#stalker ghost

[444venicebitch444]

Something something TF 141 gets a new secretary because their old one decided to finally retire, and you show up.

A sweet little thing, no military experience, all shy smiles and nervous chuckles, punctual and neat.

You take care of their paperwork, their mail, schedule their meeting, bring them coffee, and most importantly it’s not half bad to have a good set of legs and a pretty face to look at.

Price was a right gentleman, a nicer boss than you could’ve ever expected from a military man, and Soap and Gaz really had your confidence going whenever they made their flirtatious quips (which was everyday, really).

Ghost, though? Ghost was exactly what you’d expected after hearing the stories: a stoic, intimidating man who spoke in grunts and monosyllables, and who was, in your opinion, quite rude.

Did the man have no manners? Had his mother not taught him to say ‘thank you’?

You tried making an extra effort with him, your need to be liked overpowering your annoyance towards the lieutenant, because you intended to keep this job; the pay was great, it was a short drive from your apartment and you weren’t going to let a guy who wore a bloody skull balaclava everyday ruin this for you.

So you smiled more, made your good mornings and good afternoons sweeter, same as the tea you’d leave on his desk everyday at 4 pm sharp, and the little squiggly hearts you’d draw on the post it notes on top of his files. 

And when Simon’s grunts started mutating into full fledged sentences, and he actually told you a joke, you found yourself grinning, more out of self satisfaction than because of whatever ridiculous pun he’d said in that deep, rumbling voice of his.

For you, it was over, your plan had worked, and now all your bosses liked you, getting rid of that lingering uneasiness in the back of your head. 

For Simon, on the other hand? You’d unlocked Pandora's box, if said box contained the lieutenant’s affection (obsession) for you.

It was true, he hadn’t liked you at first: you disrupted the routine, the practised flow of the office, and gave Johnny and Kyle an excuse to be fucking insufferable in their working space instead of only in the shitty pubs where they’d drag him after shifts. He was going to lose his fucking mind if he had to hear another “can’t walk into the office looking that good, darlin’. won’t let me get anything done”.

The worst part was that they weren’t wrong; you were pretty and Simon couldn’t deny that. I mean, what did anyone expect, for him to not shoot a look at your arse in those tight trousers? He was but a man.

But when you started your little routine, it sent him down a spiral. What the fuck was your problem? Why would you draw a bloody heart next to the note that reminded him about his debrief? 

What you hadn’t understood, though, was that with a man like Simon Riley, that wasn’t just being nice, it wasn’t getting him to like you. it was an enablement of his ugly heart, something that fed the flames of his desires, because why else would be making him tea? that was practically a wedding vow, love. 

So he decided that you were his, that he didn’t need to discuss it with you because you already worried your pretty, little head too much with work and what future husband would he be if he didn’t try to make your life easier?

That included tellin Kyle to fuck off when he flirted with you, giving you a lift when your car broke down (which had absolutely nothing to do with simon messing with its battery), and helping you find your cat when it ran away (the fucking thing had scratched the hell out him when he’d taken it to that alleyway). 

The most important part of his duties, however, was watching you, making sure you were safe. Because who was gonna do it if not him? certainly not your, in his assessment, untrustworthy friends.

And your locks were so easy to pick, it had only taken him one try.

So Simon watched as you read a book and bought the same the very next day, he watched you prepare meal after meal with the nutritional value of a brick and made a mental note to make you something healthy when he’d finally cook for you, and he watched as you came out of the shower, completely enthralled.

Unfortunately, he had no way of looking into your bathroom but you’d walk into your room wrapped only in a towel so he wasn’t going to be too picky. Especially not when he got to see you rub that vanilla scented lotion that drove him insane into your soft skin, or drop the fluffy towel to the ground only to cover the delicate swell of your breasts with your pyjama top.

His favourite part, however, was without doubt when you’d lie against your pillows, your fingers dipping below your waistband. His sweet bird, not so innocent after all. 

