#ghost and bones

[coveredinpaint]

Every time this comes across my dash I feel like I need to plug my children's book, 𝑮𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑩𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒔, that has this premise. Except, instead of craving brains the skeleton loses all her bones and instead of being embarrassed the ghost helps her find them.

[clearlyaginger]

Demisexual? No, you misheard. I said Dummysexual. I'm attracted to that moron over there. Look at them. They just tripped over nothing and set the house on fire. I'm in love.

[youbutstupid]

2005 TV changed lives oh my god

[softaestluv]

Grease & Grime Won’t Break Your Bones

You never thought you were attracted to grease and grime, sweat and exhaustion, definitely needed a shower and scrub, but no one has worn it like he is.

Mechanic! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem!reader

This chapter does contain explicit smut, 18+ content!

Tags: Rough sex, Unprotected sex, Creampie, Paying for services with sex, Vaginal fingering, Oral sex, Office sex, dirty, greasy, grimy, sweaty, mechanic

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4 (final part!)| Ao3 | masterlist

A kiss, brush of lips, tongues and teeth.

Wandering hands, firm and steady on your hips— possessive, greedy.

Heavy eyes and shallow lungfuls, trembling fingers and a drowning pulse.

Scorching fever, yearning, aching for something more.

Every morning before work, languid kisses pressed between the oil and cloth fabric of Simon’s truck seats. Awkward angles and smashed positions. A clean Simon, all mouth wash and redwood soap, taste of morning tea on his tongue. Sweeter and longer kisses, gentle hands and a smoothing tongue, soft voice and honeyed croons.

Swoops butterflies low in your core, tightening your chest, hiding smiles between his lips.

Every evening when he picks you up from work, frantic kisses pressed against your front door and his broad chest. Indecent, shaming your neighbors with such a desperate act. Your mechanic Simon, dirty, filthy; sweaty and stained, salty on your tongue. Rough and brutal kisses, pinching hands and clashing teeth, deep timbre and gritted demands.

Burns warmth in your core, nudging your thighs together for any stimulation, quiet gasps and mewls swallowed between his lips.

Never more, never any less.

The first time he dropped you off at work, you were hesitant, swallowing over a thick lump in your throat because you wanted more from the night before. You didn’t know how to ask, or if you even should.

His fingers were reassuring when he held your chin, a murmured, ‘have a good day f’me, okay?’

Then he had stamped a kiss against your mouth. It was supposed to be chaste, you knew that, but you didn’t want it to end just yet, didn’t quite get your fill. You probably shouldn’t have made out in the parking lot of your job or perched yourself in his lap either, but you did. Scratched at the insistent craving in your lungs before running into your work building late.

When he had walked you to your front door after picking you up, you wanted to invite him in, you did invite him in. He declined, shaking his head with a soft chuckle, and a brush of his knuckle against your cheek— just droppin’ you off sweet’art.

And like a man contradicting his words, he pressed you flat against the wood of your door, drowned you in his saliva, dragging his mouth, fangs and all, against yours feverishly each time. Barely managing to pull away to bid you farewell.

It went on for a week, mindlessly feeding your fire with make out sessions in his truck and your porch, like two desperate teenagers trying to quench their thirst.

A week was all it took for Simon to fix your truck, had your engine running like new, but a gnawing itch dug at the back of your skull as you stood in his office. You couldn’t find it in yourself to be excited, not with the imminent lack of pre-work kisses and murmurs, any post-work bites and promises in your future.

As if your truck being fixed was the end of it.

A knot formed in the pit of your stomach as you aimlessly nodded along, pinching your lips between your teeth as Simon explained the work he did on your truck. You didn’t really care, your shitty old pick up was the last thing on your mind, even more so when he kept talking with his hands, thick fingers spread wide with each gesture, dipping into even thicker wrists. Solid forearms, veins curled over each curve, right up to each bicep.

Covered in stains— “Y’alright, bird?”

