#simons spouting

[p2iimon]

fnaf human character doodles

[p2iimon]

idk if i want the animal ppl to be human w/ animal features or like. how inklings are more of a squid than a kid. i sort of like the latter more. makes things a little more interesting. is it wrong to date them? no. but its an argued topic. can they have children with humans? sometimes. case by case. literally it depends. some ppl think “humans” who can are actually animal people with no features, but somehow science is unclear on this. damn. what do animals think of them? depends on the animal of course, but generally animals seem to think theyre kinda weird other animals. can animals talk to them/they talk to animals? most can make noises but… like animals don’t talk. so. is being a furry uncomfortable or offensive? not really unless youre being uncomfortable or offensive about it. but it is not as much of a thing, because theres not as much charm to being a. real type of person who exists.

had this very funny idea that lex and zoe switched names and looks at some point

[icyblogs]

sigh still on my brokeback mountain thinking thonks. this time a rift off of ghostprice. poor little you- set to marry Price. then the summer before the ceremony hits, and he comes back .. different. you two get married- practically pushed onto the older man from your family. he doesn’t open up to you- not like he ever has before anyway- so you continue to be as good as wife as you could be. naive, young- too inexperienced to know otherwise of what was happening outside your relationship.

eventually the first year passes, when you finally meet this ‘Mr. Riley’ your husband has mentioned in passing. he was his fishing partner. it was laughable really, when you first met the man. a fishing partner? more like a rabid dog, taller and broader than your husband as he stares you down opposite of the table. calculating. expectant. knowing. and when John finally tells you later that he was spending the night, was it ever a surprise when that night turned into two? two into three- and then you’re shackled, stuck as you’re thrust into a relationship that you never wanted. is it really a surprise when your ankle grows brittle with the cuff cutting into it. is it a surprise when you’re meat- a feast for the two men to sink their teeth into? a delicacy, tender flesh that blossoms so beautifully when touched.

you should have known better to ever let him into your home. after all, give a stray a bone, and it’ll never want to leave.

[majinbangus]

idea inspired from danny phantom

Ghost hunter!reader x ghosts!141? or instead of fully ghost, 'half ghost/half human', either one whatever

Either you're a skeptic and went ghost hunting to prove they don't exist, only for the guys to give you a surprise, or you swear ghosts exist and as a result, the guys like to mess with you.

is this anything?

[funeralgrove]

My post explaining Beowulf the other day makes it unintentionally sound like he's always known that the illager ideology is wrong and I really quickly wanted to clarify that is not accurate! He was very much conforming to illager ideology prior to ending up in the village, he was just more likely to question it if given the opportunity to do so before leaving the cult.

He'd been fed pro-illager propaganda since birth, and never had a chance to challenge the beliefs he'd grown up with and come to his own conclusions until he ended up in the village.

He still struggles with the delusion he was raised with versus the reality he's currently living.

[wanderbreadsworld]

Omg the composition on this is INSANE. Genuinely mind boggling, I can't wait to see the finished piece!!! ❤️❤️

Lashes or no lashes? 👁️

[starsofang]

johnny has always been able to read simon like the back of his hand. even without simon voicing it, johnny knows what he thinks and feels, sometimes before he even realizes.

so when a new bird catches simon’s eye, of course he decides to play wingman. simon’s too awkward and intimidating for his own good. it’d be a recipe for disaster, having him woo you all on his own.

that’s where johnny comes in, all charm and wit, gently guiding you in the direction of simon through shared conversation while simon stands beside him.

it works, surprisingly. you fall for it so easily. shy and sweet around simon, full of glowing light to brighten up the shadows that swirled around his aura, shooing them away.

johnny proves to be a great wingman when eventually over a period of time of him consistently worming into chats with you, spouting praises about his lovely best friend simon, you finally become simon’s girlfriend.

it’s a shame that in the process, johnny fell for you, too.

good thing simon doesn’t mind sharing with johnny.

[satanslittlefucker]

next

Bestfriend!Simon who always listens to anything you've got to say. Be it nonsensical, useless ramblings or the events of the day or the same complaint a thousandth time in the span of the last two hours, he will listen to it regardless. And with all the attention in the world as well, not just dismissively or for the sake of it.

Bestfriend!Simon who never disregards your thoughts, even the dumbest ones. You'd randomly tell him something utterly stupid like Did you know Si, reindeer like to eat bananas. Or like Do pesky insects also have wives and children wondering where they fucked off to? Or like We're practically giants to the little animals. Like we might just be their version of giraffes and elephants. And he'd be staring at you with the utmost focus, nodding with a Tha's fascinating, love. Just ignore the hearts and sparkles in his big brown puppy eyes, yeah? Easy task, given that you're fucking oblivious to them, assuming that the tidbit was just that interesting to him.

Bestfriend! Simon who'll randomly spout out something you'd said as a throwaway way back when and now you're confused why that sounds so familiar, forgetting that he's literally quoting you, what with your fish brain memory. You only remember it late in the night lying in bed while having late night life reevaluating 3 am thoughts. Feeling all warm and cosy inside when you finally realize.

Bestfriend!Simon who'll always try to resolve whatever's troubling you in record time without you even knowing half the time. The tap in your bathroom's leaking? Ten minutes and it's fixed. Your back's aching? Lie down, love, he's got magic hands. The landlord's being a dick? Not anymore, she isn't. That one coworker who just won't take the hint? Such a relief he's getting transferred, Si. Don't ask him how he knows which backwater branch. He just gave a lucky guess. That one fucker who tried to grope a feel in the nightclub? Vanished off the face of the earth. And no, Simon dunno know nothin bout it, love. He'd simply tossed the guy out into the back alley before returning to you. He's learnt some dirty tricks during his time in the military, as one does.

[wizardrousactivity]

The Rat, Dead Dog. 

The Rat, Dead Dog. 

“I’ve told you, it’s not me-” — You were trained to never fall under pressure, your pleas falling under his deaf ears. Another cut to your calf when he doesn’t hear you forthwith giving up the information, it doesn’t matter how desperate you sound, nobody is here to save you anymore. They can’t trust you anymore. 

He’s trying to convince himself he doesn’t feel bad, that he’s only doing his friends a favor. Getting rid of you for good - dispensing with the waste of the world, which unfortunately had to be you, didn’t it? The only person that he thought he could trust, you bewitched him. The mask had slipped off because of you, the imperfections were perfected because of you. Now it’s only a cold shoulder - if he’d even give you that. “Give us the fucking information,” The use of your moniker is the way he’d gain your sultry glare. 

You’ve been beaten and battered for days by Simon, and it still feels like months the longer his torture traverses. The metal of the chair you sit on starting to turn red with gore. You fear to lose yourself, if not for the keen rage that fumes, revenge written on its blemishes. “I don’t have the information you want.” You never thought you’d be in such a position with him, a foolish hound falling victim to your framing.  

It’s surprising you weren’t immediately cut off with another lash, the gash he’s continuously spread starting to reach your bone, you dread the stinging of your flesh, held back by a grunted-sob.  For only a second you see his gaze soften with emotion he lacked, like he truly wanted to believe you, and by-god did he wish to - in the event that the threads didn’t lead to you. He swallows. 

There’s too much evidence against you, and his team. His own pathetic feelings aren’t worth the risk of keeping you around, he doesn't think he could handle having you captive with them for long, holding a rat that was dressed up with a story just to use them, use him after everything that happened. The sight would haunt him if you weren’t gone, the weight of his loved one turning out to be a spy, living in a room on base.

The depravity of reality sets on him now, painfully dawning on him. 

He needs to dispose you. For everybody’s sake. 

His hand white-knuckles around the knife, your chest tightens while the behemoth starts to stand to his full stature - an unpredictable mongrel you can only imagine what is coming next, his dilating pupils trembling as he looks at you with terror. The task of your murder would save his mates, and eat him from the inside once he was finished. If there is no information you have to spout - you are better useful dead to them, they could get it themselves. “Simon..” There's no response from him. You are not needed anymore. Don’t make it painful. 

Yet you’re saved by the bell, his head turning as the call from the mohawk is made. Shouting for his arrival with urgency. You only look to the floor as footsteps echo, signifying his leave for the day. "Fuck you."

The gashes in your legs have pooled themselves and made home around your feet, cold air running along the insides of your flesh, and you shudder against your constraints - the feeling is enough to make you nauseous with the sensory you experience. There’s nothing for you to throw up anyway, if there was, it would be your intestines. 

Your heart cinches, as you sit there with the thought of having to live with the fact you’ve been framed, then to die known as the rat in 141, that’s all you’ll ever be now. You’re just another damaged dog, you’ve joined their cult of forever deprecating. Their muffled banter plays beside your ear as you weep.

You’ve accepted that your funeral won’t be made, that nobody will ever honor your death or mourn during it.

[charliemwrites]

Part 4 of Mafia!Price

No Content Warnings

There are many things to appreciate about your boss, but one of them is his respect for routine. You’ve gotten him on a schedule and now he seems happily beholden to it; appreciates your promptness with tea and pastries and morning “briefings” each day.

He’ll happily sit back in his big leather chair and listen to you chatter out his itinerary for the day. Meetings, reports, phone calls. Trips to the dock, now, bless him.