His body would burn as he watched, his hands aching to replace your fingers, his tongue wetting his lips because it couldn’t touch yours.

He held onto every tiny gasp, every quiet whine, knowing that he’d make you sound so much better.

But he was patient and he was going to do things properly, take his time: take you to dinner, buy you gifts, eventually give you the ring he’d already bought. He wasn’t a total wanker, lovie.

So for now he was going to be satisfied with watching you and stealing your panties, offering a gruff “morning, sweetheart” the next day.

[a-b-riddle]

Continuing this idea.

You should be scared. Very scared. Instead you were just stupid in thinking that this person who had repeatedly broke into your home, admitting to watching you, and completely invading your privacy didn’t mean you any harm.

Your logic that if he wanted to, he would have. You just hoped to god that your intuition about him was right. You had met monsters before. They didn’t make themselves known until it was too late.

But he was different. The small things he did to make your life easier weren’t things men intent on hurting you did. And it wasn’t like he didn’t have the opportunity to.

You had gotten a dog and a cat. A bonded pair that had been left when their family moved away, leaving the partners stranded.

When you came home with the adorable mutt you sent your shadow a cheeky text.

Don’t worry. I made sure he was good with men. Just not sure if he cares for masked ones.

More worried about the cat.

This little guy? Cheese is harmless. You attached a picture of your new orange cat sleeping peacefully on your couch.

You named the fucking thing Cheese?

Dog’s name is Mac.

That only earned you a thumbs down emoji.

It had been three weeks and you were certain he hadn’t been back into your apartment. You had to do mundane tasks again. Take out the trash. Get your mail from the box. You weren’t sure how he was managing that one.

It wasn’t until you got held up at work that you sent him a text. You felt like you were asking too much, but thankfully he had crossed the line from breaking into your place.

Could I ask a favor?

Almost instantly he sent back a reply.

You could

Can you take Mac out? I’m not gonna be out of here for another 3 hours. Another waitress quit last minute and I’m stuck here. 😭

You added the crying face for effect.

Could test out that biting theory.

He won’t bite you.

Wasn’t talking about the dog, Love.

Forty minutes later you got a picture of Mac looking up. His pink tongue hanging out of his mouth, looking up in excitement.

Be careful if you pass by the guy who hangs out back by the play area. Mac dislocated my arm this weekend being a little asshole and lunging after him.

Thought you said he wouldn’t bite.

Wouldn’t bite YOU. He’s a good judge of character.

He’s a good boy.

The following shifts, your shadow would send you photos. All of Mac. All outside. None giving you the slightest idea of what he looked like.

You gave him a heads up that you’d be able to take him out yourself. You don’t know how you’d react to finally meeting him. You could have easily stalked him as he had done you, but there wasn’t any fun in that. And he had made this fun.

You didn’t however count on Mac scratching at the door at 10 pm that night.

Or the next.

Or the next.

His entire schedule was thrown off. The vet said it was a UTI and your only options were keep letting him out as needed or he will try and hold it in and risk his bladder getting inflected. Or even his kidneys.

You were standing in the flood light at the edge of your apartment building when your phone buzzed.

You need to stop going out this late. Not safe.

Why? You text back, grinning. You’re out here too. Not anything to be afraid of.

Careful. Sounds like you like having me around.

Who says I don’t?

He didn’t respond. You try again.

Am I ever gonna be able to meet you?

Three dots appeared after moments of silence

Don’t think so pet.

What’s the point then? Isn’t a hunter’s goal is to get close to their prey?

Is that what you think you are to me? My prey?

You couldn’t tell if he was actually offended. Fuck. How do you make this better?

Is it bad if I want to be?

What the fuck? Your reaction was to turn things sexual? But you weren’t lying. You often found yourself imagining him, a masked stranger coming into your room while you slept. Looming over your defenseless body until the exact moment he decided to strike.

