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gloomwitchwrites · 11 months ago

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Tattoo Artist Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings: swearing, brief mentions of terror, domestic!Simon, intimacy in the shower, hand job, vaginal fingering, brief oral sex (female receiving), non-penetrative sex, the mask comes off

Word Count: 5.8k

A/N: Part Fourteen of Ink & Needle

Simon doesn't see you again for two weeks. Amelia intervenes. Simon removes his mask in front of you.

Chapter Thirteen // Chapter Fifteen

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // ink & needle masterlist

Repetition.

Fingers counting bottles. Counting colors. Counting labels.

White paper. Blank spaces. Pencil. Graphite tip.

Breaking. Breaking. Over. Over. Over, again.

Blue ink. Red ink. Black.

Simon counts the little rows, falling deeper into distraction. It’s a way to quiet his mind, to turn off the fucking noise that’s buzzing there in the back like an annoyingly curious bee. But all this inventory counting isn’t working. Nothing is keeping his thoughts at bay.

A week has passed. An entire fucking week and your absence is a festering wound. Simon isn’t taking it personally. Really. He isn’t. But fuck he misses you. Part of him blames himself, insisting that your distance has to do with something he did. It’s not entirely far from the truth. While Simon hasn’t exactly lied to you, he has omitted crucial information.

British Intelligence may very well be coming to call, but Simon doesn’t know that information explicitly. The situation is precarious. Delicate. The information Simon shifted through with Price, Kyle, and Johnny unnerved him.

Kit Walsh is not your local nationalist prick who spouts shit off in chatrooms or on social media for influencers to stitch. Kit Walsh moved beyond that. Beyond walking in to corner stores or a school or a church for innocent people to understand his lead-drenched wrath. Beyond a week or two of media frenzy. Beyond mugshots and a jury sentence.

This man moves between. One minute he’s supplying arms to opposing sides in another country to destabilize a region, and then turns around to whisper in some politician’s ear to convince them to “intercede” on the behalf of “global peace.”

He pushes weapons, pushes people, pushes drugs.

But he’s not a businessman. That’s just a front for his true intentions. Kit Walsh thinks on global levels and how he intends to make the world into his image. He takes his time. He observes and then moves.

It makes the man more dangerous because he also understands that acts at the local level are just as or even more powerful than the global ones. Nothing is more terrifying than when your own neighbor turns their words of hate into hateful actions.

Kit Walsh knows this.

Which is why Simon didn’t give a fuck when he received all those injuries. He thought he took the fucker out for good. That Walsh was a burnt-up corpse. Simon rarely considers any of his scars to be marks of pride. Yet the ones he received when he shoved his knife into Walsh’s chest were ones he didn’t mind having.

But none of that matters now.

Walsh is alive. And he might have fucking blown the back of Lord Archibald Williams’ head off. For what? Simon doesn’t fucking know. Price didn’t know either which means that British Intelligence likely doesn’t.

And you don’t need to know any of that. Why burden you? Why put any of these worries and issues on your plate when they might not land there at all? Why exhaust you further?

When you brought up Archie, Simon panicked, knowing you were already tired—already stressed. It’s not right that this happened to your friend, but Simon truly believes there isn’t anything to particularly worry about at the moment. That is reason enough not to dump this on you.

Simon’s fingers hover above the lid of an ink bottle. He pauses there, thinking, forgetting the number he just uttered.

Lost count. Starts over.

Blue ink. Red ink. Black.

“Fuck!” shouts Simon, his tatted knuckles turning white as the pencil clenched in his fist snaps in half.

Simon stares at the broken pencil. At the fractured graphite.

Sighing heavily, Simon drops the clipboard and steps away from the storage cabinets. He’s fucking distracted, and it’s not only because of the shit he read in Price’s file. Simon hasn’t seen you—hasn’t touched you in almost a week. Somehow, the separation is difficult, more frustrating than Simon previously thought.

He went three years without knowing your touch. But a week is now too much?

Simon clenches his fists. Releases them. Inhales deeply through his nostrils and exhales slowly through his mouth. He repeats until there isn’t any tension in his limbs and his mind quiets. Using the silence, Simon takes notes of the aches and pains. The leg that always gives him trouble isn’t hurting much today, but that might be a different story tomorrow. Everything else is dull and fine, better than it has been.

Checking his scheduling book, Simon pulls up the name of the next client, retrieving the sketches and preparing the stencil. This is work he knows. This is work that’s natural to him. Safe and secure. When the client arrives, Simon shifts into work mode, slipping into his professional mask, dipping into his creativity.

For these few hours, Simon doesn’t think about you at all and he certainly doesn’t think about Walsh. He’s only thinking about the tattoo and the client and the goddamn inventory sheet that looks ready to slip right off the desk.

But when Simon’s client leaves, and he is left in an empty shop with a snoozing Bravo, thoughts of you come roaring back to the forefront of his mind. There really is no reason to worry. It’s not like Simon is only receiving radio silence from you. You just haven’t been with him. That’s all.

The two of you have talked. Well—not extensively. It’s only been flashes of conversation, brief texts and even shorter phone calls. It is the tiredness and exhaustion that Simon hears in your voice every time he speaks with you that worries him. He knows why you’re staying away, and it’s not because of him. At least, that is what you tell him.

Yet Simon cannot help but linger in those spaces, questioning whether or not he somehow messed up. That he didn’t do enough. Worse, it’s not fair to you to think this way. You have been clear about why you’re not around, but it still chews at him. Simon stills wants to see you, to hold you close even if it’s for a fleeting moment.

He knows there is a baby. He knows you have responsibilities to your friend. He knows and yet Simon is fucking selfish because he wants—no. Needs to breathe you in even if it is just the sweet scent of your skin.

But evening comes as Simon closes up shop for the night, and there is not a text or call from you.

There are none the next day or the day after that.

By Sunday morning, Simon is boiling from the inside out, gripping his phone like a goddamn lunatic.

He hasn’t heard from you, and the few calls and texts he’s sent have gone unanswered. If he were his old self, he’d have already gone to your place demanding to see you. But things have changed for him in some respects. Simon is trying hard not to fall into old habits and behaviors when it comes to you.

Simon has failed on several occasions, but he’s trying to be better. He’s trying to be better for you.

The decision he makes is like pulled teeth. Necessary sometimes but fucking painful without the proper numbing. Simon does not go to your place. Every step he takes in the opposite direction of Amelia’s home are dull razors against the skin. He forces himself to leash Bravo, to go to Dancing Faun, to sit down on his usual fucking stool and pretend that everything is fine.

Routine is good. Routine is comfortable.

Simon is going to leave it—leave you—and give you some needed space. There is a newborn in Amelia’s house, and the last thing Simon needs to do is to barge in and step all over that dynamic just because he hasn’t seen you in a few days.

“Look who it is,” chuckles Ben, the owner of Dancing Faun. He sets down a newly polished pint glass. “Thought you forgot about me.”

Simon grins behind the balaclava, the familiar face a much-needed welcome. “You’re forgettable. But your wife?” Simon whistles and settles on his usual stool.

Ben guffaws and wags a finger in Simon’s direction. “Don’t let her hear you say that. She’d leave me in an instant if you asked.”

“Better ask her then,” replies Simon, pretending to get up.

“Oi. Sit down,” mumbles Ben, shaking his polishing rag in Simon’s direction. “Cheeky bastard.”

Ben leaves and returns with Simon’s usual full English and tea. The two of them chat, Ben forgetting not to talk politics on Sunday while Simon listens and shakes his head, knowing the big guy does it on purpose to mess with him. After breakfast, Simon starts with a pint of dark amber ale, moving on to a second as the first customers begin to trickle in.

For a few hours, Simon forgets about the outside world. He watches a rugby match. Drinks a third beer. Considers whether he should switch over to whiskey. It’s just like all his other Sundays since retirement.

Routine is good. Routine is comfortable.

Simon lifts the pint glass to his mouth, downing the last of his third drink. He sets it down on the bar top, unsuspecting of the coming intrusion.

Reality is such a fickle thing. Sometimes it is a clawing, creeping blob that lurks in the corner of a dark room. Sometimes, it is an abrupt shaking, as if hands are on you, imploring you to look.

“Amelia!”

Simon’s stomach flips at the sound of Ben’s voice calling out to the older woman. Glancing away from the television, Simon turns, seeking you. Hope expands in his chest like an inflating balloon. Sparks pop off in his head with the belief that you will enter in behind Amelia. That you will walk through the door and Simon can finally see you again.

But you’re not here.

You’re not with her.

It’s just Amelia.

Her cheeks are rosy from the November cold, and her coat swallows her up.

“I have photos of the grandbaby,” she says, voice cheery as she removes her leather gloves and stuffs them in her coat pockets.

