piercer!ghost who totally doesn't have a favourite client. he just gets a little excited when he sees your name pop up in his appointments because you have good anatomy and are easy to work with. he totally doesn't like the way you dangle your legs when you sit on the chair that's adjusted to his height, and he doesn't like how your hands tremble with nerves every single time without fail, even if hes just changing jewelry. he definitely doesn't like the soft little wince that escapes you when he puts the needle against your skin even if he didn't pierce anything yet, and he doesn't like the deep breaths you take without him having to tell you. he doesn't even like the way you whimper and stop yourself from holding onto him when the needle goes through your flesh, the way your face scrunched up for a second before relaxing with a satisfied smirk (kinda like he'd expect you to look after he made you cum). he doesn't like how you joke around with him and he doesn't like it when you tell him youre looking forward to your next 'date' with him while handing him a tip and a box of his favourite hard candy because he doesn't like chocolate as much, he mentioned it to you once and you made a mental note of what his favourites were. he doesn't yearn for an email or a call from you to ask for another appointment, he doesn't look at your socials daily, he doesn't secretly jerk off to the pics he took of your piercings for his portfolio.
You had no idea who sent it. As always, there was no return address, no clue. Just an unremarkable cardboard box slightly worn from travel. Tucked inside the box was a plain card made of kraft paper, hand-labeled in an almost childish calligraphy: Hepialus humuli. The ink was faintly smudged, as if the person had written it in a hurry. Smiling, you then carried it to your shelf, accommodating it among the other mysterious gifts. As you stepped back to admire the growing collection, the same questions puzzled your mind:
Who was sending these? And why?
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
How do bees go to school? They take the buzz.
You stared at the screen in shock.
Five hundred pounds.
The first "super thanks" you had ever received. Followed by a comment from the same user that kept popping up in every video you posted:
H3P14L1D43
Thank you for the lovely video.
It didn't seem real. Looked more like a bad joke or a prank. Why would anyone send you five hundred pounds for a stupid video showing your process and a bit of your collection? You weren't a professional and, honestly, didn't even know what you were doing with that channel most days. The money was welcomed, of course. Yet something didn't feel right. Getting that much in exchange for nothing. Nobody would do that, right? But the money was there anyway.
"Don't wanna be that person… but I told you." Your friend beamed through the screen. "You're gonna get loaded with this internet stuff, and we're gonna retire in Greece, babe."
"It's just strange," you said, propping your phone against the counter while you began to make breakfast.
"Girl, you must be the first person ever to be weirded out by free easy money."
"That's exactly the problem," you pointed out. "Nothing is ever easy or free."
"So what? You afraid they'll ask you to show your ladybug or something? C'mon."
You laughed. "Jesus, you're the worst."
"Always."
She blew the usual kisses and ended the video call.
You stood there for a second, coffee warming your hands as you tried to shake the odd feeling. The whole YouTube thing was starting to feel less like an awkward accident and more like something you could actually build. Because, apparently, it was worth someone's support, even if you didn't understand exactly why they would do it.
So, you opened your laptop and started to type the script for the next video.
After all, you needed to do something special.
・・・・・
Two weeks, four days, seven hours.
That was how long you hadn't posted anything.
Simon had long turned on every possible notification for your channel. Even so, he still checked it directly on YouTube, just in case. Nothing.
You hadn't replied to his donation, either. Just a tiny heart with your face next to the comment. A single like, that was all. He didn't care about the money, had more than he could ever spend in a lifetime, anyway. Yet, he had hoped, perhaps naively, that you might notice him a little more after his gesture.
Was he not worth your attention? Your words? Probably not.
He didn't actually expect anything from you in return. Never fooled himself into thinking otherwise. This wasn't a transaction, after all, and he wasn't some bloke who thought paying for dinner entitled him to dessert. Of course not.
Still, the silence made his chest burn. Each day, a little more acidic.
At first, Simon thought he was having a heart attack. Pain eating him alive from the inside out. He even got a check-up at the med bay, just to be sure. When the doctor confirmed he was as healthy as he could be, he started chewing antacids like candy. Probably just a stomachache, yeah?
The pain didn't recede, though. Every time he opened the damned app, only to confirm nothing had changed, it came back sharper.
"What's got you, LT?" Soap asked more than once, earning himself nothing more than displeased grunts.
"Gastritis," Ghost muttered one day, praying the Scotsman would leave it alone.
"Ay, yer getting old."
He didn't even buy Johnny's teasing.
