Simon does break, over and over again until it’s all bones and bile for him and not much flesh to hold his heart. Until his ribs crack underneath the rot and insect gnats eat him up wholly.

  You’re here, but you really can’t stick around. Can’t hold him, can’t wish to because this star will burn you and you’re already fading.

  You made coffee and earl grey, a toast in the toaster as your microwave dings, counting seconds. Time goes backwards in your kitchen. He’s here under the sun near the open window. The sizzling smell of eggs fills the kitchen. You hand him two toasts and two eggs, sunny side up, a smiley face of ketchup next to it.

  Small happenings.

  You’re shoving cereal into your mouth, the crumbs crunching underneath your teeth, tongue scraping against them. Acrid taste of yesterday, acetonic in nature. He’s sitting in front of you, newspaper still between his fingers.

  You'd be a good civilian.

“It’s bad for you,” you mumble, voice soft, too tender for the war hardened soldier the military has made you into. Simon gives you a look, something borderlining on ignorance, mock ignorance– he does this often, when he wants you away but not really. “Lived long ‘nough to know that” he grunts.

  “Sir” your lips press onto themself, his name a flutter against your tongue, something wrong about taking this name, or any other– He glares at you, again, something he has got used to. Something you have gotten used to, his glares and his remarks about you.

  “What?”

  “I love you”

  Your words taste like ash in your mouth, feel like the same acetone flavour when you told him he's a good civilian. He’s not looking at you, but there is a twitch in his hands, the cigarette crushed as he throws it down the balcony. “You shouldn’t” he mutters, and you think it might be the first time you have heard him talk so softly to you. His voice feels distant, almost something from a dream, your ears filled with water.

  Four months and eight days, it took you four months and eight days to speak it. You think you’re brave like John Soap McTavish, but you aren't. You aren’t brave enough to face Simon’s demons and make him face them— take accountability for the collateral damage he’s doing to you.

  You can’t.

  The water didn’t take you when you were three, beaches of California, swimming with your father.

  “But I do” your voice is steady, fingers fiddling with the edge of your coat. Your heart thuds inside your ribs, the ache that once felt soft and tender like a bruise now thrumming like a fresh gash bleeding. It makes you feel queasy, belly empty, still you might feel butterflies— you don’t. 

  It’s this moment that will kill you, you’re sure. It's childish.

  You want to ask him why? Why can’t you love him?

  It has been a long time since you made peace with the fact that he might never love you. Your love is enough to fill the gap between you both. The greedy need you have held yourself onto, denying the want, this pain. Denying any kind of balm that might quell this need.

  “Limits Seargent—” he grunts, pulling away from you. He’s facing away, the same way your mother did when she left you. Facing away because the look on your face might make him stop and consider your heart. Might make him take up on the idea that he is capable of love.

  You’d like to think you can read his mind, but you can’t.

  You wish you could.

  You wonder if you have been good.

  You wonder if anyone could ever love you.

The dead sea lets people float on its surface, its density more than any other saline waterbody out in the world. You and Simon sit side by side, again, out for a watchout in Iraq when you have this talk. Pessimistic too much, it’s an alter ego of yours that speaks for you, as if happy endings would mend your heart.

  “I want to have a dip in the dead sea” You mutter, arms resting against your knees as you look at the vast endless desert, the heat has scorched your cheeks, 

You’re dead.

  You feel the blood pool around your head like a halo, the salt in your lungs. The sea smells like home, but you cannot remember the last time home felt like. The phantom feeling, of drowning, being taken into the depths of the sea, you wonder if he would feel remorse. It’s his face that blurs over your memory.

  You curse yourself a little, before your vision goes blurry, before you fall asleep— your wretched mind holding onto the last warmth of his face, at your apartment, under the morning sun. 

  Breathing before death is a lot harder than you anticipated. You wheeze, and everything hurts. You wonder if there is any wound you don’t know about yet. The edges go blank, and you think— for the last moments.

  Would he cry for my death?