Your mouth fell open, darting your eyes back to his, “Yeah, yeah I-,” you fluttered your lashes, taking a deep breath, “So, what happens now?”

You mean between you and him, not your stupid truck, and you’re sure he knows that, but all he does is huff a laugh, closing the thin distance between the two of you. Bullies you right up against his desk without a care, hands landing on either side of your hips, consequently boxing you in.

“Well,” He pauses, bending his head to the crook of your neck, brushing the bridge of his nose up the delicate skin, drawing rapid goosebumps, “You still owe me f’my services.”

“A twirl?” You breathe, unsure.

“Go on, then.”

It’s hard to spin eloquently caged against his broad chest and the desk, but he doesn’t seem to mind when the plush of your body rubs against the front of his coveralls. Stopping you when your ass faces him just like he always does with a sturdy hand on your hip, except this time you’re pressed right up against his slowly thickening cock.

Your poor cunt, greedy and desperate clenches around nothing over his bulge. You’re sure he can feel it because he exhales a fucking deep chuckle, blurs your eyes with embarrassment.

And then those same hands are nudging you forward, your palms falling flat against the wood with a gasp as he lays his chest over your back. He’s warm against your cool skin, working in the sweltering garage all day while you sat in his conditioned office. The contrast stings your flesh, makes you painfully aware how hard he had been working to fix your truck. The callouses and scars on his hands evident enough, and the thought suddenly makes every touch even more searing. Taking care of your shitty inconveniences without a second thought.

His fingers skim the seam of your pencil skirt, trailing just a little lower to trace against your knee, rakes chills down your legs, “Had t’work a little harder this time.”

You inhale a sharp breath between your front teeth, “Yeah?”

“Mmh, gonna have to do more than just a little spin, love.” He hums, slowly hitching the fabric of your skirt to your hips.

“Yeah?” You repeat, your default answer when his hands are on you.

Simon laughs again, vibrates your back, “Yeah, baby.”

He hooks his fingers in your ruby red panties and tugs them down your thighs. A sticky string of your arousal clings to the fabric, beads in two when the material pools at your feet.

“Let’s see,” He purrs, “Did two oil changes free of charge.”

His hand smooths against the swell of your ass, thumb resting just under the curve, kneading the flesh gently before leaning back. Drags his eyes steady over your ass, and spreads your pussy open with a stamp of his thumb. You squeak, a bit humiliated at your compromising position; it makes an unbearable warmth bloom down your chest, but you like it.

Can’t do anything but like it when he’s ripping the stitches of your vulnerable flesh bit by bit with the reverence in his irises, the hunger seeping into his almond-shaped eyes as he stares at your pussy.

His thumb sweeps through the seams of your pussy and brushes right up against your sensitive clit. He’s firm on the puffy mound, petting confident strokes against the bead, makes you stutter over your breaths with each new shape like he fucking knew how you liked it already. Your legs spread wider at that, head nodding forward against your chest as you succumb, surrender to the sensation.

This is what you had been waiting for. This. His stained fingers on your clit, drooling over his thick digits.

You had been so well-behaved, let him trace your figure with teasing hands, make you late to work every morning, unfocused and wet in the chair in your office, leave you a breathless mess against your front door, so you like to think you deserve this. Deserve to lay against his desk and let him do whatever he wants to you.

“Fixed your air con.” A finger presses into your poor empty cunt.

Your fingernails dig into the wood.

“Got you a new set of tires.” A second finger joins the other.

A moan scrapes against the back of your throat, pushed straight out from the stretch, knees bumping against the desk as you slump slightly.

The first several drags are slow, using the time to coat his fingers in your slick, agonizing to the insatiable ache you need absolutely smothered. Your puffy walls clamp onto his fingers, using your pussy to ask him to press harder, deeper, further, just like you know his deft fingers can.

He gives you exactly what you want, but he makes an embarrassing show of it. Curls his fingers right where he needs to make your pussy squelch loudly, pulls them out just so he can see your slick cling to his skin, connecting the two of you with a dribbled string. Smears it on your pussy, swiping your clit with each movement over and over again.

