No

Just a blog to write random things.

[cuntrynikoli]

Simon wasn't born for violence. He was raised for it though. His father took him down back alley's and made him confront death and decay. He made him learn how someone's eyes dull when their soul finally leaves them.

Simon's father taught him many things and none of it was kind. Nothing about it was soft. It wasn't meant to be a father teaching his son how the world works for his own survival. No, Simon's father was trying to break him, mold the boy into something he wasn't.

It took a little too long for Simon to realize that. He was too far gone, barreling down a path where he had to use those cruel lessons to keep himself alive. Whether it was on a hook or in a box, he kept remembering what his father had said to him. Those haunting words that echo in his head as his fists pound into his enemies.

You don't stop until the life leaves their eyes.

And even then, keep going.

Make sure the job is done and stays done.

With each bullet, each falling body, Simon realizes that he will always be this thing that his father made him. This amalgamation of evil and violence.

Simon may have been a mama's boy, but he will always be his father's son.

[cuntrynikoli]

Mitski’s “mom, I’m tired” but it’s Simon Riley

[em0goose]

I love when there's a buffer between big and small. With Ghost especially

There's already the divide of Simon and Ghost. Between the man and the mask he dons. And to add something small and fragile into that?

Ghost won't speak of it.

Simon refers to it--himself regressing--as something else entirely.

His tone shifts throughout whatever face he wears; Ghost is gruff, barely any funny business. Simon speaks firmly, although the cracks in his exterior expose the soft insides. And himself regressed feels exactly like that raw wound beneath it all, quiet and timid.

It's not him, it's the sad, weepy thing underneath his covered layers. Ghost, Simon and it, below all that. He doesn't name the feeling, or let it sneak out of the shell he's made for it.

There's that internal fight with himself to let the small feeling seep out. Behind a numb exterior, there's a racing heart and bubbling anxiety. His eyes jumping from place to place, lips moving where words should be coming out, but it's all a hidden conversation in his head.

It all ends up in the same place anyway. Regardless of the answer, he regresses anyway. Lands himself into Price's office, or behind a locked door where he won't be disturbed.

None of it is pretty. An infected wound rarely is. His eyes don't see when he looks around, trapped behind a haze he can't blink away. Not seeing black, but a frosted glaze of his own hands tugging at his own clothes, or picking at the skin around his nails until red splotches become apparent. The sound of crying doesn't make it to his ears, but the warmth on his cheeks of hot tears makes itself noticeable.

Simon doesn't want to call this him.

There's no control, just blurry memories later. His own fists rubbing against his cheeks, wiping away constantly falling tears. The eventual calming feeling of a heartbeat against one of his ears. It all happens, and he has no say. The pot boils over and the contents spill through the tears of a child who can't control the fear and rage in a body far too big for it's mind.

So Simon doesn't place the feelings. He only grasps for control hiding the tears, and barely succeeds whatsoever at any given moment. There's moments of brief relief where his eyes clear to the sight of a gentle hand coming to wipe his face, or he hears the familiar sound of his teammate voice(s).

Wherever he is, whatever that feeling is, wherever that childish terror resides in him, it's safe. It's taken care of. Through a screen on late nights with Price's (Or Soap's, or Gaz's) messages open with a selection of emojis newly delivered and marked as read within an instant, or with his head on one of their chests--It's safe.

Between Ghost and Simon, it's safe.

In his teammates company, it's safe.

Held, warm, fed and comforted. It doesn't get hurt any further, as much as it fusses and cries.

As much as he feels the lingering touch of hands he cannot name, no one's touch sears his delicate skin when they lift him from the floor and wipe his eyes. The gentle kisses on his forehead only stay there.

Here, it's safe to be small and fragile. It's safe for that wounded piece to be a part of him.

And, here, it's safe to remember. His tears won't be met with violence, no matter the blood on his hands or his friends'.

It's safe to be. For as many months as it takes for him, that won't change.

[cuntrynikoli]

[wyvern-whiskey]

Just love a smoking Simon

[spiltspit]

Dating sim Ghost sprites ⭑.ᐟ

[cuntrynikoli]

My mental health doctor is playing a kidz bop version of All Time Low by Jon Bellion.

I think I’m going insane.