Ben’s smile widens. “Congratulations.”

Several patrons around the pub hold up their drinks in salute, echoing Ben’s initial statement. Without taking off her coat, Amelia travels from person to person, her wire rimmed glasses hanging on the tip of her nose as she scrolls through photos on her phone. She lingers with each person, telling the same story, showing the same pictures.

Simon patiently waits because that’s all he can do. Inside, he’s boiling in an agonizing twisting of alertness that pulls every muscle in his body taut with tension.

Is she doing this on purpose to mess with him? Did he really fuck up and this is her version of punishment?

When Amelia finally approaches Simon, some of that tension evaporates. Her smile is genuine. Soothing. She’s not upset with him. If anything, Amelia is relieved to see him.

“Morning, Simon,” she sighs, her shoulders sagging slightly.

“Morning,” he replies, not recognizing the gruffness in his voice. Simon swallows, tapping the side of his empty glass with a single finger.

Amelia holds up her phone. “Interested in seeing pictures of my grandbaby?”

Fucking hell, he can’t say no to her.

Simon only nods because he cannot trust his voice. Is he fracturing? What the bloody hell is wrong with him? Is it this distance? Does Simon truly miss you so much that it’s causing him to slip?

Amelia settles herself on the stool next to Simon. Bravo’s head doesn’t even lift in greeting. The German Shepard is out, completely relaxed and dozing on the floor. With phone clutched in one hand, Amelia begins to scroll through multiple pictures. Most of them are just of the baby asleep or cradled in someone’s arms.

“Her name is Lillian,” says Amelia, smiling fondly. “Named after Archie’s younger sister. Poor thing didn’t even get to see the age of three.”

The mention of Archie’s name twists Simon’s stomach. The file, its contents, and the conversation he had with Price, Johnny, and Kyle comes creeping back, wanting to sink its claws in.

“This,” and Amelia brings her phone a bit closer. “Is the day we brought her back.” Amelia hums softly. “So rosy cheeked.”

Simon grunts in agreement. It’s not the kindest response but it’s not because he doesn’t agree. Lillian is cute. She is rosy cheeked. Simon is good with kids and he likes them. But he just wants to know what is happening with you.

Amelia slides her finger across the phone’s screen only to reveal a glimpse of a possible answer to all of his questions.

This picture is one of you. In your arms, you are holding Lillian. This wasn’t taken at the hospital. This is at Amelia’s home on the sofa. Simon recognizes the fucking fabric. You’re smiling down at the girl as if she’s the most perfect thing you’ve ever seen.

At first, Simon’s mind is steady. Resolute.

But then, it drifts. Keeps floating. Floating further away until Simon is imagining that you are not holding Amelia’s grandchild at all. You are holding your child. The one you might have with him.

The thought—this image of you—is sudden and fierce. Simon cannot shake it. His mind fixates on this future as if it’s a completely plausible thing. It sticks to him like honey. Like tar. No fingers can dig in and scrape it away. No cleaning solution could scrub it off. There is no box or hole or wasteland that Simon can hurdle this idea into in the hope that he might forget it.

It has bloomed. Flowered. Roots sinking between the soft folds of his brain.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

“She needs a break,” says Amelia, her tone drifting to a far-off place, pulling Simon from his wayward dreaming.

She is looking down at her phone. She is looking at the photo of you. Amelia glances up at Simon, her features softening into gentle sadness. “That’s really why I came. Hoped you’d be here.” She shrugs.

“Here I am,” replies Simon.

Amelia nods. “Here you are,” she echoes.

Locking her phone, Amelia exchanges it for the gloves in her pockets. Simon glances over at Ben and lightly moves his empty glass in the man’s direction. He comes over and retrieves the glass.

“She’s working herself to the bone. Doing everything for Evie and I when it’s not necessary.” Amelia taps her gloves against her open palm. “And she’s too stubborn to hand the reigns over to me. The woman needs a break. Away from all of us.”

Simon understands. You’re too selfless to step aside. You need to be forced or prompted. Amelia knows this too which is why she came searching for him. Hearing that you’re overworking yourself displeases him, but he’s also bloody fucking happy that he can have you to himself for a bit.

“For how long?” asks Simon, smothering the hopefulness that wants to burst forth.

Amelia frowns in thought. “A few days. Maybe a week. If she accepts that.”

Oh, you’ll accept. Simon will see to it.

“Another drink?” Ben meanders over from the other side of the bar.

Simon shakes his head. “Paying out, Ben.”

Amelia smirks and slips on her gloves as Simon hands off what’s owed. The tension and confusion from earlier are now raw energy, pumping through his loins like electricity. The entire walk to Amelia’s is easy, all the aches and pains in his body suddenly silent as if they too are excited to see you.

When Simon enters Amelia’s home, he finds you sitting on the floor in the living room. You’re surrounded by piles of laundry. Closest to Simon are small stacks of papers. They’re scattered off to the side in some sort of organized chaos that he can’t figure out. Your laptop is open in front of you resting on an ottoman. You’re reading emails while folding laundry.

Bravo stands to the right of Simon but doesn’t move in. He’s waiting for Simon’s command but even he can feel the dog’s excitement to greet you.

You haven’t noticed Simon yet but he certainly notices you. While he’d love to stop and just bask in your beauty, there are so many other things catching his attention that give life to what Amelia was telling him.

Tiredness covers you like a weighted blanket. You’re slouched forward, each movement accompanied by a sigh and a delay that Simon doesn’t like. His gaze focuses and it is then that he sees the slight tremble in your hands as you smooth the top of a folded towel.

Behind Simon, Amelia shuts the front door. The sound of it closing jostles you. Your head snaps in his direction.

“Simon.”

It is a relief. A surprise.

The exhaustion in your voice is cold and palpable like butter right out of the fridge. You’re ready to fall over. Simon doesn’t need to guess because when you attempt to stand, you wobble a bit, reaching out to steady yourself on the sofa.

Amelia is right. You are overworking yourself.

It takes Simon three strides to get to you. Placing a hand on your shoulder, he lightly presses, indicating that you should sit back down. Without protest, you follow his silent command, and Simon sinks to your level.

“What is all this?” he asks, keeping his tone calm.

Beneath the mask, Simon is furious. Not with you but with himself. He should have listened to his instinct. He should have given in to those old impulses. If he had, he could be helping you right now and perhaps you wouldn’t be so goddamn tired.

The sigh you release if heavy like a boulder. It presses on Simon’s chest. His hand on your shoulder shifts, cradling the side of your throat, his thumb brushing against your jawline. You don’t say anything. You’re too defeated—too exhausted.

Bravo cannot reach you with Simon in the way. The German Shepard opts for the ottoman, resting his head on it, ears drooping slightly.

“Simon is going to take you for a bit.” Amelia’s voice drifts over Simon’s shoulder and your eyes widen as you glance at the woman.

“But—”

“I don’t want to hear it,” snaps Amelia. “You’re doing far too much. Let us help.”

That’s a fucking understatement.

Simon presents his other hand and you take it. His hand on your neck slips away to reach behind you to help you guide you to your feet.

“Go pack a bag,” murmurs Simon, his palm splaying wide across your lower back. “You’re staying with me.”

Your lips part as if to form a protest but Simon isn’t having that. He arches a single eyebrow, daring you to question what he’s told you to do.

Your mouth snaps shut.

Simon leans in. “Good girl,” he whispers.

This time when your lips part, it is with surprise. You blink, a bit stunned, and then a flood of warmth rushes up your neck and cheeks, your gaze dropping to the floor, face turning away in embarrassment.

Your reaction is something. It is something other than tiredness. Other than exhaustion and weakness. This is a piece of you he’s seen before and wants to see again. You shouldn’t be shoving it away to take care of others.

Against his chest is your flattened palm. Your fingers curl inward as your embarrassed demeanor turns into observance. You’re staring at the laundry, upper body twisting back and forth as you look for something.

“What is it?” prompts Simon, following your movements as if he can read your mind and know what it is you’re searching for.

Reaching down, you toss a few unfolded pieces of laundry aside to reveal your phone. Retrieving it, you glance down at the screen.

“Shit,” you mutter. It doesn’t light up. Your phone is dead. No wonder you haven’t been answering him.

“We’ll worry about that later.” Simon nods toward the stairs. “Go.”

Back at his flat, Simon takes your packed bag and drops it off in the bedroom. You stand in the space between the living room and kitchen, lingering with your hands clasped in front of you.

“Sit. I’ll make us something.” Simon gestures toward the couch and you slowly unfurl, nearly falling into the sofa once you get there.

Simon rummages around in his pantry and fridge, knowing that it’s best to find a snack for you to munch on while he cooks dinner. When is the last time you ate a real meal or fucking slept? Would you even admit the truth to him?