You were the one thing bugging his mind.
It got to the point Simon had actually clipped your last video, just to hear you say:
Oh, like the ghost moths?! Cool.
He played it on repeat, your voice like a mantra in his skull. That was all he could think about every day, every night.
When he stroked his length in the shower, one hand splayed against the tiles, the other pumping his hard cock back and forth, hot water rolling off his stiff shoulders, it echoed:
Ghost.
Ghost.
Ghost.
Only for him to groan under his breath, answering to nobody but himself, "Yes," as if you were right there with him.
As if his calloused hands were actually yours, guiding him to the edge. The fantasy real enough to make him spill against the white tiles, release hitting hard and sharp, leaving him with nothing but his forehead pressed to the dripping ceramic.
He always stayed there for a moment, chest heaving and water pounding. Then the guilt crept in, crawling up his ribs like it always did, making him leave the shower feeling dirtier than when he stepped in for the way he used you in his mind.
Such a sweet, innocent thing like you, who barely even knew he existed. Your silence confirming that some things (and some people) exist just beyond our reach.
After, Simon always told himself it was the last time, even though he knew it wasn’t.
And when a new notification from his favorite channel popped up, he almost came again.
Make a raccoon happy today: likes, comments, reblogs, and follows are very much appreciated! 🦝🖤 You can also put a cookie in the tip jar.
the question makes you freeze in place as you roll out the dough for the pie crust. john's asked you that every year for the past seven years, and every year, you're not sure how to answer him. you could lie, tell him you want something simple and inexpensive like socks or a bigger mug for your tea, but he'll know you're not telling the truth. he already knows what you want, what you've wanted for the better part of a decade. this is just another one of his tests, one you're desperate not to fail.
"i don't know. i haven't thought about it." you lie, hoping to stall for time as you continue lining the tins for your mince pies. the christmas music playing softly on the radio makes the silence that stretches between you feel longer. heavier. you hear his heavy footsteps approaching behind you before you feel the heat and pressure of his hands squeezing your hips just a little too tightly.
"you know i don't like it when you lie t'me- and i can always tell when you're lyin' t'me." he murmurs in your ear, and you close your eyes tight, trying to will away the tears that threaten to fall. you swallow hard as you try to regulate your breathing, try to keep your emotions from taking over. one hand unclenches from the fat on your hip, and tilts your head back to look at him, startling you into opening your eyes.
stern blue eyes meet yours as he looms over where you're sitting, and it's almost enough to make you cry. you can't ask for what you want- he won't give it to you, you're certain of it. but maybe you can ask for something else, a concession of some sorts?
"i- i was hoping maybe to get a leather cuff instead of the metal one? it gets so cold sometimes." you lie, immediately holding your breath as you watch his nostrils flare. for a moment, the two of you are silent, and you watch the way he inspects your face with the rapt attention of a predator seeking weakness in a herd before moving to strike.
a gentle stroke of his fingertips against your jaw precedes the soft smile that spreads across his face, and he ducks his head down to press a kiss to your forehead.
"i think that's doable, sweetheart. you've been an awful good girl lately." he murmurs against your hairline before bumping his nose into yours. "had me worried there for a moment, but i'm glad you've got that 'going home' business right out of your pretty head."
"i am home." you lie again before he slides his lips to meet yours for an upside-down kiss that you desperately do not want.
gross Ghost has such a special place in my heart. and if it wasn't for the military, this man would be working some back breaking blue collar job in the middle of nowhere (general labour, industrial work—in some factory or warehouse that has one working light bulb, smells of stale gasoline, still uses paper punch cards for hours, has that pale yellow block phone from the early 2000s, and is still running Windows XP. you don't know what he does there—the company only pops up in the yellow pages when you search for it. the number is not in service when people call). and if not that, then he's on the oil fields driving a 1998 Tayota Tacoma or working in the lumber industry.
he has three outfits. MAXIMUM. and all of them have some sort of suspicious stain and several holes. no sheets on his mattress. doesn't need 'em when he keeps kicking them off at night anyway. his couch was probably snatched up from a landfill. his fridge makes a very loud humming noise constantly and is the same cigarette-stained yellow as his cupboards. it was bought at a yard sale. original owners purchased new in 1986.
if he isn't living in a shitty, single storey house, then it's a trailer. no mortgage—he paid cash. don't ask him where he got it.