[cuntrynikoli]

I can tell some of y’all didn’t have to do the “who decides who AI kills” ethics discussion

[cuntrynikoli]

Please mind the tags

You thought it’d be fine; fun even. Simon was a much, he’d professed as much, and you’d always read about how great getting head was. Well, good head at least.

And it was going great at first.

Then your shoulder shifted. And the ceiling was too white. And all of a sudden you were too naked and you couldn’t breathe.

You didn’t realize you were crying until Simon was next to you, hands hovering over your face. His voice was faint, asking if you were okay. If he’d hurt you. If anything was wrong.

And it was all wrong. It was all fucking wrong. You were wrong, but you couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move.

You can only nod yes and no at his questions. He disappears for a moment and comes back dressed. He wraps you in the blankets, covering you, and then wraps himself around you protectively.

Everything stays fuzzy for a while still as he quietly talks to you. Says that you’re safe. That it’s him and no one else.

That no one’s going to hurt you ever again.

And you believe him. You believe him so much, but it’s not chasing away the feral panic you feel.

But he doesn’t leave. He doesn’t pressure you. Even as minutes turn to months turn to years of him not being able to do his favorite thing in bed, he isn’t upset with you. He never holds it against you.

He asks about it every once in a while, sees if you’re up to it. If it’s something you can handle.

And one day, one final day, you feel like you could do it. Like maybe things won’t be horrible.

And he’s a sweetheart through it all. Slow, careful, loving. He reminds you that it’s him that’s down there. No one else. It’s him that’s touching you.

There’s a small twinge of uncomfortableness at the beginning, but you eventually relax and the heat between your legs grows.

And from then on, Simon gets to do what he does best.

[the-queen-of-today]

[cuntrynikoli]

House by Charlie XCX but it’s Simon Riley, right?

It’s 2009 Ghost dying, burning, waking up in the future.

Thinking that maybe it’ll be perfect.

It has to be perfect.

He's at least hoping things will be perfect, but he's just a prisoner all over again. Trapped inside a shell, inside a witness that's feigning to be something else.

It can all be fine though. He's found beauty again. In the world. In Johnny.

In the man he had left behind in another world.

Only for that man to die in front of him.

And everything starts to fall apart. It starts to crumble apart where his new reality had already been cracking.

Price goes AWOL and Simon can help but feel abandoned. He can't help but feel like he's dying all over again, but this time it's cold because Johnny isn't here and Price is off the rails and Gaz is doing what all good men do.

And Simon is dying. His mind is contorting in on itself. His father and the flames and Tommy and Johnny all coagulate at the top of his spine and slither to the tip of his tongue. He can taste it.

Death.

Infinity.

Dirt.

Somehow he knows this will never end. He will always be pulled into another life, another time where he has to watch others suffer, where he has to suffer and live and then die.

He licks his lips.

Letting the world sit there for just a moment as everything else passes by.

And Ghost does what he always must do.

He moves forward.

[baklavasudarajako]

Bro is a lil shy :3

[cuntrynikoli]

It was a normal night for the most part. All except for the fact that you were ovulating. Violently. And Simon was more than willing to help you as much as you could handle it because unfortunately you could only take so much. Your cunt was swollen and your entire body was sore, but fuck you wanted more. Needed more. You were dripping in a way that should be concerning.

"Come look at this," you hear Simon call out from the bed. He's still naked from your last round, scrolling through his phone.

You plop right onto his back, your tits squishing against him and your mouth instantly finds its way to his skin.

"What's up?" You ask softly while planting kisses across the back of his shoulders. You place intermittent nips and you can feel your arousal grow.

It shouldn't. You've had 3 rounds of 2 hour long sessions. Your legs are sore. They can barely open, and you struggled to make it out of the bedroom all day now.

You need to stop. You should stop.

You're not going to though.

"If you're going to bite me, then actually bite down baby girl," Simon purrs and rolls his shoulders so you have better access.

That's all the encouragement you need. You're teeth dig into the muscles along his back and where normally you'd be worried about accidentally breaking his skin and hurting him on accident, you're not worried about anything right now other than your aching cunt. You grind yourself against him and whimper. You teeth dig into him harder now and you can faintly hear him talking you through it, praising you for your efforts.

"That's it. You're doin' so good for me, princess," he coos as your mind gets fuzzy. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and then you feel it. It's sudden and surprising and you really want to pray to any god that's listening that you are not actually cumming right now.