He eventually brings you tea and a variety of crisps. Your “thank you” is slightly slurred like you’re close to falling into the lands of Morpheus. Bravo curls up next to you, one paw touching your thigh while the rest of his body reclines away.

Simon stays in the kitchen. When he emerges to bring you food, he finds you asleep, grasping one of the bags of crisps against your chest. The opened end is facing Bravo and the poor dog is having an existential crisis on whether or not he should stick his face in or leave the bag be.

He should let you sleep, but Simon also knows you need to fucking eat something.

Gently, Simon places your plates on the coffee table. He removes the bag of crisps from your arms before rousing you. The meal is devoured. Tea is had. Simon throws on a movie, and you snuggle up to him, sinking into his warmth.

This is how it should be. With you in his arms.

Twenty minutes in and you’re asleep again. Simon doesn’t care at all. You are here. You are close. You are safe. Like this, Simon can protect you. He can take care of you. Simon finishes the movie by himself, deciding that only after he’ll carry you to bed.

As he shifts to lift you, you awaken slightly, arms sliding around his neck to snuggle closer. Simon turns his face into you, breathes you in, allowing your scent to fill his lungs. You’re drifting off again as he adjusts his grip and stands. His bad leg wants to give out but Simon bites back the quick flare of pain.

Fuck that. Simon is stronger than that.

In the bedroom, Simon bends at the knees, thighs straining as he tosses back the covers on one side of the bed. Sliding you underneath, he tucks you in. You turn over to face the opposite direction, arms curling around his pillow like it’s him. He watches as you bring it closer, nostrils flaring as if you’re inhaling him too.

Simon changes into more comfortable clothing before sliding in next to you.

For him, his sleep is absent of dreams.

There are no shadows or fire. No memory. Just blankness. Nothing.

He wakes early, well before the time he actually needs to open up the shop for customers. Simon doesn’t want to. He’d like to stay in bed all day with you, but he also knows that trying to rearrange today’s schedule just for a bit of personal gratification is a fucking rude thing to do.

Simon stretches, all the joints in his body popping as Bravo’s head appears above the end of the bed. The dog tilts his head and Simon gestures toward the door. Bravo takes off, heading outside to go guard the place from squirrels.

Shifting to the edge of the bed, Simon rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck. More popping but the stiffness quickly recedes. Glancing behind him, Simon finds you still asleep. Things have changed though. The bedding is twisted around your body and you’ve removed some clothes in the night.

He cannot help himself. Simon’s gaze glides over all the exposed skin. The itch to reach out and run just his fingertips across the curve of your hip is unbearable. Simon has to clench his hands into fists just to stop himself from touching you.

Pushing off from the bed, Simon enters the bathroom, seeking a hot shower. All his clothes including his mask go on the floor. He is aching between his legs, all the blood in his body rushing happily to his quickly swelling cock.

“Fuck,” he mutters, stepping under the water.

Wrapping his hand around the base, Simon begins to stroke. The small bit of underwear he kept as a token is still tucked away in his dresser, but he doesn’t need it. Not anymore. He now has the memory of you, and the fact that you are currently in his bed. It’s enough to drive that pulsing desire higher.

Simon rests his forearm against the shower wall. He leans forward, his forehead coming into contact with that arm. He’s so fucking busy stroking his cock, that he doesn’t hear the opening of the bathroom door.

He doesn’t hear it close.

Nor does he hear the shower door.

It isn’t until your hand slides over his that Simon realizes what’s happening.

Your other hand rests against his back, splaying wide, moving up and down in gentle passes.

“Let me,” you murmur and Simon releases himself, only for you take his place, stroking him perfectly in utter pleasure.

A shiver rattles up his spine. You’re not looking at his face. You stand off to his right, face lightly pressed against the right side of his upper back near his shoulder. Lips move against skin, leaving kisses behind. You give Simon these small gifts with each stroke of your hand along his shaft.

Do you know that your mouth and hand on his back are caressing his scars? Do you know? Because Simon does, and it make him feel unworthy. Those are no longer earned marks but ones of failure.

But it’s not like you know that.

Over the scars is ink. Black ink. Perhaps you feel their lines and ridges under the tattoos. Perhaps you don’t. Yet Simon knows, and he doesn’t hate the touch. Other people he’s fucked have touched them, commented on them, tried to even sexualize them.

You’re not touching the scars. You are but you aren’t. You’re touching him. Touching Simon.

With a gentle twist of your wrist, you glide down his cock and circle the head with your thumb. Simon groans, leaning into your hold. He imagines you sinking to your knees and taking him into your mouth. He imagines you spreading your legs wide in open invitation. Of him sliding into you, watching himself disappear into your welcoming body.

Your pace increases slightly, just enough to drag Simon toward his end.

He bursts, his release marking the wall, but Simon is already grabbing your wrist, twisting around to face you.

You’re fast. Already, you have one hand thrown over your eyes, a playful smile plastered on your face.

Simon doesn’t care. Not really. The mask is just habit.

Gently, Simon guides your hand away from your face and yet you still keep your eyes closed.

“Don’t want to look at me?” he asks teasingly.

You giggle. “Feels a bit wrong.”

Simon smirks and then grabs your shoulders, turning you around to face the shower wall. He leans down, pressing his lips to your ear. “Your turn.”

Your hands go out to steady yourself as Simon slides his hand between your legs. He moans softly at the contact. You’re already wet for him, and it’s not because of the water. You’re fucking aroused. Needy. All Simon can think about is fucking you with his fingers before he fucks you with his tongue.

Simon wants to give you more but that has to wait. When he takes you like that, he needs to have all of you. Without interruptions. Without distractions. That’s how he wanted it to be three years ago at Riot Room. He wanted to take you home and fuck you on and over every surface in his flat. He wanted to make you scream his name until your voice went hoarse.

He circles your clit with his thumb a few times before testing with a finger. It slides right in and Simon feels the gentle flutter of your pussy adjusting to him. With his other hand, Simon slides it up your body to grab the front of your throat, holding you still. He presses his lips to the top of your head, not caring that the water is close to running into his eyes.

Simon begins to thrust and swirl, inserting a second finger quickly, wanting to feel how you’ll stretch for him. You whimper when his thumb makes another pass over your clit. It is sweet and Simon grins against your scalp, drinking in your little sounds.

But you are also reaching for him, left hand dropping from the wall to move behind you, palming his cock back to hardness even as Simon’s fingers fuck your pussy. You rock back, indicating what you want.

Simon nearly loses it right then.

He nearly snaps.

All he has to do is arch your hips a bit, maybe bend slightly at the knee. He’d fucking slide right in. He could fuck you right here against the shower wall, watch you whimper and beg, pinned between two hard surfaces.

You arch your back. Rub against him. His cock slides against the spot where your cunt and his fingers meet.

A vision of you clawing at the shower wall as he fucks you senseless clouds his mind. It infiltrates. Digs its feet in.

Simon nearly gives in right then as you orgasm, squeezing around his fingers. He nearly breaks the promise to himself.

But he somehow controls himself. Instead of giving in, Simon removes his hand from between your legs and twists his fingers in your hair, tugging to arch your back and bend you enough so he can reach that gorgeous fucking mouth.

His lips come down on yours and you moan against him. Simon’s hand at your throat eases, slips away, trailing over breast and waist and hip before stabilizing on your lower stomach. With this support, Simon slides his cock between your legs.

He does not penetrate, just rocks back and forth. With your thighs pressed together, and the slickness of your orgasm freshly coating your sex, he can pretend he’s inside you. Simon knows it isn’t enough but it’ll have to do for now.

The hand on your stomach sinks lower, shifting to your pelvis. His fingers find your clit. You’re already so sensitive from the previous orgasm that the second takes moments to come to life. Simon savors it, allows it to feed his own movements until he cannot contain his own. Pressing on your pelvis, Simon keeps you in place as finishes, his cock soaking in your juices.

The water is growing cold and Simon is fucking smug.

Slowly, he eases his cock from between your thighs, perfectly content with what just transpired. But his cum is fucking everywhere. It’s literally dripping from your sex.

“Fuck,” murmurs Simon, gently wiping some of that away with water.

That’s something the two of you need to fucking discuss. The first time the two of you had sex, there was a condom. This time, Simon doesn’t want there to be any barriers, but that cannot fucking happen without birth control. You might not be on it, and if that’s the case, the two of you will have to figure something else out.

You press into him. “Simon,” you groan, lips parting in wanton need.

A growl leaves his throat as he gives you what he wants. He nips and sucks on your bottom lip before drawing away, leaving you to face the shower wall. Simon shuts off the water and lightly tugs on your hand.

“Come on.”

He tugs on your hand again but you don’t move. Frowning, Simon grabs your shoulders and forces you to turn.