he's a one pack of cigarettes a day kinda guy, running on shitty Tim's double doubles 3x a day, all-in-one for everything—shampoo is also body wash and conditioner and a face wash (when he finally learns what that is), and if it isn't head and shoulders or mane and tail, then it's honestly probably just dawn dish soap.
his truck is obnoxiously loud. it comes with a built-in ash tray. he has a flip phone. and don't ask him what twitter is or anything about current pop culture—he doesn't know. he doesn't care.
will blow smoke in your face. will spit on the ground for no reason at all. you never see him get into any fights but he always, suspiciously, has bloody knuckles. owns two pairs of boots—one for work, one for everyday use. they're exactly the same. his nails are dirty. the bottle of dawn dish soap he uses to wash his hands looks untouched and you're 50/50 on whether or not he even runs them under hot water.
he still shoves his fingers into your mouth anyway.
he doesn't wipe up after, either. if he comes home for a quickie or fucks you before work, he just tucks himself into his jeans and leaves. it's the same if he does down on you or fingers you. the bare minimum you'll get is him swiping his forearm over his chin or wiping his fingers on his shirt. he just likes the smell of you, he says (and you consider just how far you'd really get if you ran for it one day). he always smells like gasoline or smoke.
but that's probably because he brings the three outfits he has to a laundromat once a month.
Price, tired as fuck, on his third cup of coffee and just about ready to kill ghost because of all the paperwork his lieutenant has given him.
He has to pull ghost aside one day and tell him "simon, I know you've got something worked out with the sergeant, but you cannot keep bruisin' it's face. You know how many concerned soldiers have tried to make reports?" But ghost is hardly listening because he got so hard at the idea of people freaking out over your latest bruise.
He barely manages a "no visible marks, affirm sir." Before he's rushing off to find you and make kick in you stomach. If you beg nicely.
Old man Price who doesn’t really understand why you’d get a septum piercing but doesn’t mind it. He makes the typical boomer joke about it looking more suited for a bull, but when you get annoyed he kisses your forehead and assures you it looks fine.
If he does find you not listening to his rant about the most recent Liverpool game or forgetting to mind your manners he is giving it a tug to get your attention.
He wonders if he could keep you down on his cock longer that way, at the mercy by how hard he tugs it down to the base, even pinching your nose closed.
Something something, the good ol’ trope where your boyfriend owes a gang a lot of money without telling you, so the leader, Kate Laswell, decides to keep you until your boyfriend pays - he gets a month more to get the money and you’re far from pleased. You haven’t even dated him for long, but no matter how much you plead, the 141 gang refuses to let you go.
Kate Laswell likes you a lot, keeps you as a little toy, letting her men play with you during the month.
So when your boyfriend is unable to pay and tries to flee the country? Well, they’re almost forced to keep you, aren’t they?
Ghost definitely loves punching you in the stomach by the way. Not so hard that you’re throwing up with potential internal bleeding, but just enough to knock the wind out of you.
He loves the strangled awkward sound, loves laughing at you for it. It’s a little treat for him to take your breath away, to imagine he’d actually rob you of it one day.
forensic pathologist simon gets haunted by the gal he cut open.. she’s cold on the table but at night in his bed she’s practically molten to the touch. he’s more troubled at the age gap instead of the fact the girl is missing eye balls and a tongue
Usually fanfics that require the “dead dove don’t eat” tag have a warning at the beginning. Hope are people meant to know content they consume before they read it when it’s hidden in the tags? I don’t know about others but a lot of people don’t read tags before they read posts. This isn’t a hate post or bashing you but you need to give people a bit more warning.
I actually don’t “need” to do anything and adding the tag people can block is a pleasantry.
been thinking all day about Prive having to listen to Soap and Gaz's faux woke bullshit every time they go out for drinks, listening to them debate "acceptable" age gaps while he fantasizes about the 20 year old that called him "dad" mid orgasm and then blocked his number, thinking about how he has tattoos older than the bar tender and he wonders if thats a good line to use or if he should offer to have them ride the grey streak in his beard. he asks Soap if he thinks he's too old for the club scene and when the sergeant stumbles over telling him he's still in his prime, Price calls him a queer and goes to see if Ghost found anyone fun to play with in the bathroom.
simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist
Epilogue: anything
The bathtub spout stares at Simon as he dips his hand in the water, and he is not afraid.
Tepid water grows warm like fresh milk. It swirls around his fingers as he plugs the drain, allowing the basin to fill until it promises to kiss the ridge after submersion.