Then, he follows the string straight to the source, licks around the digits buried in your sopping folds. You’re already wet, a sticky mess, and it only gets worse when soft lips encase your clit. Your knees out right buckle under you, body weight slumped against the desk when his teeth brush against the bead, coaxing your clit out of the hood by nipping, sucking, toying with it while he plunges his fingers deep.

Yeah, yeah, this is what you deserve.

You’re so close off that, gooey, tacky delicious honey washing over you, panting and shaking under him, toes curled uncomfortably in your heels. Your moans echo off the thin walls, and you struggle to remember if Johnny was still in the shop before Simon bent you over his desk within the brink of an orgasm.

The thought leaves your mind as soon as the strokes turn languid, nothing but really hooking his fingers in your walls as a placeholder while he unbuckles his coveralls. You whine, protesting even though the sound of clanking metal promises a better outcome, something bigger, thicker, because you were so fucking close.

He shushes you, tutting his tongue against the roof of his mouth, “None of tha’, takin’ what you owe me.”

His words make you moan, bobbing your head, yeah, yes, you’ll let him take as much as he wants if he keeps your pussy stuffed. You fidget heel to heel in anticipation, looking over your shoulder to watch. It’s a sight, all beefy muscle, tan lines and freckles, damp chest hair and pubes. Every move is determined, fueled with a purpose, shown in the way his arms flex, his brows furrowed.

You practically fall flat against the desk when you see him free his cock, fat and reddened, leaking with precum. The shaft is thick, a slight curve to it, barely fits in the palm of his massive hand. But all you can focus on is the girth, smacks hard against his fucking belly button.

“And now your bloody engine.”

His cockhead pressed to your entrance.

“Tell me, sweet’art, how’d you plan on payin’ all that?”

“With this,” You whine, arching your back, so your pussy rubs right up against his tip.

He hums, hand on your back pressing your hips flat against the desk, so your cheek is flush with it, “You mean this pretty little cunt, huh?”

You nod pathetically, scratching your skin against the wood because you don’t think you quite have it in you to use your words, confess that you’re willing to use your pussy. And he doesn’t push for you to, takes it as a good enough answer.

The stretch stings, makes tears well in your eyes, but it’s hurts so good. You squeeze your eyes shut, focusing on the burn, really drown yourself in the feeling of being so full. It’s a slow start, shaping your spongy walls to take his full length, moist lips mapping shapes against your neck in encouragement to take it all.

You think you’re ready for it, clenching around him, bucking your hips and pleading with quiet words for more— please Simon, I can take it.

Then, he’s just fucking brutal, unforgiving.

Your teeth knock together with the first determined thrust, your eyes snapping open in shock because you were not ready for that. It tears the breath straight out of you, hurts your lungs from the force. Rips a cry of his name from your core, your chest, your throat because you’re sure you’ve never been fucked like this.

Each thrust is harsher than the last, hip bones painfully slammed into the desk with each smack of his cock. The sound of his balls slapping against your flesh, loud and obscene, echoes how aggressive he’s really fucking you.

The gooey honey from his fingers and tongue turns to white, hot, searing pleasure. Borderline painful, as he forces you to take it with no where to run, so you just lay there and take it like a good paying costumer. Accept the onslaught until his hand bands around your throat, curls around the small muscle, and arches your back as much as you physically can so his mouth can press hot against your ear.

“D’ya think I’d jus’ be done with you too?”

You nod, squeak a strained ‘yes’ because you had thought that. Anxiety pinched your chest before his cock split you in two, before he made you his.

“Can’t get rid o’me that easy, sweet’art,” Simon grits through each word, “Work in grease and grime; you’re stuck with me now, baby.”

The words remind you of how dirty he is, how dirty you are for liking that fact. Even more so when his other hand tugs your shirt and bra low, digging indents into your breasts, and you can see how filthy his hand is from work— the same hand that was buried in your pussy moments ago.