He blinks and then bursts out laughing. “What are you doing?” Your eyes are closed and your mouth is a thin line. “You can look at me.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Simon chuckles, releasing your shoulders. He places one hand flat against the shower wall. Leaning in, Simon drops his voice to low purr. “Think I’m monstrous?”

With his words come the pebbling of your skin. He watches in real time as it fans out across your body. He grins in triumph.

“The very worst,” you reply softly.

Pushing off from the wall, Simon stands tall, shoulders squared, chest forward. “Look at me,” he says, and this time it’s a command.

You suck in a breath before one eye opens. It’s more of a squint but then you open the other, blinking a few times.

For some stupid fucking reason, Simon is a bit nervous. He’s never been nervous like this. Not when it comes to his face.

At first, your eyes widen, and Simon’s chest clenches tight as if a ribbon is twisted around his ribcage. Then, your brow softens, and your mouth forms the most gorgeous smile he’s ever seen. Your hands instantly reach toward his face in eagerness only to pause just before making contact.

The retreat is shallow. You’re asking permission.

“It’s okay,” murmurs Simon, because it is.

You close this distance and Simon turns his face into your soft hands. Your thumbs stroke over his cheeks. Your fingers trace his brow and nose. Every touch is exploratory and gentle, but fucking bliss.

“Hiding all this from me?” you tease. “You’ve been holding out on me, Simon.”

He chuckles, happiness vibrating in his chest. Clasping your hands with his own, Simon brings them down to his chest. In one motion, the two of you are coming together, lips meeting. This is all softness. All tenderness.

Simon draws back, licks his lips. “Will you go away with me?”

“On a trip?”

He nods, stealing one more kiss before continuing. “Next weekend? I can move a few things around.”

“I’m not sure,” you say slowly.

“If you say no I’m telling Amelia.”

You laugh, almost snort, and shake your head. “Fine. Where to?”

“It’s a surprise,” whispers Simon.

You pull back slightly, an amused expression on your face. Simon grins and steps out of the shower, bringing you with him. With towel in hand, Simon soaks up the droplets on his skin. He never takes his eyes off you as you dry yourself. The moment you’re done, Simon snags the towel from you and tosses it to the side.

“Come here,” he growls, needing you all over again.

You playfully bat at his hands but it’s all for show. You easily give in to him, allowing Simon to drag you onto the bed. He sighs as he pushes your legs wide, settling between them to drape one over each of his shoulders.

Dragging you to his mouth, Simon forgoes all teasing and closes the distance. Your back arches off the bed, hands flying to his head as his tongue penetrates your pussy.

It is morning.

He’s simply enjoying his breakfast.

And Simon won’t leave the table until he’s finished his meal.

taglist:

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fatehbaz · 18 days ago

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Edit: I removed the screenshot so as not to share dm stuff, but I got a message from someone who couldn't send an ask, inquiring: "i was wondering what book it was that you mentioned about the philippines? i'd be interested in reading it"

Sorry to post; figured it would be a subject worth sharing with interested others. Good news: It's an article, so it's relatively easier to access and read.

Jolen Martinez. "Plantation Anticipation: Apprehension in Chicago from Reconstruction America to the Plantocratic Philippines" (2024). An essay from an Intervention Symposium titled Plantation Methodologies: Questioning Scale, Space, and Subjecthood. Hosted and published by Antipode Online. 4 January 2024.

Basically:

Explores connections between plantations in US-occupied Philippines and the policing institutions and technologies of Chicago. Martinez begins with racism and white anxiety in Chicago in the 1870s. Coinciding with Black movement from the South during Reconstruction and the Great Migration, Chicago was, in Martinez's telling, a center of white anxiety and apprehension. Chicago public, newspapers, and institutions wanted to obsessively record information about Black people and white labor dissidents, including details on their motivations and internal/inner life. Between 1880-ish and 1910-ish Chicago then became a center of surveillance, records-keeping, classification systems, and new innovations in monitoring dissent and collecting information. Within a year after the labor rebellions, the Adjutant General of the US Army who led Chicago's militarized crackdown on the 1877 Great Railroad Strike immediately moved to DC and proposed establishing "the Military Information Division" (MID); eventually founded in 1885, MID started collecting hundreds of thousands of Bertillon-system intelligence cards on dissidents and "criminals." Meanwhile, National Association of Chiefs of Police headquartered their central bureau of identification (NBCI) in Chicago in 1896. At play here is not just the collection of information, but the classification systems organizing that information. The MID and related agencies would then go on to collect mass amounts of information on domestic residents across the US. In Martinez's telling, these policing beliefs and practices - including intelligence cards, "management sciences," and policing unit organization - were then "exported" by MID to the Philippines and used to monitor labor and anticolonial dissent. Another Chicago guy developed "personality typing" and psychological examinations to classify criminality, and then trained Philippines police forces to collect as much information as possible about colonial subjects.

The information-gathering in the Philippines constituted what other scholars like Alfred McCoy have called one of the United States' first "information revolutions"; McCoy described these technologies and practices as "capillaries of empire." Martinez suggests that it's important to trace the lineage of these racialized anxieties and practices from Chicago to the Philippines, because "such feelings were fundamental to linking plantations which at first seem so spatially and temporally distant." And "[u]ltimately, the US colonial plantocracy in the Philippines built its authority around information infrastructures [...] and feelings emanating from Chicago [...] that extended from the image of the American South."

Side-note:

The Bertillon system was standardized at about this same time, 1879-ish, and in similar social and racial contexts, becoming popular in other Midwest/Great Lakes cities, especially to track Black people (though it was also rapidly and widely adopted famously as an essential approach across Europe). The system used body measurements to identify and classify people, especially "criminals," significantly involving photography, such that Bertillon is also sometimes credited as the originator of "the mugshot."

I'd add that the aforementioned police chiefs National Bureau of Criminal Identification (NBCI) stayed in Chicago from 1896 until 1902, when the killing of President McKinley frightened officials with potential of wider popular communist/labor movements; at that point, it was moved to DC, as William Pinkerton (co-director of the Pinkerton agency) donated the agency's photograph collection to build the new bureau, and NBCI strengthened itself by collecting Bertillon-style fingerprints and became the precursor to the FBI, founded 1908. (After 1895-ish especially, European authorities were transcending their petty rivalries to attempt forming international police agencies and share documents, tracking each others' domestic radicals/dissidents.)

You could compare the colonial use of Bertillon-style intelligence card systems in Chicago and US-occupied Philippines to the rise of fingerprinting as a weapon of Britain.

Edward Henry was the Inspector-General of Police in Bengal, appointed 1891, basically the top cop in British India. He exchanged letters with notorious eugenicist Francis Galton, wherein they specifically talked about the importance of developing a classification system for fingerprints that could be used alongside the Bertillon system of anthropometric identification. (Another British imperial administrator in India, Sir William Herschel, had previously been the first to pioneer fingerprinting by taking hand-prints.) By 1897, police forces in India had been adopting the so-called Henry Classification System, and the Governor-General of India personally decreed that fingerprinting be adopted across India. By 1900, Henry was sent to South Africa to train police in classification systems. By 1903, Henry was back in Britain and became head of the Metropolitan Police of London, now the top cop in Britain. (Compare dates with US developments: British police in India adopt fingerprint identification system the same year that Chicago police found their proto-FBI central identification bureau. Less than a year after the US head-of-state gets killed, Britain super-charges the London police.)

So, the guy who pioneered fingerprinting classification for use in maintaining order and imperial power in India and other colonies was eventually brought in to deploy those tactics on Britons in the metropole. The kind of colony-to-metropole violence thing described by many theorists. Britain also developed traditions of police photography in context of rebellions in Jamaica and India to collect personally identifiable information and track dissent. The Ottoman Empire cultivated a system of passports and related laws to monitor and direct movement; France did something similar in colonial Algeria.

And Great Lakes cities, after the Great Migration, were notorious for this kind of police violence. Consider how the Bertillon system was used early-on by Minneapolis police to track and target Black "alley workers" (try keyword-searching "Minneapolis Bertillon alley workers"). Or how Chicago was a focal point of antiblack violence in the Red Summer of 1919. Or how Milwaukee has some the most distinct Black-white segregation of any large urban area in the US. Or how, after Elliot Ness lionized law enforcement officials in Chicago during the Al Capone case, he then led policing operations in Cleveland culminating in the mass eviction and the burning of Kingsbury Run shantytown. (Chicago is like a funnel, a node, a hub. Especially after the 1860s: Center of railroad networks. Center of telegraph networks. Destination for Texas/Kansas cattle shipped to Chicago meatpacking houses. Destination for Corn Belt prairie agricultural products. Hence the 1893 Columbian fair and Chicago's turn of the century image as a modernist metropolis. So they had to keep the laborers in line.)