In an instant he would have your hands restrained and a palm covering your mouth. He’d tell you to hush. The fantasy hard to imagine in that moment when you wondered what he would sound like.

I’m not actually afraid of you, you know?

Oh really? Someone is feeling brave tonight. Going out into the dark. Taunting their stalker.

You swear your could feel your heart trying to beat out of your chest. He was into it. Just as much as you were. You thought maybe given the initial cute acts of service it was more of a guardian angel kind of thing.

It wasn’t until you noticed underwear missing did you know he was just as filthy as you hoped him to be. Even though you never brought it up. Too afraid to get in too deep with someone who could be a sociopath.

You could come and see how brave I am.

He didn’t respond immediately and Mac was done dribbling out the last hit of pee. You were in the stairway when your phone chiroed.

Fine. See you soon.

A picture followed. It was dark. So dark you had to turn up your brightness. When your eyes focused, your stomach dropped.

It was you.

A stilled image of you walking into the building your back turned. The image too clear to be taken from a distance. If you had to guess it was no more than ten feet away.

Ten feet away and you didn’t hear a fucking thing. Completely oblivious to the danger close by.

That night you had came so hard you had half a mind to text him a thank you for being the inspiration behind your bliss.

[libingan]

— an unhealthy obsession.

warnings: stalking, dark themes, idk how to put warnings but both simon and the reader are obsessed with each other

a/n: part two, maybe??? idk, if you guys want something sexier just lmk ig

simon has been obsessing over you for months on end. ever since he saw you bartending at the local bar he and his buddies hung out at, he knew he just had to have you. your laugh, your smile, the way you effortlessly moved through the crowd—it all drew him in like a moth to a flame.

he followed you home that very same night to find out where you live. he watched you unlock the door to your apartment complex, making a mental note of the building. the next day, he began the process to secure a place in your building. he contacted the leasing office, inquiring about availability, and swiftly filled out the necessary paperwork: a rental application, proof of income, a background check consent form, and references. he signed the lease agreement with a sense of grim satisfaction, ensuring he was just a few doors down from you.

which is why simon is currently perched on a tree outside your window, giving him a clear view of your bedroom. he observed you intently, watching your favorite sitcom along with you. with a packed dinner and some coffee beside him, he sat silently, his eyes never leaving you as you laughed at the show. he memorized your expressions, your routines, the way you curled up on the couch.

he waited until you fell asleep, then sneaked into your room through your window, moving with the stealth of a shadow. he collected small belongings—items you might not notice missing right away. a pen from your desk, a single pair of underwear hidden at the back of your messy drawer. he snapped a few photos of you as well, capturing your peaceful, unaware state. these mementos were little pieces he could add to his growing shrine, a secret collection that fueled his obsession.

as he slipped back into the night, simon felt a twisted sense of satisfaction. he was getting closer, his presence in your life growing stronger with each passing day. it was only a matter of time before you would realize you were meant to be his.

unbeknownst to simon, his feelings aren’t as unrequited as he thinks.

you had been thanking your lucky stars the moment you saw simon enter the apartment a few doors down. it was hard to get any information about simon without directly asking him. so when you saw a familiar face and a familiar mohawk at the bar you worked at, you immediately recognized this guy as simon's friend.

as a bartender, you knew how to read people and manipulate the situation. you casually served him drinks, adding a little extra alcohol to his glass each time. it was a subtle touch, just enough to make him more talkative and less aware of his surroundings.

by the time he was noticeably tipsy, you engaged him in conversation, guiding it towards simon with a practiced ease. the more intoxicated he became, the more he spilled about simon—his habits, his quirks. but it was when the friend, in his drunken haze, let slip that simon was currently “crushing” on his neighbor that your interest piqued.