You try not to stare between glances at your tablet. For a rich bastard, he is unfairly handsome. Good taste in just about everything, classy and luxurious without being ostentatious. Old money vibes, for sure, though you know better than to do more than idly wonder. Helps that he’s also remarkably gentlemanly with you. You’re not one to buy into old stereotypes or gender roles, even the ones that benefit you — but you’ll take a chivalrous boss over your old one any day.

Besides, it’s not like he’s spouting off about what women should and shouldn’t be doing. Or trying to use you as an example of an “acceptable” working woman. So, yeah, you’ll indulge in the door-holding and offered arms.

“Alright, best for last — your reservation for Muse is tomorrow. The restaurant is twenty minutes from your penthouse, so Simon will be downstairs by 7:30.”

You check that off your to-do list as you continue speaking.

“Do you have a suit picked out yet, or should I order something? Green is in season and it would go nicely with your eyes.”

He hums; you glance up. Leaning back, one arm lax on the arm of his chair, black watch gleaming. The other is propped to press his index finger against his lips. Like he’s telling you to keep a secret. The corners of his mouth are tilted up.

Your tablet dings and thankfully distracts you from staring.

Oh, for the love of— the only person more inconsiderate than Philip Graves is his damn assistant.

“Is that the color you’re wearing, then?”

Will need to call later today — as if!

“Hm?” You ask, not having caught it.

He arches his eyebrows; ah, you must have been making a face again.

“Are you wearing green tomorrow?” He repeats.

You blink. Are you what?

“Tomorrow, sir?”

He nods, once. “To Muse, luv.”

When you continue to stare with pleasant obliviousness, his eyebrows furrow a bit.

“You do know one of those seats is for you, yeah?”

You press your lips together for a moment. Well… shit. You take it back. You take it all back. John Price is a terrible, horrible, awful man who is so rude.

“I do now.”

Across the office, you make wide eye contact with Gaz. He grimaces in sympathy and ducks his head, though it’s clearly just to hide his traitorous laughter.

“Of course you’re coming along.”

“Sir,” you say, pleasant and sweet, “remember when I first started here? And I told you that I’m not a mind reader?”

“Of course,” he answers. “You threatened to spit in my tea in the same breath.”

“Only if you told me to fetch it for you,” you correct, before continuing, “I feel you may need a reminder: I cannot read your mind. How was I supposed to know you wanted me to go with you?”

“‘S your job, isnit?” He replies. You give him a dark look; he puts his hands up with a chuckle. “My apologies love, I thought you’d be in my pocket next to my handkerchief. Like always.”

You set your hand on your hip, proper cross now.

“It’s outside usual working hours, sir. How could I have possible expected to be invited to your fancy man party?”

“‘Fancy man party’?”

“Well, there’s nothing for it, I’ll have to leave early tomorrow.”

You’re already tapping madly at your tablet, looking up a salon willing to do your hair and makeup. God knows what kind of meltdown you’ll have if you can’t get your eyeliner symmetrical.

“Do whatever you need to do, luv,” Price soothes, standing. “I really am sorry for the short notice.”

You wave him off, then pat his arm as he gently guides you towards the door. Absently, you comply, more focused on getting appointments set and rearranging your own schedule for tomorrow.

“I’ll make it work,” you promise, “I always do.”

You let him bring you all the way to your desk, lower yourself into your ergonomic rolling chair.

“I’ll let you know what color I’m wearing by… one o’clock. Yes?”

“Sounds great, luv.”

You glance at the clock. “Also you have a call with the KorTac Group in ten.”

He chuckles and taps your chin. “Cheers, luv.”

—

Simon is the one to pick you up Friday evening. You both pause in the lobby of your apartment complex, staring.

“You look lovely,” he says at the same time you ask, aghast, “what happened to your face?”

He’s got a dark bruises discoloring the skin around one eye. Clearly some ice has already been applied because the swelling is down, but it must be fresh because he didn’t have it yesterday.

He snorts. “My job happened.”

You tut. “I’ve got something for that but we need to get moving. Mr. Price said he needs some help with his suit.”

You grab his arm without hesitation, habit from any of your escorts or drivers always offering it to you. Usually you accept out of politeness, but tonight you could use the extra stability in your heels. Simon doesn’t seem to mind even though this is the first time you’ve done this.

He walks you to the car, holds the door for you. Sleek and spotless, a black Jaguar — your choice for the evening. You hum in delight at the warm interior as Simon slides into the front seat.

“Oh, thank you for the compliment, by the way,” you add as he pulls into traffic. “You look quite smart as well.”

He grunts, but you notice a bit of color to his ears in the passing streetlights. You smile to yourself and busy yourself with your tablet. Double checking the reservation confirmation, answering messages from Farah and Gaz, updating Price on your ETA.

The car stops at a luxury high rise just at 7. You hop out before Simon can get the door and receive a sharp look. He holds up a reprimanding finger; blink in surprise at the sternness of it.

“You pull that shite again and I’ll handcuff you to the door handle, miss.” He warns. “Making me look bad.”

You huff, amused, and take his arm again. “Don’t threaten me, Mr. Riley, I’m meaner.”

But you squeeze his thick bicep good-naturedly as he leads you into Price’s building. Your boss lives in the penthouse at the very top; Simon has to swipe a card for access. He’s also got a key to let you both in the door, holds it so you can enter first.

It’s all sleek and modern; not at all what you would expect of your boss’s more classical style. His office has a sort of 20s Hollywood vibe (gangster, you teased once) but clearly some interior designer was paid far too much for something out of a drab minimalist catalogue.

You don’t linger long, heels clicking on the polished floors.

“Sir?” you call.

“In here, luv.”

You grimace at the flight of stairs between you and the loft, but force yourself up them. The whole floor is the mater bedroom and it’s the size of your entire apartment. Walk-in closet, sectioned off lounge with a desk. His bathroom door is open, mirror fogged. It smells like soap.

“Bedroom to your right,” he calls.

You tip-tap in and your mouth instantly dries. Price is standing in the middle of the room, half dressed. Nothing unprofessional, no. He’s wearing slacks, a belt. But he’s also in socks, a white undershirt. No watch or rings or anything yet.

It feels oddly more intimate than it should. Your face warms despite yourself.

“E-evening, sir.”

He turns and you’re utterly unprepared for just how handsome he really is. Freshly groomed, hair trimmed and gelled, eyes bright.

“Well, aren’t you just a dream,” he rasps. “You’re stunning.”

You clear your throat, know that all the makeup in the world can’t hide how brightly you’re flushing. It’s pure politeness, he’s not looking at you with anything more than friendly appreciation. Mind out of the gutter, now.

“All the flattery in the world won’t save you if we’re late,” you manage, shaking yourself back into work mode. “So let’s see what we’ve got.”

You pick his shirt, a pocket hanky, his shoes. Tell him to get into those while calling Simon up the stairs. He’s there so fast you blink in surprise, then gesture him over. Sit him on an ottoman and extract the little bottle of makeup you’ve started keeping on hand for situations like this.

“Bullshite you had that in your purse,” he scoffs.

“You remember two weeks ago, when Soap came in with that bruise on his jaw?”

They told you it was a “disagreement” at the docks. You didn’t ask further, figuring it was some sort of bar brawl in that part of town. Rowdy boys.

“Ever since, I keep a couple minis on hand for you all.”

They’re so small that you just keep them in a pocket of your purse with the rest of your makeup and the tampons. Good for emergencies like this.

“You sure you’re not a mind reader?” Simon grumbles as you gently dab it over his face.

“How would being a mind reader even help in this situation,” you scoff, patting at it with your middle finger.

Price steps out of the closet with arms out. He’s picked a waistcoat as well that you hum in approval at.

“Which cufflinks are you wearing?” you ask, turning back to Simon. He’s sitting remarkably still and stoic — reminds you of a big dog trying to maintain some dignity while getting fawned over.

“The silver and diamond.”

You make a noise of disagreement. “The gold and onyx would go better.”

A pause. You sneak a glance and are relieved to see him smirking. “I’ll wear those then. Any opinion on a watch?”

You hum again, carding through your mental catalogue. “Oh! The Bulova you wore during that meeting with Kate Laswell. You remember?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He disappears into his closet again while you lightly blend in the last touches of Simon’s coverup.

“There we are, good as new!” You declare. “Oh, and here.”

You set a couple of ibuprofen in his palm as he stands. “For the inflammation. Take with water.”

“Yes, mum,” he mumbles.

You wince. “Sorry! I’m being overbearing, aren’t I?”

He blinks, then puts a hand up. “No, no. That wasnt — I didn’t mean it in a bad way.”

You don’t entirely believe him. Know that you can be a bit much when you’re on a time crunch. Especially for something like this — an important business meeting over fancy dinner. You feel like everyone’s appearance is riding on you; this is your job after all. One thing out of place and everything will fall apart and it’ll be your fault.

“Simon, go take those,” Price orders from behind.

You turn as he approaches, a similar apology all set on your tongue. Instead, he gives you a sheepish smile and offers the cufflinks.

“Bloody useless with these,” he explains. “So unless you want to spend fifteen minutes losing respect for me…”

You laugh, amused by the idea of your hyper-capable boss struggling with a bit of jewelry that cost as much as a week of work. You step in close to thread them through his sleeves, fingers nimble and sure.