Oil, dirt, sweat, grease and grime smeared on your skin, all over your dainty skirt and white blouse. Marking you as his in more ways than the dark hickeys he leaves on your neck and bruised fingertips on your hips.

It numbs your thoughts to nothing but the way you know his cock is just as filthy. Fucking you into a slippery, sticky mess with each rut of his hips. And then he hoists your foot onto the desk, hits a gummy spot that has you arching, quivering in his grasps. Blinding you and consuming you whole.

Your body decides that’s all you can take, squeezing so tightly around Simon as your orgasm becomes ferocious and unbearable. You seize up, Simon dropping his forehead against your shoulder as he tries to fuck you good and well through it, cussing under his breath. Everything’s fuzzy, blurry, and hazy; you’re dizzy, every part of your body melted into the sensory receptors of your body.

You don’t even realize you’re doing it, what words you’re saying, but you’re babbling for him to finish in you, cum inside you, taint your delicate flesh with every thing he possibly can.

It’s a few more shallow thrusts before his fingers are digging harsh into your hips, sharp teeth pinching against your shoulder. Warms your already scorching cunt with his spend, bucking his hips deeper with each new spurt.

Even after you milked him for all he’s worth, he rocks his cock into you again and again. Slower, softer, more careful from the way he was just bruising your cervix seconds ago. Relishes in the way your folds flutter overstimulated around him, middle and index finger tracing around where the two of you meet, where your pussy stretches so pretty for him, like he doesn’t want to slip out just yet.

Your fingers tangle into his on your hip, “Don’t think I paid my full debt yet. If you take me home, I can really show you how grateful I am.”

You’ve never seen him speed faster to your house, ripping the keys from your grasps when he deems you took long enough to open your door. It makes you laugh, finding it quite hilarious how eager he is to fuck you all night, a trucks engine worth of orgasms.

That night you let him fuck your mouth, slobbering and choking over his fat cock as he carves the shape into the back of your throat. Sucking the salty taste clean from him.

When morning comes he fucks you again, even though your pussy is sore and swollen, your muscles contracting painfully with each movement from overuse. The way he coaxes your orgasm out of you is worth it all, the way he kisses you goodbye soft and sweet after a shower at the door is even more so.

His promises to return later that night with his thumb rubbing tender strokes behind your ear are even better. Except this time you don’t have a theoretical debt to pay or a shitty pick-up, just a simple guarantee.

masterlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

[eleu22]

[stealingpotatoes]

saw this cool template from twitter and wanted to have a go!!

(commission info // tip jar!)

[coveredinpaint]

I wrote this children's book and it's legitimately fun and good and I have so many! I've been selling copies through a partnership with Fathom Puzzles so you can get the book alone or in a set with a little puzzle. There are little easter eggs for grown ups, too. I hate hustling but I'm really proud of this book and it's genuinely worth checking out if you enjoy spooky media.

[masterofiodine]

i have this stupid idea for humphrey keachain in my head, but hear me out-

thank you for your attention

now available on my ko fi! (here)

[pricetagged]

idk I just torturing simon and I love the idea of him—at some stage of his life, idk maybe immediately after he's declared dead— not having anywhere to stay.

His residence in Manchester got gutted and sold, greedy estate agents and solicitors picking it apart as soon as they got the death notice.

He could rent hotel rooms. Stay in the barracks. But sometimes he just needs—space. Familiarity. Simon Riley is dead and buried, but not buried deep enough.

So he goes back to his old house. He knows every nook and cranny. Knows which floorboards creak and which doors get stuck. He'll just cosy away in the attic and come out when the new tenant is at work, no problem. Barracks-living, only the other person won't know. It'll only be for a few weeks at a time—

—but he catches sight of you. The new tenant. Sweet little thing who saw the ugly, empty shell and decided it was for her.