Anyway, the other story that I mentioned regarding Philippines was from:

Gregg Mitman. "Forgotten Paths of Empire: Ecology, Disease, and Commerce in the Making of Liberia's Plantation Economy." Environmental History, Volume 22, Number 1. January 2017.

For context, I'd note that this takes place in the midst of the US's "conquest of the mosquito" in its militarized occupation of Panama, where the canal was completed in 1914.

In Mitman's story, Richard P. Strong was appointed as director of the brand-new Department of Tropical Medicine at Harvard in 1913. Shortly thereafter in 1914, as he toured plantations in Panama, Cuba, Guatemala, etc., Strong simultaneously took a job as director of the Laboratories of the Hospitals and of Research Work of the United Fruit Company (infamous for its brutal labor conditions in plantations, its land-grabbing in Central America, and its relationship to US corporate power). Harvard hired Strong partially on the recommendation of General William Cameron Forbes, who was the military governor of US-occupied Philippines from 1909 to 1913. When Harvard hired Strong, he had been living in the Philippines, where he was the personal physician to Governor Forbes, and was also the director of the Philippine Bureau of Science's Biological Laboratory, where he had experimented on Filipino prisoners without their knowledge; Strong fatally infected these unknowing test-subjects with bubonic plague. Then, Governor Forbes, after leading the US occupation of the Philippines, himself became an overseer to Harvard AND a director of United Fruit Company (also Forbes was a banker and the son of the president of Bell Telephone Company). Meanwhile, Strong also became a shareholder in British rubber plantations; Strong approached Harvey Firestone to help encourage the massive rubber company to negotiate a deal to expand plantations in West Africa, where Firestone got a 99-year-long concession to lease a million acres of land in Liberia. So there's an intimate relationship between military, plantations, colonization, academic funding models, corporate profiteering, land dispossession, etc.

---

So, in each case, the plantation expands in time and space. There is imperial anxiety about the threat of potential subversion from recalcitrant laborers. Imperial authorities cooperate and learn from each other. The rubber plantation owner is friends with the military guy, who's friends with the laboratory technician, who's friends with the railroad developer, who's friends with the cop, who's friends with banana plantation owner. There are connections between the exercise of power in the Philippines and Panama and West Africa and Bengal and Chicago. Connections both material and imaginative.

Disturbing stuff.

#sorry for all this rambling #and sorry for removing image i just cant in good conscience bring myself to share screenshot of private message someone has sent me #even if a message may have been meant as part of or adjacent to amicable public discussion #tidalectics #intimacies of four continents #geographic imaginaries #ecologies #multispecies #plantationocene and plantations i guess idk #black methodologies #indigenous pedagogies #my writing i guess #archipelagic thinking #abolition

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ahedderick · 2 months ago

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Local News

My aunt got me a digital subscription to the local newspaper for Christmas. Interestingly, while my subscription became active last week, I didn't receive login information until today. In. The. Regular. Mail.

I couldn't believe it when I tore open an envelope and found directions and password for logging into their site. Typed on a piece of paper. Instead of emailed to me. I have so many questions.

Anyhow, I logged in and I'm perusing the local news. Yay, me. I note that there is an article about a new surgeon hired at a nearby hospital. His mugshot professional headshot photo looks exactly, and I cannot overstate this, exactly like Gru from Despicable Me.

I am trying to imagine what my response would be if I was half-sedated, lying on a gurney, and Gru walked up to introduce himself and tell me he was going to remove my spleen. I'm not sure that would go well.

#newspaper #local news

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offshore-brinicle · 1 year ago

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Little personal Limbus theory that I've been working on for some time is that the Limbus Sinners' inciting indicents that led them down the path of joining the company, being the moment when their wish was born, all happened at the same time 3 years before the current story.

Thanks to some old leaks where people managed to dig up three of the Sinners' unobstructed profiles, we know Yi Sang and Sinclair's official ages are 29 and 20 respectively. Remove 3 years from that:

Yi Sang would have been 26, which is the age the narrator of The Wings claims to be, after leaving his wife behind once and for all and pressumably commiting suicide by jumping off the rooftop of a department store. 26 is the real Yi Sang's age at the time of his death as well, after his tuberculosis worsened imprisioned by the Japanese forces, so this means most likely he's left N Corp behind 3 years prior, avoiding such a fate, be it either death by his own hands in despair or torment at the hands of Hermann since she seems to threaten him with torture.

Sinclair on the other hand would have been 17 which aligns with him still being in high school when the incident with Kromer happened and also mentions in his observation log for Kromer that she has grown slightly taller since the last time they met, however what was of him and how he had survived for so long taking in count he woke up in the Backstreets after his family's murder is still a mystery.

Now recently, not only the Pequod crew speculate that they have been trapped inside The Whale for 3 years, but we get direct confirmation that Limbus!Heathcliff is from the Wuthering Heights timeskip thanks to his Queequeg ID.

The first one is pretty self-explenatory, they say it themselves, though it's dubious how true this is since they have no way of tell the passage of time inside the whale and even the woman who says this sounds somewhat unsure, and Pip who was a young child in Ishmael's memory still looks the same when we see him again in the present and it's difficult to say if this is a side effect of the Pallidfication. (on the other hand I am impressed at the growth rate of Ishmael's hair for being only 3 years)

On the other hand, Heathcliff's Queequeg ID mentions the event that led him to run away from Wuthering Heights in the original novel; he overhears Catherine saying to Nelly that marrying him would be "a disgrace to her", so driven by his anger and heartbreak he ran away, making his own fortune elsewhere so that he would return to the state seeking vengeance and to become someone who Catherine would be willing to marry. This had been implied before through his general behavior and his mugshot showing him still shabby and bruised as well as his N Corp story, but this leaves no room for questioning.

All of this means that if we go by the book, at least 3 years have passed since he left Wuthering Heights and Canto VI which is next and dedicated to him would correspond with Heathcliff's return to Wuthering Heights both in Limbus' story and in the book, meaning Catherine is most likely still alive, yet Heathcliff as a Sinner in Limbus Company is a far cry from the newly powerful version of Heatchliff that returns to the state in the book, so it's likely things will play out not quite the same.

Faust's line in the Walpurgisnacht cutscene says that the standard extraction timeline range is limited to 3 years between the past and future.

In this cutscene she also says that the extractions are powered by possibility itself, and the IDs that become available are also influenced by the Sinners' experiences at the company and how they come to reconsider themselves and each other, that's how for example we get N Corp. Sinclair and Spicebush Yi Sang after being faced with Kromer digging at Sinclair and telling him about the world where they work together, and then Yi Sang being so strongly affected internally by Dongbaek's death and ultimate fate, which would be the most intense story-focused examples so far, and if we eventually get a Captain Ahab ID for Ishmael, they had already established she was down the path of becoming another Ahab, and she herself did not realize this until they met again.

If all of the Sinners' great choices that led them down the path they are currently all happened 3 years ago and the initial extraction range is 3 years, it would make sense, since these would be the moments that weight on their mind most strongly, though there's also the case of Outis who has been on her own journey for at least 10 years going by the original Odyssey and how long ago The Smoke War was, same case for Gregor who's specific motives for joining are still unknown.

#project moon #limbus company #limbus company speculation #lcb ishmael #lcb yi sang #lcb heathcliff #lcb sinclair #canto v spoilers

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internetreputationrepair · 2 months ago

Video

youtube

How to Remove a Mugshot from Facebook

#youtube #mugshots #mugshot removal service #facebook #internet privacy #social media #public records

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lookingforhappy · 7 months ago

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credit to prop maker Mikela Barnes. transcript:

THE ENCYCLOPEDIA INFINITUM STANDARD REFERENCE K KENNEDY SIX THE KENNEDY SIX THE KENNEDY SIX is a group of communists said to have orchestrated the assassination of John F. Kennedy, 35th President of The United States, on November 22nd, 1963. HARGREEVES, VANYA: A Soviet spy and founding member of the The Kennedy Six, a group of Communist said to have orchestrated the assignation of John F. Kennedy, 35th President of The United States, on November 22nd, 1963. Though no date of birth is known, education and medical records place Vanya Hargreeves in Saint Petersburg, Russia, as early as 1947. Official reports released by the CIA, FBI, and U.S. Department of Defense provide evidence of Ms. Hargreeves' involvement in the establishment of Sovier Satellite Stats, during which time she is said to have contact with American Double Agent and member of The Kennedy Six, Luther Hargreeves. The extent of their familial relationship remains unconfirmed.