“You’re not wearing cologne?” You ask, surprised.

Don’t even realize how that might sound until he arches an eyebrow at you.

“Thought you might have an opinion on that too,” he replies. “And you haven’t steered me wrong, yet.”

He shows you his modest, but impressive collection of colognes. You pluck up one, sniff, and make a face, eyes watering a bit. It’s mostly full; clearly one he doesn’t wear often and you’re grateful for it.

“That bad, eh?”

“Sir, why?” You lament, putting it back.

“Gift from an ex,” he explains.

You store that tidbit of information away for further examination. The idea of your boss in a romance. Right now you’ve got a task to focus on.

“Did they hate you that entire time?” You wonder.

He snorts. “Maybe.”

You shake your head and pick a different one. Blink in surprise and sniff again. Feel your stomach flip.

“That one?” He asks when he notices you hesitate.

“No,” you say a little too quickly, setting it down. This is a business meeting, you can’t afford to be distracted by how he’ll smell with that on his skin.

You settle on one that doesn’t make your head dizzy and your panties shamefully damp. Still feel a bit like you’re shooting yourself in the foot, though. He’s going to smell sinfully good regardless.

You leave Price to his finishing touches and have Simon help you down the stairs. Check through the notes you hurriedly collected when you realized you’d be attending this dinner.

Price comes down too soon for your poor, stupid heart. Looks like something out of a magazine or a novel or a movie or… just too good to be real, really.

“Pass inspection?” He asks.

“Barely,” you tease.

His eyes do that thing where they smile more than his mouth; how you know it’s genuine. You try not to fluster, zero in on his tie, a little crooked and loose.

“Goodness, sir,” you murmur, stepping in close. Yeah, you were right. That cologne is going to be a personal challenge all night. “How did you get along before me?”

“With bad cologne and shitty ties, apparently,” he chuckles.

You grin despite yourself, getting it secure and centered, before smoothing his vest over it. Give him a once over. Feel your stomach flip again.

“If I may say, sir, you look handsome,” you offer quietly.

“Should hope so,” he replies, voice dipping in a way that’s detrimental to the state of your panties. “You dressed me.”

You hum, reach for your usual dry, sharp humor. “I have great taste.”

Instead of scoffing, he hums in agreement. Something flickers through his eyes that you don’t dare allow yourself to daydream on.

Simon, bless him, clears his throat and draws your attention. You check the clock above the stove.

“Ah, we need to get going. I can’t walk fast in these heels.”

You slip your arm automatically into Price’s and try not to obsess over how well you two fit together.

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Masterlist

[p2iimon]

I CANT DRAW

i CAN draw

[ilium-ilia]

In Limbo

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | mafia!au | masterlist

Chapter Three: blood always recognizes blood

tw: child abuse

The water won't stop running. 

It has to be some cruel, twisted fate that makes the walls of his room so small. This home has always felt like a prison in some capacity, but it’s grown ugly teeth in the form of closing walls and a decaying ceiling. Or, maybe the room is just trying to match how small his body has become. Peeling posters rattle as heavy footsteps pace outside of his room. They grow louder, almost loud enough to drown out the running water in the bathroom next door, but it’s not enough to quell his sniffling. 

Fat, hot tears stream down Simon’s face as his hands press against his mouth. If he could, he would smother himself. Desperate fingers claw at his throat as the urge to rip out his vocal chords nearly eats him alive. Even now he can hear his brother’s warning clear as day. 

Not a sound. If you make a sound, he’ll shut you up for good. 

Simon doesn’t realize it, but it’s useless. His father’s hearing transcends anything human, and he should have known better—his father became a monster long ago. It’s only natural that his senses follow such a bestial transition. No matter how tightly he clamps his hands over his mouth to stifle his cries, he’s already lost. His father can hear the blood that gushes through his veins, smell the salt in his tears, taste the fear that seeps beneath his bedroom door. 

Blood always recognizes blood, and Simon’s is screaming clear as day. 

There’s nowhere for him to run when the door opens. The walls have closed in so tightly that they’re holding him ripe for the picking, cornering him like an animal. Yellowed, bony fingers grip the collar of his shirt with surprising strength. Simon can’t hold back his childish sobs any longer. Monsterish in nature, but still human-like in appearance, Simon begs his father for forgiveness—for pity. But such terrible ears are not meant for hearing useless words; they’re meant for hearing screams. 

His father yanks him off of his bed, tearing off the Superman themed comforter as he’s dragged out of the room. Digging his heels into the floor, Simon wails against his father’s arms as he attempts to wiggle out of his grasp. Blood always recognizes blood, and he’s praying that this time it will do him some good. He prays that the blood in the man who’s hurting him will finally have sympathy—that he’ll be forced to realize the hot sin that sears through his heart and allow him to go free. But he has no heart. The only thing that flows through his veins is bile and rage. 

Wood floor turns into tile as the sound of running water becomes overwhelming. His father barks something at him, but he can’t hear it over the pulse in his ears and the running bathtub spout. More silent words leave his father’s lips, and Simon watches in horror as his teeth morph into daggers, like he’s ready to taste the muscle and bone that lies beneath his son’s flesh. 

Instead, those terrible, spindly fingers grab him by his grown out hair and he’s tossed him into the tub. 

His nose cracks against the spout before his flesh meets cold water. There’s no need to waste warm water on an easy kill. The spout is unforgiving as his father holds his face underneath the flow, causing Simon to sputter and trash. Tiny limbs try grabbing for any purchase he can find in the area only to be met with frigid tile too slick to aid him. 

Simon wants his mom. He wants to curl into her side underneath a thick blanket while his favorite cartoons drone in the background on the TV. He wants to fall asleep nestled safely in her arms and let the bruises heal beneath her soft kisses. 

Simon calls for her. Or, at least he tries. The moment his mouth opens his words are drowned by algid water filling his throat. He finally realizes that nothing can save him from the wrath of a father who hates his spawn. 

But blood always recognizes blood—especially when it screams. 

Kinder hands—softer hands—reach into the depths of the water to rescue him from the tub. It’s not until his head breaks the surface that Simon realizes the water is no longer running. An overwhelming silence cracks as he coughs and sputters, forcing the water out of his mouth. A familiar smile fills his vision as he blinks the water from his eyes, still trembling. 

“My sweet boy. What has he done to you?” his mother ponders as she rubs a hand against his cheek. When she pulls her fingers away, they’re tainted a bright pink. 

“I can’t! I wanna go home!” Simon wails. His voice feels small and warbly, like it doesn’t really belong to him. Like it’s a voice that’s been long lost in his throat. 

“I know, but there is still so much fighting ahead,” she says, voice somber. “You’ve been so strong. So brave. My brave boy. I just need you to be strong for a little longer.” 

“I don’t wanna!” he sobs. Tiny fingers grab at her, tearing at her shirt and skin like he wishes he could crawl back inside of her. “Please mummy, take me home. I’ll be good! I wanna go home!” 

Instead of responding to him, she presses her lips against his forehead before gently lowering him back down into the water. Simon’s eyes widen as his fingers reach over the edge of the tub only for him to brush against ceramic rather than flesh. 

“I’m sorry, Simon,” she says as she lets him go. “You have to learn to swim eventually.” 

Simon is wet when he wakes up. 

Not from the bathtub that he had suffered in during his dream, but from the sheer amount of sweat that soaks him head to toe. It turns his skin into a warm, sticky mess that has his bedsheets clinging to him as he sits up. Tense fingers press against the bridge of his nose, and he winces as if the wound is still tender. 

A thin veil of darkness shrouds his room. Dawn has yet to break over the city, leaving him sitting in the early hours of the morning in an empty bed. He’s up much too early for how late he was up last night chaperoning his boss’s drunken wife and her friend. Still, his muscles pulse with thick blood, and his mind refuses to quiet. 

His sigh comes heavy as he swings his feet over the side of the bed and stands. It’s useless to attempt to sleep again after dreams like these. Though the man has been dead for years, Simon’s father still haunts him like some ghost he can’t quite exorcize. Not that it usually bugs him. Simon doesn’t think of his father often as the memories aren’t that fond, and he has more important things to do than mourn a man as rotten as him. 

Important things like fixing the damn door in your apartment. 

Hardware stores don’t open until later in the morning on Sundays, which is fine as Simon figures you’ll be sleeping in today anyway. He takes his time retrieving the screws and plate; he even goes far enough to grab several different sizes just to ensure everything fits. Though he had been a butcher by trade—and part of the mafia as of late—Simon’s always been good at fixing things. Usually, he would patch up holes his drunken father would punch into the walls at his mother’s home, but he likes the smaller fixes too. 

He always keeps his hands busy with something, lest his mind begin to rot. 

When his knock sounds at your door around noon, you nearly jump out of your skin. Lips pressing together, you urge your heart into submission as you stare at the entrance, arms firmly wrapped around yourself to prevent your towel from falling. You’re not expecting anyone today—if you were, you certainly wouldn’t have been caught in nothing but a towel fresh out of your shower. 

Tossing your towel to the side and haphazardly donning a robe, you approach your door before cautiously peering through the peephole. Much to your surprise, Simon waits on the other side. He’s rubbing at his jaw as he stands back from the door, staring down at the floor by his feet. Your brows draw together as you unlock the deadbolt and swing the door open. 