Not a lot of money, no. But you've tried to make a home here. Decorated over the gouges and scars, filled the empty spaces with little signs of life.

You've taken such good care of the place. You're taking such good care of it, all by yourself. Off to work in the morning, and home late at night when it's far too dark and he knows the latch isn't as secure as it should be —kicked and shouldered too many times when his mum would work the courage to kick out his da—

So you need him. You're not saying it in words, but what is he meant to think when he sees how you leave the windows open all through the day and night? When you shuffle about on your weekends with only a playlist or podcast for company?

You need him. Good thing he's already there.

Go read this thing by gougie if u like the 'there's someone living here' thing - they do it sooooo much better

[kabukiaku]

giggly madly cause it's infestissunam anniversary and I get to work on Secondo art HEHEHEHEH 🖤✨

[coveredinpaint]

I wrote and illustrated a children's book with this sort of concept. It's a ghost and skeleton the same person and the skeleton loses all her bones but her skull so she and the ghost go around their monster neighborhood finding her pieces and putting her back together. It's called Ghost and Bones and of all my books I think it's my favorite.

[alien-the-ghost]

You know I had to gif this

Source 39:19

[stealingyourbones]

Amity Parkers are super good at dealing with superhero and villain battles, getting out of the rubble, helping others get out, etc.

This doesn’t shock anyone. There’s so many cities that consistently deal with superhuman battles that millions of people around the world are used to it and know what to do during a battle. Hell, there’s even government standard safety drills in schools about villain attacks now.

They didn’t stand out for a long long while among crowds of other city goers trying to flee a battle scene.

That was until a green glowing android appeared out of nowhere defeating heroes and villains alike because their abilities were rare enough to be hunted by this mysterious newcomer. So far no known weapon is able to hit the being while intangible.

That is until one unassuming citizen pulls out a strange wrist ray contraption that seems to actually stun the creature for a few seconds.

NOW all eyes are on these citizens that once lived in Amity Park

[softaestluv]

Grease & Grime Won’t Break Your Bones

You never thought you were attracted to grease and grime, sweat and exhaustion, definitely needed a shower and scrub, but no one has worn it like he is.

Mechanic! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem! reader

Tags: dirty, greasy, grimy, sweaty, blue collar worker, yeah I’ll take one of those! you own a pick up, & I actually don’t know anything about cars, eventual smut

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Ao3 | masterlist

You’re entirely too eager to return to ‘Ghost’s Garage.’ Maybe you walk through the front doors of the rundown shop a little early, definitely do.

Your shitty pick-up probably only needs to be topped off, but you did drive 3000 miles, and it’s not like being on top of maintenance would hurt.

So, you brush your arrival off as maintaining the integrity of your pick-up, and not the fact that sweat drenched skin and a Manchester accent hasn’t left the confines of your mind since.

Unfortunately, you’re not greeted by Simon when you arrive, instead, blonde hair is replaced with a brown Mohawk, said English accent replaced by a Scottish one.

“Oi, hello lass!” The man greets, a wide smile on his lips.

“Oh, hi,” You respond, giving him a tight smile in return, “Is Simon not here?”

“Aye, he’s busy wi’ another car right now, but ah can help ye, nae worries,” He explains, with an encouraging nod.

You try your best to hide the disappointment in your tone, but its hard when you did your hair this morning with Simon in mind, when you wore your uncomfortable pencil skirt to work with him in mind, when you showed up after work instead of on your day off because you had been hoping that you could see him just as filthy after a full days of work.

“Ah, okay,” You mumble quietly, “I just need my oil changed is all.”

You can’t help, but mourn the money you’re about to spend on an oil change you don’t really need, when the whole reason you were so adamant to return isn’t plausible. It’s too late to walk out now, how desperate would you look if you left because Simon wouldn’t be the one working on your car?

So, you accept your fate, that it wasn’t in the cards, listen to the new man’s instructions and pull your truck into the service drive.