  Like he did for Johnny’s?

  You’d be a good civilian.

[kiryoutann]

Will ex problem only be available on patreon, or do you ever plan on adding it to tumblr?

i'll be adding just the link to patreon on tumblr, but the content is only available in patreon for limited amount of people ^_^

[kiryoutann]

hi did the ballerina in RFTD have an anxiety attack? or does she have anxiety? i feel like she was emotionally abandoned by her family and now Simon. i kind of get that. It's difficult to express what you need because there are no words for it.

in the prequel she showed lots of signs of anxiety disorder and episodes of panic attacks. in RFTD… i’d like to think she already received professional help for her issues so even if it’s still there, she would know how to handle it a lil bit better!

[kiryoutann]

THE ASHTRAY OMG. i'm so done. please end me already

a man's heart is a wretched, wretched thing.

simon ghost riley x ballerina!reader

by @kiryoutann

The rule was simple: don't let feelings get involved. But unfortunately, you couldn't help the inevitable. You fell for Simon—a man with a heart seemingly devoid of room for love. For you.

— read here

[kiryoutann]

GRAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

you fuck around and find out with captain simon 'ghost' riley. nsfw. 18+ heavy filthy smut because i said so. enjoy. inspired by @theorist-fox 's in the wall series because she writes such delicious things?

  But of course you needed to fuck around and find out, face the consequences of your words and actions all together. It would have been far better if he would have played along a little more, teasing and pulling at your strings before pushing you against the wall of your room and fucking up your guts.

  The stretch is delicious, his pace is mind boggling, your cunt is fluttering around his girth and you’re moaning loud like a banshee.

  How did you end up here? You know it quite well, to your credits.

  Have you fucked your Captain before? Never.

  How did you come to the point to make him fuck you? Being persistently cheeky and annoying the fuck out of him.

  Perhaps you would have preferred a little privacy, maybe his hand over your mouth as he fucked deep into you, pulling out and pushing in, yu’re trying hard not to pay attention to the way his tattooed arm wrap around your neck, fingers squishing your cheeks, it hurts, but good hurt.

  You have played this game before with Captain Riley, he’s your senior officer, you work under him— a sweet bird and a menace all together. He can see it on your face, the smugness of victory and god if he doesn’t want to wipe it off your face. 

  Some pathetic being you are.

(you’re his favourite)

  A salacious moan makes its way out of your lips, fingers digging into his flesh, arms, red lines along them as your scratch on his skin. A mark, territory, your’s. In that low attempt to make him understand that god, you have waited for this long enough.

  His cheek presses against your, chest flushed against your back as he grunts into your ear, “Been such a bitch Lieutenant" he grunts, “Gonna open y’our legs f’everyone? Huh?” to his courtesy, he’s not kind, not that you want him to be. A grin makes its way to your face, followed by a whine when his fingers dance along the edge of your mons, a slow drag towards your core.

  “Yes— yes- Captain—” you’re trying to speak something, anything that makes sense, but then again it’s your Captain here, mean in his pursuit. You have danced around him before, a dangerous one, pressing yourself against him while he stood beside you, looking into his eyes whilst you talk, biting out a small but cunning If you can Captain.

  You want him to make it rough, want him to dig his fingers in your flesh and bruise you, leave marks that remain for days, make him grin when he makes eye contact with you from the other side of the room.

  You want it wrong.

  Blood rushes to your ears when his fingers find your clit, hardened and tortured, begging for attention, fingers swirling around it, you arch away from him. There is a little decency as you try to muffle your moan, a fist pressed firmly over your mouth while the other holds onto his arm for support.

  Your vision turns starry, blurring at the edges when Simon rubs your clit, fingers dipping down to brush up against your folds. “Fuck— Sir—” you wither against him, wishing you could say something cunning like the last time you came close to this almost.

  “What did you say, Lieutenant?"