“Simon,” you greet. You attempt to sound happy to see him, but confusion seeps into your tone before you can stop it. “What are you doing here?” 

A small paper bag rustles in his hand as he holds it up for you to see. With a gentle shake, you hear small metallic clinking, which only confuses you further. 

“Came to fix your door,” he answers. 

That jogs your memory a little. You recall his scrutinizing gaze at your door last night and how he picked at the screws that held your door plate together like they would fall out of the wood with a simple glare. Fatigue had pulled so viciously at your mind last night that you didn’t really pay much attention to him when he said he would fix it, but you do recall it now. You hadn’t expected him to come over so soon. 

“Oh,” you reply simply. 

An internal panic bubbles in your chest as you quickly remember how exposed you are. Body hidden behind nothing more than your bathrobe, you try not to let the awkwardness of it all choke you. You wrap your arms around yourself and nod as if it’s of no importance before backing out of the doorway. 

“Come in. I’ve just gotta change real quick.” 

Simon doesn’t follow you very far as you slink back into the flat. Really, he doesn’t pay any attention to you at all as he kneels next to your door and begins to get to work replacing the hardware. Grateful that he’s distracted, you grab your clothes from the corner of your bed before sneaking off into the bathroom to change. 

Once you’re hidden safely behind a door, Simon glances around your apartment. With the aid of daylight, he’s able to make out more now than he was last night when he dropped you off. You’ve spun your own little twist to the decaying walls with various posters and gifts, and he finds himself chuckling at the faux fur rug by your bed. 

Still, the window next to your bed looks cracked, and there’s an incessant dripping sound coming from the kitchen that makes his ears ache. Your upstairs neighbor seems to have little care in the world as he screams over something playing on his television, and someone a few doors down is having trouble getting their infant to sleep. It’s terribly small—almost inhumanely so—and with the housing prices in London, he doesn’t even want to think about how much you have to pay to live here. 

That’s none of his business, and he won’t make it his business. 

It doesn’t take Simon long to fix your door, and by the time you exit the bathroom he’s already begun to gather up the old hardware and toss it into his bag. Though there’s a little reprieve in being properly dressed in front of him, that small pit of anxiety still fumes just as strong as ever. 

He’s gone through all this trouble to buy the supplies and come to your home to fix it, and you have no way to repay him. 

You hate being in debt to people. 

“Thank you for this, by the way,” you speak up. 

It takes him a moment to respond. He’s too busy shutting the door and pulling on the handle to test out his work. Once satisfied, he turns to you, giving you his undivided attention. “Don’t mention it.” 

Still, you aren’t about to let him leave without at least the promise of some way to repay him. There’s not a whole lot you’re able to give him. Twiddling your fingers together, you quickly take a mental note of all your options. You’re strapped for cash, you have nothing useful to gift him—so you go with the next best thing. 

“I, uh, work on Tuesday this week. If you want to drop by, I can comp a meal for you or something. To say thanks,” you offer. It’s not much, but it’s all you have. 

Simon pauses as if he needs to think about your offer. “Sapori, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you confirm, surprised he even remembers. 

Nodding, he curls up the paper bag in his hands before tapping it against his palm. Simon is… an odd man. Kind—as he’s proven—but different than what you’re used to. He’s quiet, yet still enjoyable to be around. He takes off the pressure for awkward small talk, at least. Aside from anyone at work, the only man you ever interact with is John, and like Aelin, he treats you like a sister. You’re used to the awkward doting and familial love, but otherwise, you aren’t used to being around people at all. 

Well, there’s Marco. 

“See you Tuesday,” he answers. 

Once your plan for Tuesday night is confirmed, you promptly forget about it. Your memory isn’t the best these days, but there is little need for you to remember many things as you only ever seem to work. It’s for the best anyway. If you had remembered, you would have spent the rest of your much needed days off worrying about it—about him. Instead, you have a near heart attack when you witness him stroll through Sapori’s front door Tuesday night. 

He’s dressed differently than he normally is. A thick leather jacket sits unzipped around his shoulders, which is a jarring sight than his usual cotton long sleeves are. Mussed hair sits on his head like he’s just rolled out of bed, and he rubs a hand over the strands to try and wrangle them back into shape. Out of all his attire, it’s the leather gloves that grab your attention. You’re unsure if it’s just some strange fashion sense he hadn’t shown previously, or if it’s just his way of biting off the chilly November air. 

As he approaches your station, he slips the gloves off of his hands before stowing them away in his jacket. “Evenin’ sweetheart.” 

“Hey,” you greet a bit more tense than you intended. “Is there, uhm, anywhere you’d like to sit? It’s pretty quiet tonight, so we’ve got lots of options.” 

Simon’s eyes flicker to the area behind you in a quick scan of the building. There’s still a fair amount of people, which is to be expected for a restaurant of Sapori’s status. A dull hum of conversation vibrates through the air as patrons eat their meals and enjoy the company of their loved ones. He hums as his eyes settle on a table meant for two shoved in the furthest corner of the room. City lights reflect off the pristine window next to it, giving it a fair few of the streets just beyond. He nods in its direction before bringing his attention back to you. 

“That one over there’ll do,” he decides. 

It feels strange leading Simon through the restaurant. He trails behind you like a dog, but not in the cute and innocent way. More in the brooding, dangerous way, like he’s ready to bite anyone should you give the command. Maybe that’s why John hired him for security at Terminus; if there was someone his height and stature couldn’t scare off, his glare certainly would. 

A part of you feels guilty for being relieved when he sits. Since you work at the front of the house, you rarely have to deal with the patrons aside from seating them. It’s something that made the job so appealing to you in the first place. You don’t think you would be able to handle it if you had to keep checking in on him and asking how everything tastes. You hope he feels the same, or at least doesn’t hold it against you if he doesn’t. You are giving him a free meal, after all. 

A free meal—and once he’s finished, then you won’t owe him anymore. Once you don’t owe him, you plan on keeping it that way. 

“Hey, who’s that bloke you seated at table fifteen?” 

Halfway through updating your seating chart, one of the waitresses snags your attention as she approaches you on your left. Eyes narrowing, you pull at your ear. 

“Oh, right, sorry,” she chirps before squeezing over to your right. “Table fifteen? Who is that?” 

Bianca—who everyone calls Bee for the way she always buzzes from station to station—is one of the few people aside from Aelin who you consider your friend. She’s the granddaughter of the owner, but she refuses to act entitled about it. Chipper and sweet, she’s everything you wish you were. Bright, always smiling—she keeps her curly hair in a high ponytail and always wears different earrings to work each night. Though she’s not allowed to wear her more—as her grandfather put it—obnoxious earrings, there’s always something cutesy about them hidden in the form of a cat’s paw or small flowers. 

“Oh, Simon? He’s… a friend of mine,” you answer. You don’t bother to glance over your shoulder or check the seating chart—you’re already well aware of who she’s referring to. “I’m comping his meal tonight, by the way, so don’t give him a ticket.” 

“Christ,” Bee mutters. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone with so much ink on them before.” 

Confused, you finally give in and turn to face the tables and you nearly choke on your own spit at the sight of Simon. All other times that you’ve seen him, he’s always been wearing long sleeved shirts. Even earlier when he first arrived his jacket had been covering his arms, but now that jacket hangs off the back of his chair, leaving his arms completely exposed as he types away on his phone. 

Dark ink swirls around his arms in hypnotizing patterns, and it’s difficult to swallow the lump in your throat now that you have him in sight. You’ve only ever seen hints of them from underneath his sleeves—the parts that dance along the edge of his wrists—but now they’re on display. Not even all that ink can cover the plushy, defined dips of the muscles in his arms. Bulky; healthy. You quickly bring your attention back to your work before you can sweat anymore than you already are. 

“Yeah, quite the art connoisseur,” you say half sarcastically. 

“How long have you two known each other?” she asks.

Your brows draw together at the odd tone of her voice. It’s as if she’s insinuating the two of you are anything more than uncomfortable strangers. 

“Like… a week or two?” you answer. 

Bee hums as she leans against the counter. She pulls at her butterfly themed earrings as she nods. “You sure know how to pull them.” 

Before you can respond, Bee quickly blends back into the noise of the restaurant, which you decide is for the best. Whatever pathetic retort your brain could muster would have certainly turned you into a fool—as if you aren’t already one already. Tight muscles begin to scream in your neck. The galling thrum of a headache begins to tap against your skull, one you desperately attempt to ignore as you return to work. 

Except, you’re never good at ignoring things. They always linger somewhere in your mind, appearing just in time to inflict the most amount of damage. So you keep your hands moving. Always moving. If not with string, then with work. If not with work, then with—well, something. Anything. You have to, lest Marco slip back into your mind. If things get too quiet, then the hum of the patrons around you might begin to sound like the whirring of dryers in a laundromat.

If things get too quiet, then the breathmints sitting in the bowl at your station might just suffocate you. 

“Thanks for dinner, sweetheart.” 

You look up from your work just in time to watch Simon shrug his jacket back onto his shoulders. Rich leather stretches to accommodate the sheer wideness of him, but you try not to pay too close attention as you give him a courteous smile. 