“aye, simon’s got this neighbor he’s obsessed wi’,” the friend slurred, his scottish accent thickening as he struggled to keep his balance. “they’ve got this smile that lights up the whole room, and they’re always, like, glowing, ye know? pretty as hell. simon’s always bleedin’ talkin’ about ’em.”

you pressed for more details, feigning curiosity as the friend described you. the way he spoke about your laugh, your style, even the way you move around your apartment—it was all too precise. you realized with a shiver that simon must be paying an unsettling amount of attention to you. but instead of fear, you felt a thrill.

the night ends and you’re thankful for the alcohol. that idiot—simon’s friend—won’t remember a damn thing he’s said tonight. it was a risky move, but it paid off. as you sent him off, a small, satisfied smile played on your lips. you had gained valuable insight into simon’s world and were one step closer to understanding him.

knowing he was so close made your heart race. that’s when you started to notice the little things—how he followed you home, the way he watched you from a distance. however, instead of fear, you felt a thrill. you’d leave your window slightly ajar, hoping he’d sneak in. you even left small items deliberately out of place, knowing he’d take them. hell, you even started sleeping in more… revealing clothes hoping that simon would touch you.

you found yourself dreaming of the day he’d make his move, the day he’d reveal himself to you. each night, as you settled into bed, you whispered a silent invitation, hoping he could hear it.

you were ready for him, ready to show him that his obsession was mirrored in your own heart.

[katerenko]

Strilok: Personal space?

Ghost: For losers?

Strilok: Well done..

(xD) Fang: What the-

Ghost: I'll explain later. Help find pants.

[thedivinetexts]

thinking about reader who mistakes Ghost stalking them as being... well, a ghost.

gn reader x stalker!ghost. sfw . for now

- 🩷🐰🩷 -

Your house is haunted. The realtor waits until you're ready to sign to mention that someone died in it — a man, murdered by his wife, the realtor confesses. The last few people who bought it couldn't handle knowing that there was blood on their floors, metaphorically speaking.

It explains why it's so fucking cheap, despite being almost everything you want in a house. Big and beautiful, with plenty of space to grow into if you feel like it. Plus, the housing market is shit. There's no way you'll find a better house in your price range, so you sign the dotted line that officially makes you the owner of a haunted house.

The first few months are absolutely fine. You move in and get settled without a problem. There isn't a peep from a ghost as you make the space your own; painting the walls and installing bookshelves to hold your collection goes smoothly. You find no bones when you till a portion of the backyard to create a little garden. All is calm and unhaunted.

Then things start moving. A book you had on your table is back on the shelves, even though you haven't finished it. Dishes you left on the table end up in the sink. The box of pasta that was out of your reach in the cabinet is miraculously on a lower shelf the next morning.

You can't figure out what changed. Why is your ghost suddenly active after months of radio silence? You haven't done anything new to the house lately. You've been living almost exactly how you were before the ghost decided it was time to mess with things. You have no idea what it could want.

You think you've read somewhere that ghosts will stop if you ignore them, so that's what you decide to do. Don't give the ghost a reaction, and nothing bad will happen. You won't be like the last few owners and abandon your new home.

Things moving get no reaction. When your underwear starts disappearing, you silently judge the ghost, but just buy more. When you find doors you definitely closed propped open, you simply close them. It becomes a part of your routine; just another fact of life.

You ignore the footsteps that pad down your hallways. You pretend you don't see the shadowy shapes of a man lurking in the corners. One time you see him standing motionless on your stairs, and you force yourself to focus on the cup of tea you're nursing. When you look back up, he's gone.

It makes you nervous, but you persist. You won't let this bastard run you out of your house.

So, when you spot him standing outside your bedroom door, face naught but a skeletal visage as he peers inside, you drop your gaze back to your book as calmly as you can. This is definitely the closest you've ever seen him. You can feel his eye boring into you as you pretend to read. You're picking up none of the words, too aware of him watching you. After a few minutes of reading the same sentence, you give up and put it aside.