HARGREEVES, DIEGO: A known Communist sympathiser with ties to the Cuban government and a founding member of The Kennedy Six, a group of terrorists believed to be responsible for the assassination of John F. Kennedy, 35th President of The United States, on November 22nd, 1963. Once thought to be a sleeper agent for the Cuban government who was smuggled into the country as a baby and raised to become radicalized against U.S. democracy from an early age, his true origin remains unknown due to a lack of official records of his birth or origin. The FBI can only officially place him in the United States as [picture of Allison protesting in the 60s] Allison Hargreeves, a Communist Sympathiser who infiltrated the American Civil Rights Movement. Infinitm Archive 230 [picture of Viktor and Diego's mugshots from the 60s, Diego is edited to have an eyepatch on his left eye] Vanya Hargreeves (left) and Diego Hargreeves (right) were previously arrested for suspicious activity. Infinitum Archive early as 1963. According to official reports from the CIA, he is believe to have been an expert in covert radio communication and a disgraced former high-ranking intelligence officer for the Cuban government. It is rumoured that he lost an eye in Cuba in a cigar attack as punishment for compromising an intelligence operation. His association with The Kennedy Six is believed to be on behalf of the Cuban government and their interest in removing Kennedy from office by whatever means necessary. While the FBI and other federal law enforcement agencies have been unable to prove this connects, unofficial reports place him in Cuba shortly before his arrival in Dallas and eventual rendezvous with his co-conspirators. His whereabouts to this day are unknown, though he is widely believed to be in hiding in Cuba. HARGREEVES, ALLISON: as an American born civil agitator recruited by radical terror groups to infiltrate the American Civil Rights Movement in an attempt to disrupt and discredit the country's Federal Government. A hairdresser by trade, Allison Hargreeves sought to use her position in local politics to lure John F. Kennedy to Texas, setting up the 35th President for assasssination on November 22nd, 1963. Though any direct involvement with The Kennedy Six remains unsubstantiated, photos and letters exchanged between Hargreeves and prominent African-American militant groups have been used by Federal Authorities to establish a teritary connection to several known domestic terror cells that had been operating within The United States between 1961 and 1963. Allison Hargreeves is believed to have been captured by the CIA in 1979, after serving only one year of her 45-year prison sentence she was released for unknown reasons. To this day, her whereabouts remain unknown.

KENNEDY SIX NUMBER FIVE: Known only by his KGB Code name, Number Five is assumed to be the youngest member of the Kennedy Six, a group of Communist said to have orchestrated the assassination of John F. Kennedy, 35th President of the United States, on November 22nd, 1963. Though existing records remain seal uner the US Espionage Act, Number Five is widelt known to have been hand-picked by First Secretary of The USSR, Nikia Khrushchev, to recruit American citizens in the effort to collect sensitive political and military information as relating to the United States policy of Communist Containment. A Federal Grand Jury issued and indictment for Number Five's arrest in December 1963. The indictment remains open.

HARGREEVES, KLAUS: A prominent religious leader of an influential cult movement and believed to be a member of The Kennedy Six, which is said to have orchestrated the assassination of John F. Kennedy, 35th President of the United States, on November 22nd, 1963. Initially beleived to be a recruitment camo and training facility for potential radicals, his religious movements was investigated by federal authroities, and while no evidence of the latter was ever obtained, the organistation was levied with heavy fines amidst numerous charges of mail fraud, wire fraud, and conspiracy to commit wire fraud, and conspiracy to commit wire fraud. Despite being an enigmatic public figure, very little is known about Hargreeves beyond the eccentrics peculiatrites of his public life. At one point, he was believed to be in possession of the largest private collection of Cadillacs in the world. According to FBI reports, his vast amount of resources and influence made him a prime candidate to recruit, radicalise and mobilise potential enemires of the state. It is not known at what point or how he first began working with The Kennedy Six, and his whereabouts remain unknown to this day. HARGREEVES, LUTHER: An American double agent and former boxer with connections to several mafia crime families, and a member of the Kennedy Six, a group of terrorists believed to be responsible for the assassination of John F. Kennedy, 35th President of the United States, on November 22nd, 1963. According to reports from the FBI, CIA and U.S. Department of Defense, Luther Hargreeves was an agent and known associate of Jack Ruby, and his involvement in the Kennedy Six is believed to be on behalf [picture of Five, edited to be dressed in military uniform] One of the only known images of KGB codename "Number Five", the youngest member of the Kennedy Sic. Infinitum Archive. of organised crime interests, which at the time stood in stark contrast to Kennedy's priorities. Pictured here with his signature firearm, he was known as a brutal killer with a penchant for violence. He spent several years on the FBI's most wanted list and is believed by the CIA to have worked with Soviet spies. While his motives remain a mystery to this day, his connection to known Soviet spy, Vanya Hargreeves, has lead historians to a consensus on the prevailing theory surrounding his involvement of the Kennedy assassination: A coordination of mutual interests shared between Soviers and the American mafia. Authorities remain in pursuit of him to this day, though he was rumoured to have perished in a robbery near his Argentinian hideout sometime in the mid 1980's. [picture of Luther and Klaus' mugshots, likely edited] Luther Hargreeves (left) an American double agent and Klaus Hargreeves (right) a prominent religous leader. Infinitum Archive 231

KENOSHA COOPER, SISSY: A known associate of The Kennedy Six. Believed to have been recruited by Soviet spy, Vanya Hargreeves, in the effort to assassinate John F. Kennedy, 35th President of the United States, on November 22nd, 1963. While her exact role in the assassination plot remains unknown, she is suspected of becoming radicalised through manipulation or coercian by Vanya Hargreeves and her terrorist co-conspirators. Having lived a relatively normal suburban life before the assassination, Cooper's life took a dramatic turn around the time Kennedy was killed, Cooper appeared on the FBI's most wanted list for the murder of her husband, Carl Cooper, in 1963 and her alleged connection to the Kennedy assassination. Sissy Cooprt died in Oakland, California under a false name. -- KENOSHA, Wisconsin (pop. 62,899, met. area 100,615; alt. 610ft) is a manufactoring center on the western shore of LAke Michigan. Kenosha lies about 8 miles north of the Wisconsin-Illinois boundary line. The city is about 35 miles south of Milwaukee, and about 55 miles north of Chicago. For location, see WISCONSIN (politcal map). KENSICO DAM stores water for the water-supply system of New York City. It is cheifly an emergency resevoir, The dam extends across the Bronx River about 20 miles north of New York city. It is a concrete gravity-type structure, standing 307 feet high, 233 feer thick at the base, and 1,843 feet long, Kensico Dam can hold 93,905 acre-feet of water. A highway across the top of the dam leads to the aeration (ventilation) plant, which has 3,00 fountains. The dam was built on 1915 by the New York City Department of Water Supply. KENSINGTON RUNE STONE is a slab of stone bearing an inscription in Scandinacion runic letters (see RUNE). Olof Ohman, a Swedish farmer, found the stone on his farm near Kensington, Minn, in 1898, this inscription tells of a party of Swedish and Norweigan vikings who ser out from their settlements in Vinland (America) on an exploration journey westward. The inscription is dated 1362, or 130 years before Columbus discovered America. Some scholars have regarded the stone as a forgery, while others have defended it as genuine. The rune stone is still a 232 [picture of Sissy from 1963] Sissy Cooper manged to evade the law until her death in Oakland, California. Infinitum Archive subject of controversy. It is in the possession of the Alexandria (Minn.) Chamber of Commerce. A replica appears on exhibit in the National Museum in Washington, D.C. KENTUCKY is one of the border states that lie between the North and the South. Its long northern border is formed by the Ohio River, on of the traditional boundaries between the Northern States and the Southern States. Kentucky also forms a link between two of the great land features of the United STates, its eastern border touches the Appalachian Mountains. About 350 miles to the west, Kentucky touches the Mississippi Ricer, Kentucky was admitted into the UUnion as the 19th state on June 1, 1792, splitting from Virginia in the process. It is known as the "Bluegrass State", a nickname based on Kentucky bluegrass, a species of grass found in many of its pastures, which has supported the thoroughbred horse industry in the center of the state. It is home to the world's longest cave syste,: Mammoth Cave National Park, as well as the greatest length of navigable waterways and streams in the contiguous United States and the two largest man-made lakes east of th Mississippi River, located within the southeastern interior portion of Nother America, Kentucky has a slimate that is best described as a humid subtropical climate, only small higher areas

#tua #the umbrella academy #luther hargreeves #diego hargreeves #allison hargreeves #klaus hargreeves #five hargreeves #ben hargreeves #viktor hargreeves #sissy cooper #the kennedy six #transcript

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itmeansiris · 26 days ago

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The Solar System Legacy Challenge: Lieutenant Gen 1 pt.94

Brindleton's finest returned to the precinct after their visit to the hospital. While they were gone, officer Till and the desk clerk managed to get Paris booked, which proved to be time-consuming. During the process, they came across her extensive wrap sheet. Her Brindelton record was mostly misdemeanors for disorderly conduct and DUIs, but her San Myshuno record was at least 3 pages long and held some pretty violent crimes and that didn't include the portions that seemed to have been redacted or needed special clearance to access.