“Of course. I’m glad you enjoyed,” you say, pulling out the robotic response you normally give everyone else. 

That should have been it. It would have if you said it to any normal consumer, but as you’ve grown to realize, Simon is very far from normal. Instead, he holds his hand out for you where a small piece of receipt paper sits folded between his fingers. He passes it to you like it’s a note he’s attempting to hide from a teacher during class. 

“My number,” he explains at your hesitation. “I’d like to fix the faucet in your kitchen. Can’t imagine what the water bill is like, or how you can stand the sound. Figured I’d try and give you a better heads up before headin’ over to your place again. Don’t wanna catch you out of the shower again.” 

A tense laugh bubbles up in your throat as you grab the paper from his fingers. “Yeah, probably not.” 

“Just let me know what time works for you. I’ll make it work,” he finishes as he digs his gloves out of his pocket and slips them back on his hands. 

You two mutter simple farewells to one another before Simon vanishes out through the doors as if he had never been here to begin with. Sighing, you stow that bit of paper away in your pocket. You’ve found yourself in a conundrum—if you message him, you’ll just end up owing him again. If you don’t then…

“Hey!” Bee says out of breath as she slides into your station. “That friend of yours? Simon, yeah? He still around?” 

“No, he just left a bit ago,” you say. 

“Fuck,” Bee sighs. Her head rolls back as she stares at the ceiling, fingers pressing against her temples. “This isn’t good.” 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. 

Relaxing her shoulders to look at you, Bee’s teeth sinks into her bottom lip. Sighing, she pulls something out of the pockets of her apron as she shuffles closer, keeping whatever is in her hands hidden from prying eyes. 

“Look at how much he tipped!” she exclaims in a whisper. 

Your eyes widen at the sight of the cash in her hands. It’s difficult to count all the notes just by sight alone, but you’re certain there has to be at least two hundred quid. 

“It’s gotta be a mistake, right?” she asks. “Like, who tips this much?” 

Bee quickly shoves the cash back in her apron as if afraid someone will chastise her for earring so much. You swallow the cotton-like dryness in your mouth as you glance back toward the door. Simon’s long gone, yet your legs still urge you to chase after him. 

“Don’t worry about it,” you assure her, though it’s difficult to get a smile to fall on your lips. “He’s rather generous. I comped his meal tonight, remember? He probably just gave you what he would’ve ended up paying if I didn’t.” 

“Well… shit,” Bee decides after a moment of deliberation. “You should invite him back more often. And, by all means, keep sitting him in my section if that’s the case.” 

Your laughter makes a good cover for your anxiety as Bee leaves to continue her work, but an uneasiness begins to creep through your body with the promise to destroy you. You don’t like being in debt to people, and tonight was supposed to be your way to pay Simon back. Yet here he is, slithering through the cracks of your life and making himself at home by repairing your ancient door and tipping your co-workers. 

The tension in the back of your neck only worsens as your fingers retrieve the crumpled receipt paper that has Simon’s number. Incertitude gnaws at the grey matter in your brain as you add his number into your contacts before you type up a flat sounding text thanking him for what he did for Bee tonight. 

Once more. You’ll let him fix your sink, you’ll pay him back for his generosity, and that’ll be it. 

After that, you’ll never have to deal with Simon Riley again.

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[hedgehogsaretheultimatelifeform]

More thinking about getting assimilated into the retired 141 polycule.

[part one]

Soap opens the door, dragging you out of the bedroom’s soft dimness into semi darkness. The only way you know that you’re walking down a corridor is the light at the other end, coming from down stairs. Gaz is following so closely behind that he’s nearly catching your heels, his hands hovering by your shoulders in case you stumble as Soap leads the way downstairs.

You emerge into a kitchen, filled with the sound of a kettle about to boil. Soap glances back at you, making sure you made it down behind him okay, leaving Gaz free to brush past the pair of you, to greet the man waiting in the kitchen.

‘Morning, John.’ Gaz embraces John from behind, grabbing at his loose shirt to pull it tight around his body. Soap sees you swallow as Gaz shows off the muscles in John’s back, highlighted under the taut material of his sleep shirt.

‘Mornin,’ John grumbles, in the same husky voice as before. Soap pulls you close to him, leaning your heads against each other as you both watch John turn to kiss Gaz, the pair murmuring something between them as the kettle clicks, and steam curls out of the spout.

John is the one to break away from the cuddle, leaving Gaz take over the tea as he turns to face you. ‘This our guest, then?’

‘It is.’ You nod your head, feeling Soap step back as John approaches, his feet scuffing as he drags them on the floor.

John reaches out, gently cupping your wrist before sliding his fingers down to your hand, and lifting it to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles. ‘A pleasure to finally meet you.’

‘Come off it.’ Soap pulls your hand free, replacing it with his own as he kissed John’s cheek. ‘Why don’t you go down and let Simon in?’

‘Why don’t you?’ Price pulls Soap close and makes him kiss him properly, twisting their bodies so you can see it all, before pointing Soap in the direction of the door.

‘Don’t wanna. Wanna stay here.’ Soap pushes back, reaching towards you.

Gaz chuckles in your ear as you watch the bickering begin to unfold. ‘Come on, you don’t need to see this. Come have a seat.’

Gaz guides you with a hand on your back, steering you out of the kitchen and into the living room. He sets you down on the well loved sofa cushions, hovering over you for a second too long for you to not ask.

‘Want a kiss?’

He doesn’t reply verbally, just taking what was offered, and then another, before the third is interpreted by a smack on someone’s ass, and Soap hurrying past, covering his flushing cheeks.

‘Aww, look at him…’ Gaz chuckles, glancing back as John emerges in Soap’s wake.

‘Aren’t you meant to be making tea?’

‘It’s brewing.’ Gaz grumbles, but slips back towards the kitchen, leaving you alone with John.

‘Hey.’

‘Hi.’

‘May I?’ He gestures to the seat next to you.

‘Yeah.’

He sinks down next you you, throwing an arm on the back of the sofa, just behind your shoulders. You tilt your head back, resting it in the crook of his elbow.

He chuckles. ‘You’re something else, aren’t you?’

‘I am.’ You confirm, meeting his eyes when he turns his head to look at you.

‘You know,’ he leans in close, and lowers his voice, ‘you sounded delightful last night.’

You gasp, covering your mouth as you scramble through the blurry memories of last night trying to remember what you had done for him to overhear.

He chuckles again, brushing a finger down the side of your face, about to say something else, when Gaz sets two mugs of tea down on the coffee table.

‘Think you’re mistaken, there. That was all Soap.’ Gaz passes a third cup to you, before sitting on your other side. ‘He gets real high pitched when you fuck him right.’

‘I wasn’t talking about high pitched...’ Price grumbles, reaching down to get his own tea as Gaz opens his arms and lets you lean into them.

‘Is that true?’ You whisper.

‘What?’

‘About soap.’

‘Course it is. We can show you how, if you want.’

‘You’d do that for me?’

‘Of course, for you. And for soap, because he enjoys it like nothing else.’

‘And we like watching him get fucked.’ John chimes in, sliding his arm down to rest on your thigh, gently squeezing.

‘All of you?’

They both nod.

‘We could ask Simon to show you, when he gets up.’

‘It’s…’ you glance around, spying a clock on the wall, reading half seven. ‘Too early for that, surely.’

‘That clocks broken, love.’ John flips his phone screen to you, showing that the time is closer to ten thirty. ‘But, we can always do it later, if you prefer.’

‘If you want to stay, of course.’ Gaz supplies, behind you.

‘You’ve made me curious, of course I’m staying.’ You sip your tea, gently blowing over the rim of the cup to cool it each time.

‘Staying?’ John glances at Gaz over your shoulder. ‘For today, or…’

‘I mean… however long it’s okay for me to stay,’ you hurry out, suddenly embarrassed to have overstepped.

‘No, no, it’s fine, love.’ Gaz hushes you, slowly getting you to sit up. ‘That’s not what he meant.’

‘Oh… okay.’ You settle, glancing between the two men to see who will speak first.

‘You might have worked out that we don’t exactly have a typical relationship.’ Gaz starts.

‘Yeah, I got that.’ You nod. ‘You’re… poly?’

‘Yeah. We’re all together in a polycule.’ John nods, seeming glad that you had already figured out something along the right lines.

‘Fuck, that is not what we’re calling it. We agreed on this, Price.’

‘It’s what it is, Kyle, don’t start this again…’

‘It just sounds so formal and pretentious…’

‘Wait,’ you gasp, ‘your name is Kyle?’

‘Yeah. Something wrong with that?’

You shake your head. ‘Just never saw myself living with a Kyle.’

‘So you’re in?’ John leans towards you.

‘If you’ll have me.’

‘Course we’ll fucking have you…’ Gaz kisses you, as John snags your tea away to our on the table before it gets spilled. Just in time, as Gaz shoved you back into Price’s lap, your arms thrown over his shoulders as you realise Gaz isn’t going to let you breathe, until John pulls him away, letting your head fall back on his chest as he pulls Gaz up for himself, cradling his face between his hands as he takes kiss after kiss after kiss from Gaz, before they lean down and take kiss after kiss from you, before the door bangs open.