  “Gonna fuck around and find out Cap”

  He’s considerate, you think. He’s not, he knows. He knows how he’ll probably pull you into his quarters and push you down onto his bed, bend you over and fuck you again and again until you’re crying. 

  He hopes for a good reason.

  “Captain–” you whine, when his fingers run through your scalp and grab a handful of your hair, tugging until you're pressed flushes against him. 

  What a sight for sore eyes.

  His finger leaves your core, still thrusting in that exceptionally delicious pace that makes your mouth open as you choke on your drool and moans. You whine at the loss of stimulation down there, eyeing him from the corner of your eyes as he pressed your head on his shoulder.

  “Relax” he muttered, fingers pinching your nipples as he pressed hot kisses over your skin, too much of everything everywhere, you nod at his words, involuntary response to his voice. He murmurs something, but you’re too busy concentrating on his dick bruising you at that spot where everything melts.

  Once he’s satisfied with the way you slumped against him, trembling yet murmuring soft don’t stop don’t stop don’t stop, his hand wraps around your mouth, shushing your voice. He grunts, tattooed arms looping around your own and pulling them behind your back.

  It makes him have a better angle to handle your down, push his hips again’t your as his balls slap on your rear, must have hit some good spot because he could already find you biting on his fingers with tears streaking down your cheeks.

  You clench around him, hard, core burning with that unreleased head as you try to whine, and you do— enough for him to pace up and make you see stars. Your eyes roll back as your orgasm crashes over you, thighs convulsing as you start to feel jelly but Simon hold you up, fucking you through your orgasm.

  He’s gonna cum too, you think, and he does after a while, but not until another orgasm crashes over you and you’re trembling, hands and legs shaking as he drops you on bed, face flat as you gasp for air. 

  He’s cruel, you know it when he turns you on your back and pulls open your leg when you try to squirm away. He tsks, “Where you off to Lieutenant?" he smirks, smug in his tone as he settles between you legs, holding you down onto your hips, “You wanted to fuck around and find out, yeah?”

[kiryoutann]

okay im already loving the masterlist. this will be great!! trustttt!!

a ticket to the sun. [masterlist]

mafia au | simon ghost riley x strip dancer/ sex worker oc warnings: mafia au, original character written in second person pov, oc is a sex worker and strip dancer, mention of sex trafficking and child abuse, paedophilia and canon typical violence. chapters will contain individual warnings.

"I look at you and see another version of myself."

You, finds yourself entangled with something you can't get out of. Perhaps you could if you had not met Simon Riley.

prologue chapter i chapter ii chapter iii

AO3 | aslo read on

[kiryoutann]

simon riley doesn’t cum easily. he’s old enough to be your dad and he’s been fucking girls since before you were even a thought. it’s something he’s proud of—most girls are lucky enough to get foreplay and twenty minutes let alone hours of teasing, touching and fucking that’ll have them forgetting their own name. it’s something he even warns you about, almost holds the idea over your head when the topics of sex and your virginity come up.

“‘’m a grown man, sweetheart. much worse than the boys your father warns you about. wanna get you ready first.”

and he does—when the day comes and your laid out on your pretty silk sheets, topless and wearing nothing but your cutest lace panties—just for him. he spends an hour with his mouth between your legs, fingers inside you, hands all over your body. he spends so much time ‘getting you ready’ that when it’s finally time for him to sink his cock inside you—

he stills.

you blink up at him, shifting at the pressure of him just sitting inside you.

“simon?” you whisper, shuddering as your pussy clenches around him over and over—desperate for him to move, touch, something.

“need a minute,” he grunts, eyes squeezed shut. his fists clench and unclench next to your head. his hips twitch. he throws his head back when you try moving for him—

“don’t.” he snaps, must harsher than he meant, hand flying down to still your movement, “‘m gonna blow my load if you move again sweetheart.”

you blink. you frown. you think. then you grin. “but you said-”

“shut up.”

tags: @avgdestitute @3m3lia9 @km-ffluv

lmk if you wanna be taken off of or added to my cod taglist <3