Guilt eats at your chest because it’s not really the mohawked mans fault; he isn’t even ugly, definitely a sight for sore eyes— desperate eyes that is. He wears less than Simon had, a white tank top that’s a little too tight for him, and worn in jeans with more than one rip in them. Wears it a little braver than Simon had, smug and confident, probably a heartthrob for all the mom’s cars he works on, probably flirts with all of them too with no actual intentions, just to make them feel good.

When you park in the service drive, your wandering eyes find Simon across the garage, bent over the hood of a car. It’s not your truck; you won’t get to talk to him, but you think it’s worth it when he’s bent so low over the sedan that his white shirt rises over his hips as he reaches forward. The sliver revealed is paler than the rest of his bronzed skin, freckles littered across the lighter flesh, draws excess saliva in your cheeks, embarrassingly so, over an inch of skin.

But it makes your mind wander, filthy images of connecting the sun marks with timid fingers and shaking hesitation, find out how far down the brown freckles trail.

You don’t have to imagine for long, not when he realizes you’re standing across the garage, gawking at him with a ravenous hunger in your eyes, and starts to walk over to you. He dabs at the sweat on his hairline, makes his shirt rise even higher, reveals light brown freckles curled over his abdomen and a blonde happy trail disappearing into his coveralls.

It’s almost impossible to force your eyes up, find his gaze when he’s walking around like that. With his fucking happy trail on display between the sweat drenched skin and grimy oil marks. The spitting image of a hard working man, powerful and stout, makes a stinging warmth coil in your limbs, thighs pressing tightly together.

“Hi,” You squeak when he stops in front of you, cheeks burning hot in embarrassment because you can’t decide if getting caught drawing lewd shapes with his freckles outweighs the reward of him approaching you.

“Hi, sweeth’art.”— and you decide right then and there that getting caught was worth it when the deep timbre of his voice washes over your shoulders.

He’s positively filthy, more so than last time.

Wet, greasy.

You can smell it on him just as strongly as you can see it on his skin. Like car oil that sat out for too long, the rubber burnt off tires.

A heavy musk, acrid, pungent odor.

You have half the mind to know you should be disgusted by it, that a dirty mechanic calling you a term of endearment should crawl under your skin and make you uncomfortable, but it does the complete opposite. It’s not like you have much of a fight in that game when you were just greedily memorizing his blonde tufts of hair, picturing how it would curl over his pelvis, matted and damp from his hard work.

Even still, you’re pinpointing all the places fingerprint grease stains would imprint on your skin in his wake. How thick the layers of sweat and grime would taste on your tongue.

“Johnny, I got ‘his one, okay?” He shouts to the other side of the garage.

Johnny wears a devious smirk on his face, but Simon doesn’t let you see it for long, shifting to face you just as quickly as he wore it.

You’re not sure if you took a step forward or if Simon was standing this close to begin with. Maybe he was just truly this massive, but you have to tilt your head back just to look at him. He doesn’t necessarily make it easy either, not when he stares down at you with piercing eyes, makes you feel out of your own skin.

“You jus’ need yer oil again?” He asks.

You nod, licking your lips, “Yes, but I thought you were busy? You don’t have to stop to help.”

“Don’t y’worry,” He reassures, shaking his head, “I’ll do it, told you t’come back ‘n you listened didn’t ya?”

You can’t do anything else but nod because you did listen, practically thought of any excuse to find yourself back in his office, his thick build over your engine over you, as soon as possible.

Simon’s lips twitch at your agreement, “Jus’ sit in my office, yeah? No worries, I’ll take care of you.”

You find yourself back in Simon’s office, a warmth to your skin that you can’t seem to shake, not when you keep thinking of every imaginable way he could take care of you. It only gets worse when you perch yourself on the edge of the seat to get the best view of him working on your pick-up.

Maybe it’s something primal, but seeing his large frame bent over, working on your truck and not someone else’s sedan flares satisfaction in your chest. Especially when you watch his sweat drip from his forehead onto your engine, splattered droplets on your blue hood.