‘We’re back!’ Soap hurries into the room, stopping short when he sees what’s going on. ‘Fuck, Si we interrupted them!’ He calls over his shoulder, before coming over for a kiss of his own, as the as of yet unseen Simon enters the room.

‘I have hunted and gathered.’ Simon holds up a plastic bag, the smell of bacon and chips slowly filling the room.

‘Oh get in.’ Gaz fist pumps the air, pulling you up as Simon comes closer to the couch.

‘Hi.’ He holds is hand out to you.

‘Hi. Nice to meet you.’ You shake hands.

‘It is.’ He smiles, eyes crinkling above the black surgical mask he’s wearing.

‘Come on, Si, I’ll give you a hand.’ John stands up from the sofa, taking Simon into the kitchen, as Soap eagerly takes his place.

‘So, what’s the word?’ He looks expectantly at Gaz.

‘You’re in, aren’t you, love?’ Gaz looks at you, and you suddenly wonder if Soap’s departure was a set up for Gaz and Price to give you that invitation.

‘Yeah. I’m in.’ You nod. Who gives a fuck if it was a set up. You’re in now, and you’re not leaving any time soon.

‘Fuckin beautiful.’ Soap presses a kiss to your shoulder. ‘Knew you would be.’

‘You did?’

‘Course I did. Just sauntered up, bought both of us a drink like it was nothing.’

‘You can’t call tequila love at first sight, Soap.’

‘You’re calling rum love at first sight, what’s the difference?’ Soap snipes back at Gaz over your head, and you break out laughing.

‘If I’d known it was going to lead me here, I would have sat on your dicks right there at the bar.’

‘What at the same time?’ Gaz mocks shock, before pulling you close, burying his face in your shoulder as he squeezes you tight. ‘Fuck I’m glad we met.’

‘Me too.’ Soap wrapped his arms around you too, sighing happily as you sank into them.

‘Oi, love birds. Food’s here.’ Simon breaks you up, setting sauces down on the table as he doles out the sandwiches. ‘Bacon, chips, chips, bacon for price when he’s done wanking in the kitchen, and bacon for me.’

‘You want me to spit in your tea, Simon?’ John calls out from the kitchen.

‘Don’t ask that, you might be surprised.’ Simon returns, before you all open your sandwiches and tuck in.

It’s quiet as you eat. Gaz and Soap on either side of you, Simon only looking away from you when John returns from the kitchen with his tea. Simon lets John sit next to him, the pair leaning on each other as they put away a bacon butty.

John does so quicker than anyone else, so as soon as Gaz and Soap are both left licking sauces from their fingers, he’s standing up. ‘Come on, you two. We’ve got to get a start on cleaning up.’

They grumble but go with him, taking paper wrappers and empty cups with them. You suspect that cleaning didn’t need three people, rather this was an excuse for you to be alone with Simon.

He leans forward, grinning lazily at you, the full expression visible now that he’d ditched the mask. ‘John told me that you’re in.’

‘John told me that you’d fuck soap and let me watch.’ The words spill out of your mouth before you’ve really thought about them, but it makes him smile more.

‘Did he?’

‘Yes, he did.’

‘And do you want me to do that?’

‘Yes. Very much yes.’

He sits back, spreading his legs wide. ‘Then you ditch those borrowed clothes, get on my lap, and earn it.’

[part three]

[heavenbarnes]

I know you talked about meeting older bf!Simon in the alternate universe but can you please tell us how we met normal universe Simon?

oh 🥹 course i can write a little meet cute (i have oc you a little bit but that’s ok i think)

the first time you ever meet your older bf!simon, you’re actually at work.

your boss tells you and the rest of your coworkers (very late notice, might you add) that your dinky little cafe is taking part in a government run initiative-

“service for service men”

the collective hum of confusement doesn’t skip you and you’re even more confused when he tells you that different businesses are opening their doors to service men (and women technically) to allow them to integrate with their community.

you don’t want to outright say it seems performative but, it definitely seems performative.

nevertheless, you get your apron on and wait for them to arrive. you’ve already resigned yourself to the fact that, knowing your luck, you’re going to get some morally-grey weirdo.

instead you get-

“simon riley, uh- ghost”

your boss reads it from his clipboard as the man in question appears before you like an apparition. with a skull gator mask covering the lower half of his face.

ok.

you do your best to smile and give him your name when you learn quickly that this guy is a man of few words, but many grunts.

“do you prefer simon or ghost?”

he eyes you in his peripheral as you move behind the counter towards your coffee machine. he doesn’t answer and you know it’ll be a long day.

“alright, i’m picking simon”

and he doesn’t argue so you take it as a win.

you bring him to the coffee machine and explain the bare basics, you’re also hyper aware that in a few days- he’s going to go back to handling guns and never make another cappuccino in his life so you don’t go too crazy.

but he does have to make his own coffee.

“and then you would bring the milk jug to this spout and the steam froths it”

his eyes are blank, unreadable- but jesus christ can he hold a stare. you get this unshakable sense that he does not give a fuck and, honestly, you can’t blame him.

but it is your job.

“do you want to give it a go?”

his eyes flicker to the machine for a second before they’re back on yours, expecting more silent treatment you nearly jump when he speaks.

“what if i fuck it up?”

your eyebrows crinkle just a little. what? it’s a coffee machine? this man’s probably performed manoeuvres the average person didn’t know existed.

and he’s scared of a coffee machine?

you almost want to snort a little laugh but a voice in your head tells you better not. instead you step a little closer to him.

“you won’t, i won’t let you”

and he catches you in his peripheral again, ever so slightly inching closer to you. he surprises you again by speaking up.

“will y’tell me what t’do?”

“if that’s what you’d like, course i will”

and that’s what you do. massive hands dwarf the milk jug as he cradles it so not to scald the milk but moves it with a dexterity you can only admire.

“and pull it off like- that, that’s perfect”

he looks at the milk before he looks at you, almost like he’s studying your expression.

“y’sure?”

“yes- you did a good job, simon”

he turns his head before you can get a good look at his expression. as he’s pouring the milk into the mug like you’d instructed, you very nearly missed what he said.

“i prefer simon”

craning your neck so you can better see his face, you question it with a quiet hum.

“i prefer y’calling me simon- i didn’t want y’to call me ghost”

oh.

“glad i picked well then”

he doesn’t respond to that but you figure he’s not the type you push. his coffee rests on the bench before him and he’s looking at it like he wants to try.

then he’s looking around at all the people filling the small cafe and his knuckles nudge at the edge of his mask.

oh.

you don’t know how you do it but you put two and two together quite quickly. eyes darting to the door behind you, you’re telling him to follow you.

he ends up, coffee in hand, in the small break room at the back. just a table and a couple chairs with a zip boiler on the wall.

you offer him a chair as you awkwardly hover by the door. “so you can enjoy your creation”

he takes a seat and then looks at you expectantly, before nodding his head towards the other chair.

you sit, do what you’re told- and all of a sudden he’s checking his six once before he pulls the mask down.

it takes your breath away a little bit.

honestly? truthfully? he just looks like a man.

but to you? a part of you is worried that you might spend the rest of your life thinking about him.

like you might be old and grey one day without a thought left to your name but he’ll be the last thing to leave your mind.

he doesn’t break that hardline stare with you as he takes a sip. he really didn’t have to groan quietly as he did it, but he did.

you think he watches you fidget. you think you like it. you think he does too.

at the end of the day, your coworkers are complaining as you all get your bags and close up shop for the day.

“i hope they all got something out of it cause i didn’t get a single bloody thing”

you snort in amusement, minding your business as you shrug your jacket on. as your hands burrow into your warm pockets you feel your fingers brush over the small slip of paper.

you could almost trace the pen stroked digits.

yeah, didn’t get a bloody thing.

[lologoinsolo]

Part 3, Part 4

Minds Us All Masterlist

TW: Mentions of seizures, choking to induce visions, epilepsy and schizophrenia is mentioned, I don’t think there’s more but tell me if there is

Price stands by the board, his arms crossed over his chest as he reads over the scans and the numerous notes from the doctors that Nik sent over. The doctors were as thorough as could be expected but it left more questions than answers.

—High stress and anxiety could be the root cause for her seizures or there could be a potential for something more. The Patient's mother had a history of depression but nothing to indicate anything else. Patient’s health records show that she has not been tested prior for epilepsy or schizophrenia or for being at risk of seizures.

—Paitent experienced no symptoms of those neurological disorders at her young age despite being tested as per the request of Patient’s mother. Granted, the last time the patient was seen by her primary doctor was at the age of 9 years old.

—The most recent visit, which was a year ago, the hospital reported that she left without checking herself out. Her health chart only showed a high heart rate but was, surprisingly, not at risk of a heart attack. Unfortunately there is only so much that we are able to do in the short amount of time allotted to us. In our professional opinion, we believe that she is experiencing these hallucinations under strong duress. It could explain how she claims to ‘see’ the things she claimed she did.

Your brainwaves and the brainwaves of a woman around your age with schizophrenia are placed side by side. The difference between the two scans is stark, an ocean wide difference between the two. That woman’s brainwaves are lit up while yours is relatively normal. The doctors that came to see you cannot know for certain the cause behind your ‘sight’. Stress? Anxiety? That’s where it’s all pointing to at the moment.