Of course, she behaved as expected. Officer Till ended up needing to take her mugshot more than once, having to remind her repeatedly that it wasn't a photoshoot. After a few too many "test shots" she finally cooperated. Annoyed, he hastily ushered her over to the fingerprint scanner.

Officer Till: Hold still. I don’t feel like doing this twice.

As Till finished up, Adler ran into Lieutenant Gordon as he wandered into the lobby.

Ofc Adler: Good evening Lieutenant, busy week huh. Were you…on your way out?

Conrad sighed, the crease in his brow said it all. Brindleton PD had been busier than usual. Crime in the bay was usually non-existence, but lately, trouble had been brewing all over. There was a continued issue with dock security and then a body had turned up. There were hushed whispers amongst the higher shields that the Cartel could be involved, but Alder didn’t go snooping where he wasn’t welcomed.

He also didn't want to add to Conrad's already full plate, but he’d told Kason he would get help. The chief was in, so who better than Brindleton PD's rising star.

Ofc Adler: If not, do you have a couple minutes to spare? I know you're busy, but something happened when we went to the hospital.

Conrad mentally groaned. He already had some much to do, but he held a slight personal interest considering his stepson attended the same school as the Gratz kids.

Lieu. Gordon: Sure, I was going to hit the bags upstairs. We can talk there.

After he briefed Lieutenant Gordon on the matter, Adler excused himself beelining for the holding cells, leaving Conrad alone to pummel the punching bags in the weight room. It was evident that the Lieutenant was taking out his frustrations on the bag and Adler wanted to give him the privacy he was desperately craving. When he reached the area housing the cells he slowed his pace, checking each one for the wily Redhead. He stopped at the last cell lining the row, inside Paris sat on the sole cot in a bare cell, but an officer was unlocking the door.

Alder: What the hell are you doing? What's going on? Why are you moving her?

Officer: Detective Hana told me to take her to interrogation 2. Take it up with him.

Adler: Since when has Detective Hana called the shots here? Does the Chief know? I will.

Paris entered the scarcely furnished room. Detective Hana stood from his seat and gestured to the only other seat in the room.

Det. Hana: Ms. Amyot, please have a seat.

Paris looked around the room in boredom.

Paris: Do you have my cigarettes?

Det. Hana: You can’t smo-

Paris: My cigarettes.

He sighed while reaching to remove an unopened box from his pocket and relinquished it to Paris along with a book of matches.

Paris: Good boy.

Detective Hana bit back a response to her taunting comment. He folded his arms and donned a stonic expression hoping to appear unfazed.

Det. Hana: Now, Ms. Amyot I’d like-

Paris: Cut the detective act Kane. What do you want?

Det. Hana: I want to know what happened.

Paris: I thought that was squared away. Didn’t you talk to him?

Hana fidgeted before briefly glancing at the mirror on the wall to his right.

Det. Hana: I don't know what you mean.

Paris: YOU were supposed to SPEAK to Kason, Kane. I swear to the watcher you people are useless.

Det Hana: Ms. Amyot, first I'll have to ask you to refrain from using my first name. Next, I'm asking the questions and I want you to tell me what happened.

Paris: Are you some kind of an idiot? Didn’t you talk to my father?

Det. Hana: You can make a phone call once we are done here. I will try and get someone to contact your family in the meantime, but I need you to please answer my questions. We don’t have much time.

Hana's words came out forced and a light sheen of sweat had broken out across his skin as his eyes darted to the right, the last bit of the sentence he’d mouthed. Paris looked over at the mirror and then back at Hana. His distress finally registered but it only made Paris irritable.

Paris: Seriously? I forgot about the two-way glass. Why should I care who’s on the other side?

Hana's eyes grew pledging. Paris stared at the window as she took a drag of her cigarette, that all too familiar grin on her face.

Paris: Fine I'll play along, but I want to speak to my father Detective, tonight. What do you want to know?

Det. Hana: Start with how you know the Gratz.

Paris: I worked with Kason at Bay Robotics. Mars was just an annoyance I inherited when I got the job and the guy.

Det. Hana: Mars?

Paris: Mercury. Mars. Whatever! Who the hell names their kid after a space rock. Her parents must be hippies or something.

He ignored her rant trying to stay on topic.

Det. Hana: When did you "Get the guy" as you put it?

Paris: Our attraction was instant, but I kept my distance for a while cause I knew he was married. Once we went to Newcrest alone I couldn't resist anymore and he let me know it didn't matter that he was married because he wanted out anyway.

Det. Hana: Were you and Mr.Gratz..intimate on this trip?

Paris: oh Kane, wouldn't you like to know. Let's just say we got to know each other better.

She whispered to ensure anyone outside the room wouldn't hear her. A light blush spread across Hana's cheeks.

Det. Hana: Was that when the two of you became an official couple?

Paris: Yes and no. We were official, but we weren't public. He hadn't left his wife yet, obviously. But we were official in all the ways that counted Detective.

Detective Hana balled his hands into tight fist, visibly agitated by her last statement.

Det. Hana: Let's move on. Tell me when you and Mrs. Gratz had your first face-to-face encounter.

Paris: That's easy. The bitch showed up at the airport like a dog in heat. The moment we landed she was waiting outside the gate with her tongue out and her tail wagging.

Det. Hana: Did you exchange any words at that time?

Paris: Sure, but nothing I can remember now.

Hana nodded.

Det. Hana: Did you and Mr.Gratz maybe discuss when he was going to leave his wife? Didn't you wonder what was going to happen with his children? I can't imagine you raising anyone.

He scoffed.

Paris: What did you say?

Hana realized he'd allowed that last comment to slip out and scrambled to cover it up.

Det Hana: I just meant that you seem young to suddenly become stepmother to 4 small children is all. You would have to give up so much.

Paris's eyes narrowed and her tone was harsh.

Paris: Watch yourself detective. I'm not the only one who has done unspeakable things. I'm sure there are people who couldn't imagine you making detective first-grade. Yet here you are. I'm sure they would interested in how you achieved such a feat.

As the interrogation continued, Lieutenant Gordon received a text from Adler as he heated a frozen pastry from the precincts readily stocked but dubious selection of foods from the fridge. It was late and he'd been chasing ghost all day on another case, but the text had him shoveling the poorly heated pastry down his throat in a rush to get to the interrogation room. The text read:

Alder: Kane's has her in interrogation .Detective Wilks, and Hale are sitting in with me, but you should probably get down here, something doesn't seem right.

When Conrad arrived outside the observation room it was full. Adler stood behind an empty chair, arms folded across his chest with a frown. Conrad surveyed the small group trying to get a feel of their intentions, they all wore expressions ranging from confused to frustrated as they all watched the scene playing out behind the two-way mirror.

Lieu. Gordon: What’s going on in there?

Detective Wilks stood at the back of the room his brown hair was disheveled from raking his hand through it one too many times. Wilks didn’t take his eyes off the glass as he answered, obviously vexed by the circumstances.

Det. Wilks: It would seem, Detective Hana has decided for the entire department that he would be the one doing the Amyot interview. I’d like to know who gave him permission? The Chief made it clear: get her paperwork done and then she'd assign someone to do the interrogation tomorrow.

They all murmured in agreement.

Lieu. Gordon: No one cleared him. Amyot wasn’t supposed to have contact with anyone of us until tomorrow.

Det. Hale: Clearance isn't the only issue here Lieu.

Det. Wilks: Should we stop him, Lieutenant?

Lieutenant Gordon: No. I need to see what happens before we do anything else.

Conrad took a seat in the empty chair in front of Alder, listening intently to the conversation filtering into the speakers that connected the observation room to the interrogation room. Hana hadn’t thought to turn them off, causing Conrad to hesitate with his suspicions. Any level officer would have thought to turn off the microphone, so maybe he wasn’t hiding anything.

Paris: I told him we could let their grandparents adopt them, his or hers. It made no difference to me honestly, but he said that wouldn’t work. He's only entitled to part of her life's earnings, if they didn’t go too we wouldn’t get all the money. The kids have the larger share, thus how they became included in the deal. I'm no brat killer, but he insisted. He might as well have been foaming at the mouth as he talked about it. How could I say no?

Det. Hana: Would you have jumped off a bridge or killed yourself if he had asked Pa- Ms. Amyot?

Paris: Hmm? Maybe I would have. Have you seen him? Blonde hair, green eyes, athletic build without being too muscular and have you heard him speak, uugh it’s like honey over a fresh piece of bread, deep and rich. What about that says to say no.

She shrugged as she took another long drag from her cigarette. Kane fanned his hand through the air trying to clear some of the smoke away.