But you are and it's a little dry and weak, but you're still cumming after humping and biting him like some reddit incel right now.

Simon freezes under and goes silent, and you slowly remove yourself from the top of him and stand.

"Sorry," you mumble while trying to catch your breath.

"Did you just cum?"

"Yeah," you reply shakily. You're vibrating. Your legs wobble like you're standing on Jell-O instead of flesh and bone.

You can see his bottom half move off the bed and then his hand is grabbing your throat and throwing you onto the bed.

"I'm gonna give you something to cum about. Open your legs," he growls.

The next hour is a blur, but somehow you get from lying on the bed to being pressed against the shower tile. You can only whine and moan and do your best to weakly meet his pace.

Eventually, though, Simon lets up again.

"I feel like a god right now," Simon hums as you just slump against him. The hot water is still hitting your entire front and to be honest it's overstimulating.

You just might pass out. There's a high possibility, but with the way that Simon's kneading at your plush hips, you almost want to go another round. Almost.

"Why?" You mumble, already half-asleep. He wraps his arms around you and gently pets your wet hair.

You barely comprehend his reply. It's something stupid about making you cum so many times today and you laugh breathlessly. You both stay like that until he eventually guides you back to the bed where you promptly, finally pass out.

[cuntrynikoli]

Simon is dying. That’s all you’ve been able to think about recently despite him pleading with you to not worry about it. It’s been at the forefront of your mind since you decided to organize his giant stack of paperwork and “I Love Me” binders that littered his office. Awards and orders and everything else seemed pointless when you knew what you knew now. 

He’s dying. His insides are failing. Slowly but surely. They’re giving out. 

He’d warned you. He’d said he’d had one too many heat strokes, concussions, and what-have-you’s while deployed. You had taken him seriously, sure, but you didn’t think it was all failing *that fast*. You didn’t think you could possibly lose him before even getting close to what you called “too old”.  

The quick research on what each blood test meant had sent you into a downward spiral and now you were just sitting here, in the middle of your apartment’s living room, staring at your husband’s medical paperwork while trying your best not to cry.

You feel cold and your chest is heavy and the feeling doesn’t go away even when you somehow pull yourself to stand. You make dinner so that Simon has something nice and warm and filling to eat when he gets home, if he gets home.

The “if” plagues you. It always has, but right now it seems so much worse. It’s eating away at every fiber of your being as you cut up chicken and vegetables and wash rice and try to pretend that everything is okay.

You don’t feel when you slice your hand, but you panic as you try to clean your blood off of everything. 

You feel ill. Not because you’ve gotten blood everywhere or that you’ve seriously injured yourself, no, you’re nauseous because now you’ve burdened a dying man once more.

How many times have you complained? Have you brushed things off and inconvenienced him? 

How long will you spend your life regretting it?

You’re stuck there again, staring, when Simon finally comes home. It’s late, but he’s already texted you a few times that he had to stay on base longer than he had originally thought. 

You hadn’t answered. You were trapped inside of yourself, internally screaming and crying, and he’d been worried.

The guilt bubbles over, spills out into the kitchen alongside of your blood that you hadn’t cleaned up yet. 

He slowly approaches you, like he always does when your emotions bubble over like this, and he wraps you in his arms. 

He stinks. He smells like sweat and carbon and cigarettes and his breath has that odd twinge to it.

But he’s alive. His heart is still beating in your ear despite everything. He’s still talking and trying to get you to calm down.

And he’s here. He’s alive. 

For now at least.

That’s good enough, right?

[cuntrynikoli]

Do you think Ghost was relieved in his final breaths? When Shepherd betrayed him and Roach and that bullet hit his chest, do you think Ghost said “thank God it’s over?”

Do you think in those few seconds it took for him to pass, because it wasn’t immediate, that he was just happy it was over?

The job wasn’t done, no, and he’d die with some guilt over that. Some more guilt about how Roach is dying right next to him. A lot more guilt about how the Captains have to go on without a few team members.

But I think dying felt like crawling out of the dirty grave. It was a breath of fresh air despite the blood bubbling in his throat.

[ceruleanheaven]

i get so miserable off that scenario i made up in my head

[cuntrynikoli]

Sometimes I micro-dose the emotional turmoil of my husband being dead.

Like this morning, he left for work and I’m going through the voicemails I’ve saved from him over the years like I’m a grieving widow.

[dailycatsblog]