Logically, this could explain that your ‘sight’ is caused by a stress factor and he could agree with that if you were spouting bullshit—But, you knew. You knew about Johnny’s near death before anyone could and it very well could’ve been explained if you were a spy. Price could work the spy angle but he can’t work around the fact that you knew about Simon’s family. You knew neither of his men on a personal basis and yet Kyle heard you murmur about Sarah, Joseph, Tommy, and Beth in your sleep. Names that he knows for a fact that Simon would never, ever mention even if he was being tortured.

Price takes in a long, hard breath. Laswell digged up everything she could find on you. Only child, mother was in an out of the psyche ward, father never claimed you nor was in the picture. At age thirteen, your mother took her own life and you were thrown from foster care to foster care up until you were 18 years old. You never went to college, bounced around from job to job. Moved from place to place, constantly moving like you had a reason to. He recalls how bare your apartment was when they came, “no roots to put down.” Laswell found absolutely nothing that ties you to Makarov. Nothing save for coded words you wrote. Furthering the nail into the coffin that you’re not a spy.

His eyes move up from what he’s reading when he hears boots hitting the ground. Doesn’t take a genius to know who’s coming around. “You want to talk to her, don’t you?” Price turns to the side when the Ghost steps inside. Giving his Lieutenant a look, he wasn’t allowed back in your room when the doctors came around.

“Yes.”

“That a good idea?” Ghost’s been spending time longer on the punching bag here lately. Nearly broke it open from how hard he’s been hitting. The safehouse they’re all in allows them a gym of sorts, well… it’s not really a safehouse. This place is Price's, a house far into the country and guarded by numerous trees. A private place that he took you to in hopes of getting quick answers. And just in case you turned out to be what he assumed, there’s enough land here on his property to hide a body from prying eyes.

“Johnny wants to as well.”

Now that… that might be a better alternative. Ghost can handle himself, he’s hung from a meat hook for god sake, he knows how to keep a handle on his emotions. Ever since you made him see what you saw he’s been… off. John’s been keeping a tighter eye on him even though he’s not fully convinced in your ability. He trusts Ghost enough to tell the truth even when it doesn’t sound believable. “Give me ten minutes with her, sir.”

Ten minutes is all he needs, you’ve been awake and alone for the past two days. You willingly allowed the doctors to help you, didn’t argue with them for fear that you’d be killed most likely. Or maybe you knew that they’d find nothing.

“I’ll give you that,” Price uncrosses his arms, stepping towards Ghost and his lieutenant doesn’t move away. Stays still like a statue. “Best to let Johnny go in first before you do, yeah?”

Ghost grunts out a “yes, sir” before he turns to leave. A man on a mission in how he steps. Price needs to sit over this, think over what can be done. Laswell mentioned that you should be tested one more, three times the charm after all.

…

Kyle came in earlier to bring you food and clothes to change out of. You asked him if you would be able to leave now but he gave you no reply. Only placed the food on the table and left. You don’t know what’s worse. The fact that you’re alone and craving some kind of contact or the fact that you’re glad he nor the one called John has come back to interrogate you. You don’t think you’ll be able to handle it once more.

Your mind has been empty, to say the least. The doctors recommended medication but you know they’ll do no good. It’ll only make your curse worse and do you no favors. Sometimes this’ll happen though, sometimes your mind will get so quiet that you’ll beg for a vision. It’s a horrible cycle but it’s one you’ve always known and it’s better than the silence. On the bright side, at least that Ghost hasn’t come back. You don’t know how you’ll react if he does or what he’ll do to you.

There’s a small pinch in the back of your mind but it fizzles away almost as quickly as it came. You brace yourself for what’s bound to come.

A knock sounds on your door, an illusionment of courtesy. The knob turns and in walks a man that you’ve met twice but have seen over a hundred times over in your mind. “Hello, bonnie.” There’s a jagged pink scar on his left side, his hairs a little longer, not the mohawk you saw originally. Beard grown out and scraggly looking, he looks rougher than you remember. “Can we,” he pauses a little to step into the room and you freeze up when Ghost steps in as well. “Can we just talk?”

Ignoring him in favor of seeing him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you immediately say to Ghost. “I’ve never done that before. I didn’t know I could do that. I’m sorry.” You still see his family's faces in your mind, can smell their blood staining the walls and on their Christmas tree. You’ve seen a lot of things but you could never stomach seeing deaths. “I’m—“

“Hey, hey,” Johnny comes your way as he speaks gently to quell your rolling anxiety. Your body flinches involuntarily from where you’re sitting on your bed by the sound of his steps. “Ye didnae ken ye could do tha’. We just want to talk.” Johnny pulls up a chair and notices the food at the table. You haven’t touched it nor the other two plates either. “Ye need tae eat, lass,” he laughs slightly, hoping to ease you, “when I was in and out of the hospital I—“

“I want to go home.” You cut him off. His hand twitches, “tell them, tell them I’m not a spy or a soldier or—“

“And where would you go home to, little bird?” Ghost’s arms are crossed over his chest. He stands besides Johnny, “got a place to go home to that we haven’t figured out yet?” Johnny turns to give Ghost a look but he ignores it in favor of continuing on. “Your visions tell you where to live now?”

“I’m sorry that you saw what you did. That wasn’t my intention, it’s never my intention. I can—“

“I didn’t ask for an apology.” He growls out, your knees tuck to your chest immediately. “How did you see them? Tell me.”

“Ghost,” Johnny tries to intervene in some way but it’s no use.

“I don’t know, I don’t know.” Your voice growing insistent, begging for him to understand. “It’s— it just happens. I-I can’t help it.”

“Can’t help it.” Ghost mutters under his breath. The muscles in his back are tense, pulled taunt. You’re like a fluttering bird in a cage from how you squawk the same thing over and over again.

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop. Apologizing.” He takes a step towards you and you scoot back further up the bed, practically pressing yourself into the corner. Johnny stands and places a hand on Ghost’s shoulder. The anger simmers only a little but the tension still stays. Ghost’s hands ball and flex, “can you do it again?” He asks, more like demands.

There’s a hush pause that overtakes the room, even Johnny looks to you for an answer. “I…” you swallow thickly, shaking your head slightly. “I might?”

“Might?” He doesn’t sound pleased with how unsure you sound.

“It’s uh…” you never knew how to explain it, your mother could never explain it herself either. “When…” you take a breath, “when you look into a kaleidoscope do you see the same thing if you move it around?” Johnny shakes his head no but Ghost does nothing, “that’s… that’s kinda how it’s like for me. Sometimes it’s clear enough that I can see it many times,” flickering to Johnny, his moments haunted you for the longest after all. “I don’t know if I can see yours again, Ghost.” His was more than just his memory, it showed a pocket of time before he even saw it. “I’m,” you almost say sorry again but you bite your lip.

“Price said ye started seeing mine after we met,” one accidental touch that led you here. Your visions never hanged around long, it’s why you came to the practice of writing them down. Your curse, for some reason, latched onto Johnny’s future and never let it go. “Saw it for about a year, did ye ken ye’d find me? Is that why ye came up to me?”

You cross your legs, feeling just a smidge at ease while you pick away at your fingers. “I couldn’t have day to myself without seeing you.” You look down to the shorts you're wearing, missing the look that settles in Johnny’s eyes. “There would be this static feeling in my head the closer I thought I got to you.” He was like a flame and you a moth, only the static got louder and louder the closer you were next to him that day. Maybe you weren’t supposed to find him…

“I’m sorry, hen.” You shake your head but he slowly steps closer to the bed. His knees bumbing the edge of the mattress. “I wouldnae be alive without ye. I heard yer voice in my head when I was on that mission. Heard ye screamin’ for me to pull back and I did.” He’s calm in his approach as he takes a seat now. Scared you’ll try to bolt off the bed if he moves too quickly. “Fucker still got me.” He points to his head, the scar telling a story of an almost death. You prevented that. “Shoulda seen me in recove—“

“Let me go home— please.” He sighs at your attempt to leave once more. “I won’t say anything, I won’t talk about this to anyone—“ your muscles seize when Ghost comes closer, his steps heavy against the floor. There’s no way to leave, you know their names save for Ghost. You’re hanging by a thread that can be snipped at any movement. “Please.” You can’t run or they’ll give chase but even then, there’s only so much space left in here. Boxed completely in with one sitting on the bed and one that could easily tackle you.

“I want ye to try,” Johnny sits closer to you now, the bed groaning under joined weights. “See somethin’ again, show me somethin’, hen.” His hands start moving for you now. “Can ye do that for me?”

“I-I don’t know if I can. I don’t,” you bite your bottom lip when his hands wrap around your wrists. His fingers wrapping firmly around them but still enough room that you could twist if you wanted to. “Please, stop. I don’t know if I can make it happen.” There’s the smallest of a buzz in the back of your head. “I’ve never been able to—“

“Try,” is all he says as he pulls you forward enough that you have to sit on your knees. Your trembling, fingers shaking as he maneuvers your hands to cup his face. You can’t pull away even when you try to do so. His blue eyes search yours, his scar damn near pulsing under your cold hands. “Just try, lass.”