You flick off your lamp and lay down, pulling your blanket to your shoulder so you don't accidentally look at him again. Just ignore it, you tell yourself, ignore it, ignore it. It feels like hours pass before your eyes droop, exhaustion winning out over the anxiety. Eventually you doze off; the awareness of him still watching fades out with your consciousness. He's just a ghost, after all. There's not much he can do but stare.

You're still ever-so-slightly awake when the door creaks open. You don't pay it much mind, not until the mattress dips. That jostles you awake a bit, though you're still bleary enough that you don't see the hand until it is pressed against your mouth, pushing your head into the pillow. All of the tiredness dissipates in a moment, fear taking its place as you snap awake.

You can feel the warmth of the very real hand through the glove he wears. You stare in horror at the very real man pinning you down. On his face is the same skull that your ghost wears — it hits you like a truck that it was not a haunting but intangible spirit with you in your home. It was a man. It was always this man.

He chuckles, low and rough, when he notices your breath pick up into shallow, fearful gasps.

"There you go, lovie," he rumbles. "Was startin' to think you didn't know to be afraid."

[chikidyaff]

[abideif-the-fishhat]

(Special thanks to @tar-dar for the dance video)

[luxcuriousao3]

Obsessed!Ghost Part 1

WC: 1173

Warnings: smoking, implied stalking (kinda), animal injury, mentions of Ghost's comic backstory, mentions of Ghost's canonical SA nightmares, implied DID!Ghost, no smut/nsfw, not beta read

Notes: Since y'all voted that you wanted me to publish stuff from my drafts while I'm too busy to write new stuff. Here's the fic that inspired my most popular post, Mutt (Ghost's Version).

Simon knew he wasn't a good man.

He hadn’t been a good man in a long time. Not since Roba, certainly. But deep down, he thought that maybe he never was. That his father’s sickness was passed down to him like a cursed family heirloom he couldn’t get rid of. That the darkness that plagued him ever since his time in the Mexican desert was not created there, merely unearthed. That these urges had always been inside him, an evilness written in his genes, flowing through his blood, built into his very bones.

Simon wished that he had truly died in the fire that destroyed his old life, that the man that had emerged from the ashes like a dark phoenix wasn’t him. That Ghost was just that—a spectre of the man Simon used to be. That’s what he let everyone believe. What he tried to believe. But it wasn't true. Ghost had always been a part of him. The part that took his father’s beatings stoically when Simon couldn’t. The part that gunned down enemy soldiers without flinching, no matter how young and scared they looked. The part that didn’t question orders, even if he knew they were wrong. The part that sneered at the people around him and thought about how easy it would be to kill them, to hurt them, to subjugate them. To make them feel all the suffering that had forged him into the monster that he was.

The part Simon had spent so long denying and trying to repress.

But Roba had cracked him wide open, forced Ghost out for months on end, to endure the torture Simon wouldn’t have been able to alone. Ghost had dug them out of their grave, dragged them out of hell, and then retreated back inside, like he always did. He had never known anything but pain. His sole purpose was to suffer it in order to keep Simon alive. When his job was done, he got to go inside and cease to exist, for a little while. That was how he liked it.

And then the fire happened, and suddenly, Ghost was thrust into the driver’s seat for everyday life.

But Simon didn’t go dormant like Ghost did when he wasn’t in control, at least not usually. Not unless Ghost forced him to. No, he watched, and he listened, and sometimes he even told Ghost what to say to seem like a human being. It was Simon that MacTavish had a friendship with. It was Simon that called him Johnny. It was Simon that cracked the dryest, darkest jokes known to man. It was Simon that went out for the occasional drink with the lads. It was Simon that still had wants and desires. Ghost’s only desire was to survive.

Until you.