If it was anyone else it would make your stomach twist in disgust, gnawing at the back of your mind until you could wipe the hood clean, but it’s not. You’re not entirely sure why you feel this way, maybe it’s his physique that allows you to brush these things off, but it scratches at something carnal in your conscious.

You don’t get much time to appreciate the divots in his shoulders and neck like you truly wanted, like a specimen of his kind really deserves, when Johnny walks in the room. You fall back into the chair quickly, trying to hide the way you were practically leaning forward desperately to see Simon.

He wears a knowing smile, but thankfully, he doesn’t say anything about it, “Didnae think ma work would be up tae par?”

You chuckle lightly, shaking your head, “No, Simon insisted.”

“Never heard of tha’ man takin’ on extra work willingly,” He jokes, leaning against the window sill— quiet irritation settling in your stomach as he covers Simon completely from your view.

“Must be that skirt yer wearin’.”

Your eyes widen, face burning, “Jus’ my work clothes.”

You’re not lying, they are your work clothes, just happen to be the more form fitting ones, is all.

“And your work clothes?” You remark, arching your brow at him, gesturing from head to toe, because his outfit is entirely more barren than yours is.

“Workin’ man’s uniform,” He shrugs nonchalantly, but he struts across the thin office and does a twirl for you, propping his hip out as he poses.

You open your mouth to retort, but before you can, Simon walks into the office.

“Johnny, I thought I told ya to stop harassin’ our customers.”

“Ah’m doin’ nae such thing. Just tellin’ lass here she might’ve got oil grease on her skirt.”

You furrow your brows at his words, looking down at the front of your skirt with a pout because you really didn’t want to stain the skirt without a purpose, except you don’t see anything.

“Nae, nae,” He shakes his head, gesturing to your back.

You do a spin of sorts, arching your head to find what he’s referring to.

“Johnny.” Simon spits.

His tone has more bite to it than you completely understand, but he grabs your arm, pushing you to face forward again.

“There’s nothin’,” Simon explains.

You’re still confused, brows still pinched together, until you look at Johnny, a proud smile smeared across his face.

“Aw, come on, ye liked it jus’ as much, Si,” Johnny teases, realization dawning on you, throat constricting in embarrassment, but he mumbles an apologize when he meets Simon’s scowl.

“Your pick-ups ready for ya,” Simon says, ignoring Johnny.

You follow him out of the office gratefully, too humiliated to even think for yourself right now.

“Is it too much?” You ask Simon with a frown.

“Huh?”

You tug on the seams of your skirt as an explanation.

“Oh,” He says before pausing, “No, no ‘ts not— you look great.”

“Thank you,” You murmur bashfully, atleast you got a compliment out of the whole ordeal, “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothin’.”

“No!” You protest, “You have to let me pay you back somehow!”

You’re not prepared for the way his expression changes, irises dipping into something dark, and you’re definitely not prepared for his next request.

“Do a twirl just f’me?”

✦.─Masterlist ─.✦

[hamishslair]

I love to draw Secondo

[the-raindeer-king]

Simon would love a little freak (affectionate) of a partner. Like you collect weird things, like taxidermy or bones? Say less, babes. He's getting you an animal skull for your birthday.

Is your thing clowns? Man is scouring the internet for some obscure clown clock because you saw it on Ebay once and complained about the price.

You likes bugs? Great, he's got a friend named Roach. Y'all be freaks (affectionate) together. But also he's building you a butterfly garden, or buying you a pet spider, or whatever.

It doesn't even have to be weird. You could just really like the ocean, or horses, or whatever. And I just realized what I'm getting at is that Simon would love a neurodivergent partner...

And he would!! He'd listen to you ramble and rant, and he'd be making a mental list of things to look for when he buys you presents. You could be hyperfixated on literally anything, and Simon would find a way to get you a present related to that interest. This man would move heaven and earth, if it meant making you happy.