This was one of your only requests upon buying a house—it needs to have a bathtub large enough for you to sink into. Something that would swallow you without wanting to spit you out too soon. Of course, there was nothing of the likes. But Simon promised you anything you wanted, and installing a corner garden tub was much easier than hoping Manchester would actually give him anything of value. Your smile alone was worth the hard labor.
Once he's content with the suds foaming on the water's surface and the soft aroma of vanilla in the air, Simon leans back on his haunches to inspect his work while he listens as your footsteps wander closer to the bathroom. From the corner of his eye he can see your obnoxiously fluffy robe and the way you wrap your arms around yourself, molars knocking together as you hold back waves of shivers. You blink long and slow, gaze focused on the bath with drawn brows.
"What's this for?" you ask.
"You said you were cold," he shrugs.
Waddling up to his side, it doesn't take long for your fingers to find the nape of his neck. You rub small circles where his hairline and skin clash as you lean against him. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know." He casts his attention upwards, cheeks pressing against your legs as he reaches a hand up along your stomach. Fingers gripping the knot on your robe, he tugs until the fabric comes free. "Hop in, sweetheart."
Your body vanishes behind iridescent bubbles as you sink down far enough for the water to swallow your throat. You hum at the steam that wafts up through the blanket of suds, extremities finally warming despite the chilly February air.
Simon presses a kiss to your forehead before he vanishes into the bedroom and retrieves several toys hidden in the closet. It's Joseph's birthday today and he certainly didn't skimp when it came to his nephew's special day. RC planes, car toys, new packs of clothes (since the kid wants to grow just as fast as his father did); he lays everything out on the floor before sizing it up next to wrapping paper and obscuring the treats behind superhero themed icons and caricatures.
Once they're decorated with glistening bows, Simon makes sure to sign each one:
To: Joey From: Uncle Simon and Aunt Chip.
Time ticks away and an anxious lump forms in his throat as he braves the frost and loads the presents into his car. It isn't until there's a tiny mountain of them that he begins to second guess how many he's gotten, but he inwardly shrugs before marching back to the house. The living room welcomes him with open arms as a gas fireplace flicks on. He recalls the first night the temperatures fell—how you curled up on the floor like a lazy cat smothered in a blanket just to keep warm, basking in the flames.
Your feet tap away at the floor overhead prompting Simon to clear his mind as he ascends to the bedroom. He catches you just as you've slipped a dress over your shoulders; the same one he bought you last year when he noticed you couldn't stop staring at it. It had been eons since you last wore something like that, you admitted. Something soft and fluid. Dainty. Your old life wouldn't allow it.
Now you're styling it with warm socks to ease the bite of winter and a scarf that doubles as a shawl. Your skin still glistens from your bath, giving the illusion that the cotton bodice is glowing from the inside out. His heart pounds in his chest when you spin around to face him, skirt flaring out around your legs. Your smile could wound him. It could draw blood and still it would never waiver.
"What do you think?" you prompt.
Unsticking his tongue from the roof of his mouth, he nods. "Beautiful."
He knows something's wrong the moment you reach up for your ears, fingers pinching and tugging on your earlobes. Holding up a finger, you quickly dash to your nightstand to retrieve your hearing aids from their chargers before shoving them into your ears and placing your hands behind your back to rock on your heels.
"Gorgeous," Simon coos.
Laughing, you rush up to him and toss your arms around his neck, capturing him in an embrace he gladly welcomes. You've gotten confident with physical touch. Never afraid to ask for it, to give or receive it. Blemishes fade, cracks pasted with gold—the gentle mending of yourself has been a journey, one you're still enduring, but the growing pains are worth it.
He feels the ripening in your lips, the warmth they exude, how you melt into him. There's your fingers in his hair, your palm against his cheek, then your head resting on the place where a blade nearly stole him from you. You hum as if he still needs healing, as if he hasn't grown back into himself, fat, muscle and all, as if he's still fragile. A gentle reminder of his strength bleeds into you as he places his hand on your lower back, fingers digging into taut flesh.
"Ready?" he asks.
You nod. "Ready."
Joseph still calls you Aunt Chippy. It's a name you wear with honor as you scoop him into your arms while he's clad in pilot's gear, complete with a floppy leather hat that droops down far enough to threaten his eyesight. His mother has gone all out with the decorations. Cardboard planes hang from the ceiling, tilting with the natural flow of the living room, balloons arch along each walkway, and his favorite animated movie plays quietly in the living room.