Det. Hana: Ugh, do you need to smoke that?

Paris: Yes. Next question.

Det. Hana: Why were you the one put up to the task? I mean from what you said, it was his idea. So why didn't he do the dirty work? He had constant access to his wife and the kids. Wouldn't it have been easier for him to kill his own family?

Paris: Let's just say I was better suited for the job. You should know. Besides they always blame the husband first, how could I let him take the blame for it all.

She droned in an antagonizing tone.

Det. Hana: At least in this instant we would have had it right and you...you would have been off the hook. Clear and free to live your life and love whoever you wanted after, but now...

Lieu. Gordon: Am I the only one getting the sense they know each other?

Ofc Adler: That's what I was telling Hale before you showed up. Something is going on between them. Amyot was calling him Kane like they’re old friends.

Det. Hale: I wouldn’t call their interaction friendly, but they are definitely familiar with one another.

She interjected.

Ofc Adler: She also mentioned him speaking to Mr. Gratz at the hospital. She couldn’t have known he was going to interview Gratz, we were assigned the task after she arrived. She never could have known it would be him, there are at least 5 other detectives here.

Lieu.Gordon: Unless he’s working with her somehow. Did anyone see Hana interact with Amyot when she arrived? We need to be absolutely sure. In the meantime, I'm putting an end to this charade before he puts the whole department at risk. Wilks, put Amyot back in holding with the other ladies. I want a transcript of their interview on my desk tomorrow morning, and someone check the camera's, we can't let this interview ruin the investigation so we need to get ahead of this. I'm going to have a word with Hana.

Det. Hana: So after all that what do you get out of the deal? Hmm? The kids are alive and for the moment so is his wife, so there goes the money. He's out there, free and worried about his family not you, while you're here in a bleak grey room wearing an orange jumpsuit. You said you did this all so you and him could be together, yet I don't see him in our precinct demanding you be freed. So was it worth it? Was he everything you hoped for?

Paris finally took a seat. She slowly pulled out another cigarette and slid it between her lips. She struck the match against the book that Hana had given her, engulfing the cigarette end with the small orange flame. She took a pull and blew the smoke in Detective Hana's direction as she ashed the tip onto the floor with no regard. He coughed and swiped his hand threw the air in disgust, trying to clear the smoke once more.

Paris: Detective, have you ever been in love? [Blows smoke] I mean the kind that your body understands before your brain. Where you can't sleep or eat. The thought of living without that person isn't even an option? I guess not considering the lack of a ring on your finger and the fact that you are working late during the holidays. I can assume that means there isn't anyone at home keeping the bed warmed up for you.

She taunted as she donned her usual nefarious smile.

Paris: You see love can make you do things you normally wouldn't. I'm a very passionate woman Detective. When I love, I love hard. Very few men have had and will have the pleasure of being loved by me. You know how that feels don’t you Kane.

Det. Hana: Sounds like you’re borderline obsessed if you ask my opinion. Maybe you made this whole thing up because he didn’t want you after all.

He snapped back. His patience was wearing thin and he was starting to losing his cool the more she mocked him.

Paris: Obsessed! Now that’s priceless coming from you, considering the way you chas-

Det. Hana: Shut your mouth!

He called out through clenched teeth just as the door shut with a heavy thud.

Lieu. Gordon: No Ms. Amyot please finish. I'd like to hear the end of that statement.

Hana: Lieutenant Gordon!

Hana tried to mask his surprise. Before Conrad could ask him a question he started babbling an explanation.

Det. Hana: I was just trying to get a start on the Amyot, Gratz case. Wanna be sure we don't miss anything. Plus the desk clerk said they had some issues with her, I was hoping to straighten them out.

Lieu. Gordon: With who's authorization?

Det. Hana: Well.. I just... No ones, sir. But, I was sent to take Mr. Gratz's statement so I figured I was assigned to be lead on this case.

When Hana and Adler had been sent to speak to Kason at the hospital the chief had simply assigned them to gather his statement and return. Detective Hana had never officially been assigned to the case, but it hadn't stopped him from telling everyone including Kason that he was the lead detective.

Lieu. Gordon: Detective Wilks will be here shortly to escort Ms. Amyot to holding. Meet me upstairs.

Det. Hana: But, I haven't finished the-

Conrad's expression stopped him mid sentence.

Det. Hana: Yes sir. I should let Wilks know she should be put in the empty holding cell at the end.

Conrad's frown deepened to a scowled.

Lieu. Gordon: She is to be put in a shared holding cell with the other ladies. Unless, there’s a reason you’ve separated her from the others?

Det. Hana: N-no sir.

Lieu. Gordon: Good. Then lets go. This interview is over.

Hana hesitated as Conrad held the door and waited for him to exit first. Conrad pulled the door shut behind him without a word to Paris, leaving her to wait for detective Wilks to come and fetch her.

Upstairs in an empty office Conrad laid into Hana.

Lieu.Gordon: Do you have any idea what you've potentially done?! That interview and the sketchy one at the hospital could be the difference between a landslide win and a dog fight in court. How do you know her?

Det. Hana: I don't. I was simply doing my job.

He answered defiantly.

Lieu. Gordon: A job no one assigned to you. You took it upon yourself to interview a suspect you were not asked to. Not to mention your very interesting trip to the hospital, where you were supposed to take a statement, but instead turned a victim into a suspect. Where did you get any of that information from Kane? No one was supposed to speak to Ms. Amyot from the time she was in custody, we were all informed of that. So how could you have her side of the story already?

Detective Hana stared back at Conrad with a look of distain, but said nothing.

Lieu. Gordon: Okay, fine. You're officially off the case. I don't want to see you anywhere near Ms. Amyot, Mr.Gartz, or anything related to their case. Do I make myself clear?

Hana gave a slight head nod in response, but that wasn't the response the Lieutenant was looking for. He wanted to be sure Kane understood.

Lieu. Gordon: Have I made myself clear? I don’t even want you to review evidence for their case.

Det. Hana: Loud and clear. Sir.

Conrad dismissed Kane and stood alone for a moment. He took a deep breath trying to center himself. The last couple of months had been stressful he didn't need the extra headache. That didn't deter him from his next task. He headed back downstairs where Paris had been escorted to the shared holding cell, which was crowded with 4 other women who were down on their luck that evening. He approached the gate stopping about five feet away.

Lieu. Gordon: Ms. Amyot, I have one question for you. How do you know Detective Kane Hana?

Paris: Who says that I do?

Conrad rolled his shoulders to ease some of the built up tension.

Lieu Gordon: Don't insult my intelligence, Ms. Amyot. I just want to know how you know Detective Hana. If you don't want to share I will go.

Paris: Professionally or personally?

She asked with a wicked gleam in her eyes.

Lieu. Gordon: I get the feeling they go hand and hand with you. Both.

Instead of answering, she pivoted in a different direction.

Paris: Maybe I'd like to get to know you Lieutenant, during which time I’d be more than happy to tell you everything I know about Kane Hana. I just need to make a phone call first. I think you can help me with that. Can't you Lieutenant Gordon?

Her tone grew heavy with seduction. Conrad held is ground, unaffected by her attempts at seducing him and unwavering in his position. He both wanted and needed answers to this question and he wouldn't be distracted.

When he didn't respond Paris took that as a no. Her smile dropped and she flipped him the bird. Gone was the seductive eyes and flirty tone she'd been using previously and in its place was the hateful snake she truly was.

Paris: Too bad. Guess you're on your own Lieutenant. I could have showed you a nice time, but apparently you’re another tightly wound officer of the law. So, I’ll save this treat for someone a little more daring. You can leave now.

She winked and her cackle bounced off the open space as Conrad turned his back on her. Paris's voice stalked him down the hall.

Paris: Send Kane back when he's ready to do his job properly, or you could always come back for a visit Lieutenant.

He left the holding area with more questions than answers, but two things became very clear: One, Paris needed to be supervised. She was such a wild card. Two, Hana couldn’t be allowed near Paris and her case or he could jeopardize everything.

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Beginning

Sidebar: Lieutenant Conrad Gordon is from the amazing @abbysimsfun Sims in Bloom Legacy. . There are links to her story everywhere! But the link here is for the start of her amazing legacy story. Thank you again for allowing Conrad to be the protector of all Brindleton Bay citizens!

The Brindleton Police station build can be found on the gallery with No CC. It was created by ssweet_simmingg. Its listed as a residential lot.

#sims 4 #sims 4 screenshots #sims 4 gameplay #sims 4 legacy #sims 4 story #solar system legacy challenge #itmeansiris #gen 1 #sims 4 romance #mercury generation #Mercury Medley #Kason Gratz #My sims #simblr #The Gratz Case #Gratz vs. Amyot #solar system legacy #the sims 4

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