Wobbly and unsteady like a newborn doe, your knees are weak as you close your eyes. Brows pinching tight lines in forceful concentration. Your curse only works when it wants to, never for you. The time spent goes to show that it’s not working the way they want it to, “I can’t,” you say once more. “It’s not working.” Hoping they’ll understand, you’ve never been able to just make it happen.

“Maybe you need some motivation,” Ghost doesn’t give you a chance to turn as he lands a solid hand on the back of your neck. The air you had in your lungs punches out, “just need some fear to get it rolling.” The last two times was through fear and if he needs to choke you out then he will.

“S-Stop—“

“I’ll start squeezing,” he warns, his thumb digging in, “won’t take much to make you pop.” He’s cruel in his laughter, Johnny says nothing as his grip stays steady even when you try to tug. “I’ve broken necks easily, just needs,” Ghost’s thumb presses deeper over your raging pulse, “enough force and it’ll crack.”

“Please!” Chest heaving now, anxiety shoots through the roof as your eyes are wet and frantic. You can’t move back, can’t move forward, can’t even swing to the side to get away. You try once more to make it work but, “it’s not wor—“ gasping suddenly. The walls of your throat tightens from his fingers coiling around it like a vice grip. A sharp static jolts to life, his hand squeezes more, air begins being cut off from you.

Your vision starts building up faster, almost painfully now as your grip onto Johnny’s head tightens. An itching, scratching noise burrows in the back of your head. There’s a screeching, halting sound, like nails that claw down a chalkboard but stops before finishing. It echos in Johnny’s ear that he winces at the same time you do. Your vision blurs whether because of the loss of air or because your curse is letting you see once more.

Laughter. Kids, 4. 1 boy. 3 girls. Blue eyes. Backyard. Swing set, swinging. Laughter.

Johnny inhales a breath, he sees the blurred moments alongside you begin to form. Like a projector being cranked to make an old timey movie start. It’s slow but starts to pick up in pace, pushing through the memory faster and faster. Barreling down the spirals of a pocket of time.

You can see a young Johnny playing with his sisters. It’s a warm sunny day, the heat beating down on them and you. He’s swinging and his mother is yelling at him to get off to come eat some snacks. He swings as high as he can before jumping right off. His sisters scream when he lands hard, blood on his mouth and he pulls a tooth out. There’s laughter from him, he’s laughing. His sister, his oldest sister is—

You struggle for air, lungs painfully begging for something to breathe in. You're pulled out, shoved forcefully away from the memory. Figures form in the shadows as your eyes look wildly around. “Good,” you hear Johnny say but it’s distant, far away from you. Miles away. Your forehead is heavy against his shoulder, you don’t know when you did that. Did you do that? Must’ve done so as your mind started twisting into knots, for once you don’t convulse like you typically do but something is wrong. Really wrong.

Ghost let go of your throat the second you started gasping for air. Only seconds for him but to you? You saw 30 minutes of Johnny’s memory. “Well?” He peers down at the both of you, “report, Johnny.”

Johnny tugs you easily into his lap, your body limp against him. “I saw it, Ghost. Saw it like I was there.” They speak now as if you’re not there. Are you here? Where are you right now? Your head tucked under his chin as your heart beats fast while you feel like your realities are blurring and blending together. “We cannae let her leave.”

“Never planned to, Sergeant.” A voice that’s not Ghost’s sounds from behind the two. Price leans against the door frame, he knew they were up to something. Just had to let it happen.

The shadows dance around in your mind, the kaleidoscopes of moments and memories of your own past starts to mash together. The webs are all sticking and rolling into a ball. You feel like you're floating and crashing at the same time. It’s becoming harder and harder to pull away from it. Harder to separate what’s real and what isn’t. Johnny holds tighter to you when you begin shaking. Head hitting against his chest as—

“We need to sedate her.”

— the static buzzing noise sharpens louder and louder. Your fingers spasm and hands thrash around, writing out words in the air. Make it stop, make it stop.—

“Not yet,” Price comes forward with a pen and paper, “she’s seeing something.” Ghost watches in cold curiosity, his eyes squinting under his mask as Price sticks a pen into your thrashing hand. He balls his over your right hand and holds the paper in his left. You jerk it around, scribbling jagged lines till words start forming.

Stop. Stop. Make it. Stop. Let go me. Let. Hand, Let.

“Tell me where Makarov is.” He whispers into your ear. “Where is Vladimir Makarov?” Your eyes roll back into your head as your legs kick out. The lower half of your body flails about while your upper is held tightly. “Write it down.” His voice echos in your head, becoming like an arrow as it breaks through the maze. Zeros you in like a beacon to follow and you fall deeper into the spirals of your vision.

Make it. Make off. Her. Her in. Rus. Northern. Lights north. Rush, make her off. Old. Building. Under, under. Guarded. Old, guarded. Weapons.

You fill the page with words you see that pile in your head. Picture like moments pour into your mind’s eye of a man you’ve never seen. It’s only half a second intervals, like someone’s slowed down the internet speed to the lowest setting possible.

Man. Man, 1. Talk, yells. Rush in. Rush. Hidden. Under. Ground under. Men. Loyal. Men. Men. Men. Cold, snow. New Clear. Nu. Er. Er, boots. Boots. Boots. Blinding Lighstj thaoies gbauqot—

Price pulls the paper away once your words start becoming unreadable. “Good enough,” he gives no sedation this time. You’ve never needed it before, “let her rest, Soap.” He allows you that as your left on your side. Soap reluctantly stands up as you're left to tremble, you’ll pull out on your own time. He reads over what was written and a location comes to mind. “I’ve a feeling I know where our Russian is.”

[ragingbookdragon]

The woman sits down beside him on the park bench as he watches JJ run around with the toy soldier in his hand, yelling commands and jumping over playground equipment, pretending to be his dad. She smiles and leans over, asking, “Which one is yours?”

He eyes her from the corner of his hood and mutters, “Tyke with the action figure.”

She smiles wider. “He’s cute. JJ, isn’t he?” She points to a young girl following JJ around with her little nurse box. “He plays with Amelia a lot.”

“Yeah?” He’s not exactly interested in the conversation, but one look tells him she’s a tired mom who just wants to talk to someone not in “Mom-Land” 24/7.

“Amelia was really sick as a baby. When she was well enough to play…a lot of the kids didn’t want to play with her. Said she’d make them sick.”

“Cancer?” He asks before he can stop himself, and she blinks before she nods.

“Free now, but kids can be cruel.” She waves at JJ when he looks over. “JJ was the first to play with her. They like to play soldiers and medics.” A laugh escapes her when JJ tumbles and calls for Amelia, and the little girl bends beside him and starts opening the little box of toy supplies. “Is your wife working?”

He wonders if it’s a hope for a mom friend but he shakes his head. “Not married. JJ’s my godson.”

“Oh? But the woman who brings him?” She blinks. “I thought she was…”

“Missus Price is my CO’s wife. She and him took a vacation. I’m watchin’ JJ.”

“You must be close with them,” she surmises. “I thought she was your wife. She’s always so nice and sweet.”

He smiles at that. “Missus Price is a good one.” He whistles sharply all of the sudden, and JJ’s head pops up in the grass before he gets up and hauls Amelia with him, running over.

JJ mock salutes. “Reporting for duty, sir!” He looks at Amelia. “Lia, you have to salute.” The little girl follows in suit and the woman giggles at them.

“It’s gettin’ time for lunch,” he says and JJ whines.

“But Uncle Simon, we just got to the sandpit.”

Simon glares at him. “Soldiers need sustenance for survival. Without it, you’ll starve.”

JJ’s eyes widen and he turns to Amelia. “Medic, I have to leave my battle station.” He salutes her and she does it back clumsily. “Ready for sustance, sir.”

“Sustenance,” Simon corrects and stands up, placing a large hand on his head; it dwarfs the boy’s skull, fingers going over his eyes.

“Unc’ Simon, I can’t see,” he giggles.

“C’mon Banshee,” he says and nods to the woman before he starts walking.

JJ follows, but stops, a faint pink covering his cheeks as he hurries back and hugs Amelia tight. “Bye Medic Lia.”

Amelia hugs him back and smiles with a wave as the woman watches the young boy run next to his godfather, spouting off about enemies in the sandpit and the security of the nation.

The woman hurriedly rises and picks up Amelia, following with, “Wait!”

Simon stops and turns, looking at her expectingly.

“Um…Amelia and I will be back tomorrow around ten…if JJ and you want to come back and play?” She smiles, feeling heat on her cheeks and Simon gazes at her before he looks down at JJ who is nodding rapidly.

“We’ll be ‘ere,” he agrees and the woman smiles.

“I’m glad,” she holds out her hand to shake. “It’s nice to meet you, Simon.”

He takes her hand and shakes it, his grip firm but warm and inviting. “You as well.”

As they walk off, JJ looks up at him and asks, “Do you like Amelia’s mum?”

Simon rolls his eyes. “I just met ‘er, Banshee.”

“I like Amelia’s mom. She’s nice. She always brings me a snack.” He takes Simon’s hand. “I think you should like Amelia’s mum.”

“I’ll think about it.” He says, and happens a glance back at the woman who is listening intently to her daughter vividly depict her playtime with her friend; a small smile graces his lips and he thinks to himself, “I’ll think about it a lot.”