Gasps and coos explode throughout the dining room when Beth presents Joseph's cake, complete with five candles to mark his age. Everyone sings then cheers when he blows them out, and he ensures that everyone gets a piece of the vanilla delicacy. Simon chuckles at your indulgence, but he doesn't mind wiping frosting from the corner of your mouth and sucking it clean off of his thumb.
When it comes time for presents, Joseph demands that you be the one to sit next to him on the floor. Curled with your legs to the side and skirt tucked beneath your knees, you hand presents to him bit by bit and assist him in reading the words on the cards he doesn't know yet. He rips into wrapping paper until there's a shredded mess around the two of you and he's squealing at each gift he recognizes.
Simon's pulse thuds in his chest as he watches you. The curl of your lips, the shaking of your shoulders as you laugh, the quiet correction of your hearing aids. The pressure against his ribs worsen the moment his fingers dip into his pockets, barely skimming the top before he freezes.
His torso crushes, muscles angrily contract; each beat of his heart overwhelms his ear drums. Sand plagues his mouth, dry and grainy, all while his palms seem to hold the ocean. It's panic in its purest form, a love he doesn't know how to articulate—
—the algid air outside is a cold splash of water against his face.
Each breath comes easier, but gets trapped in his lungs where it continues to expand then freeze in the open space. The sun winks in the sky above him, tucking the frost away and warming the back of his neck as he places his hands on the porch railing. Simon Riley has never been afraid to do anything. It's what has always set him aside from everyone else. Courage. The strength to do what no one else could bring themselves to do.
Now, each thought he has is accompanied with anxiety. Trembling hands prod at his pockets. No one has ever weakened him quite like you do.
The door behind him swings open, bringing a crescendo of chatter before it quickly dies. He doesn't need to turn around to know who's joining his side.
"If that's a fresh pack in your pocket, I'm telling," Tommy chides.
Simon can only shake his head as his brother knocks his shoulder against him. "Chip would kill me if it was."
"Yeah, well, she'd have to get in line."
Silence settles outside, broken only by the old wood creaking beneath their combined weight. Simon stares at his hands, fingers twitching with the blood that courses through him, not at all concerned with the physical effects it wreaks on him.
"Well, come on then. Let's see it," Tommy prods.
"See what?" he asks.
Annoyed, Tommy rolls his eyes. "That glitter you've got hidin' in your pocket."
Wary, Simon glances over his shoulder to ensure that the door is shut tight before he dares to move. Then, a velvet box. Dark and unassuming, he holds it in his palm as if its fragility demands reverence. The brothers look at it wordlessly for a long moment before Tommy flips the lid open.
Inside sits a ring. Its beauty is quiet, refusing to overwhelm but yet unapologetically dazzling in its radiance. A dainty band lined with gems to embellish the fox-red jewel that lies in the center. Tommy's chuckle is warm as he nods, fingers gently flipping the box closed.
"Gonna man up soon, then?" he asks.
"Been tryin' to for the last month," Simon admits before stowing the ring back to safety. "I just… don't wanna fuck it up."
Tommy shrugs. "Can't be worse than anything else you've ever done." When his teasing gets no verbal or visible reaction from his brother, he softens. "You mean the world to her. She's not gonna say no."
"It feels wrong. I've had to fight for everything. We both have. Doesn't feel real that she'd just waltz into my life and be mine."
Scoffing, Tommy shades his head before thumping the old scar hidden behind Simon's shirt. "You've already fought for her, 'member?"
The door squeaks behind them where giggles swell as Beth peeks her head outside. "There you boys are. Joey needs his father's help setting up one of his toys."
A silent understanding settles over the brothers as they file back inside, faces warm like they've never known the weight of the world. Simon finds you on the threshold between the living room and the dining room, eyes wandering away from the party, staring off somewhere you can't reach.
"What'cha thinkin' about, baby?" he asks.
Your eyes flicker to him and the dilation of your pupils ties his guts in knots. "I… I kinda want another slice of cake," you admit with a sheepish grin.
Chuckling, he nods towards the table. "Well go get one. Beth made plenty," he rationalizes.
"Yeah, but I don't wanna be eating cake all by myself."
"I'll get some with ya."
You blink. "Yeah?"
Simon swallows and his throat is tight. Sandpaper lines the soft tissue and sticks together, but he still smiles that same crooked smile he always does. His hand reaches for yours, squeezing your fingers between his, feeling for the empty space he wishes to fill with that gift in his pocket.
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