Ghost was taking a smoke when he saw you for the first time. You were pretty, very much so, but that wasn’t what had caught his eye. It was watching you approach the nasty, snarling dog that tended to linger around the base. He’d heard the jokes. The ones that claimed that the ill tempered, ferocious animal was actually him. It had never been seen in the same room as the Ghost, after all, and no other creature could be as foul as he was.

But you were cooing sweetly at the half rabid dog, unphased by its animosity. It had managed to get itself injured, and most of the boys thought they were finally rid of the wretched thing. But now here you were, a pretty little civilian that had no business being this close to an active military base, following the wounded dog down the road until it couldn’t walk any longer. You didn’t flinch when it snapped at you, didn’t fight back even when it bit your arm. You just sat with it like an idiot, feeding it bits of food from your purse and telling it how cute it was, unconcerned that the dirt and blood was making a mess of your nice dress.

And amazingly, the feral creature that terrorized everyone on the base and that they were all glad to see kick the bucket, climbed into your lap and began licking your face, tucked tail wagging.

You giggled, and Ghost, who’d long since finished his cigarette and was now openly lingering around the fence to watch you, thought it was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

“Who’s a good boy?” You asked the mangy mutt in your arms, nuzzling your face against its snout, which was still covered in your own blood. You should have been terrified, should have been disgusted. But you weren’t. “It’s you! You’re a good boy, yes you are, yes you are!”

Ghost thought about going over to you and offering to bring you back to base to get your arm looked at. It was still bleeding sluggishly, after all. But before he could decide, you’d already scooped up the dog and begun to walk away. Ghost stared after you, dark eyes boring a hole into your back. And when you disappeared around the bend, he found himself pushing off the fence to follow.

He caught up quickly. You were moving slow, the dog whining and wiggling in your arms. It snapped at you whenever you accidentally jostled its hurt leg, but you never dropped it even though you trembled under its weight, and it never truly tried to bite you again. Why would it? You were probably the only person in its miserable existence to ever show it any kindness.

Ghost wondered what that would be like. For someone to look at him without flinching, to touch him without fear, the way you had the dog. Even MacTavish was still afraid of him, sometimes, though he tried not to show it. But when Ghost locked Simon out, when it was Ghost the sergeant was interacting with instead, he got all stiff and cautious. Like he was just waiting for him to snap.

Perhaps that's what this was. Ghost snapping.

Turn around.

Simon’s voice rang in his head, firm but with a nervous edge. He knew the things Ghost was capable of. The things he thought about. They were one, after all, if not quite the same.

I’m not going to touch her, he mentally replied. Simon was afraid for no reason. Ghost had never wanted to rape a woman before. He’d only had nightmares about it. About how he would do it. About what she would look like underneath him, crying and struggling and begging for mercy.

It wasn’t a pleasant image, even if he always woke up from those dreams with wet pants.

I’m not going to touch her, he thought again. And he wasn’t. He just wanted to watch you for a little longer. To make sure you got home before you passed out from blood loss. Why? He didn’t know. It was odd. But you’d peaked his interest, and not many things did. Certainly not people.

There was something about you. And for the first time, Ghost wanted.

[python333]

dayshift — python³

― ― ― ―

synopsis a continuation of "after hours".

relationships platonic!ghost & reader.

characters simon "ghost" riley.

word count 4.5k.

warnings obsessive behavior, mentions of previous stalking, bad mental health that isn't explored + ghost is essentially an enabler, alternating povs.

note lets ignore that i went radio silent for 4 months... also i uploaded this to ao3 as a chapter 2 to "after hours" for anyone curious! enjoy :3

part 1 | part 2

Your photography room has never looked worse.

There’s several polaroids scattered across the floor. A few tubs of water have been thrown across the room, the spillage reaching the photos and damaging them beyond repair. The red light flickers. It casts dramatic shadows across your face and highlights the wrinkles in your clothes though it hides the dark spots beneath your eyes, and it especially illuminates the immediate condensation that takes place every time you exhale. The room is usually kept at medium temperatures, since you’re too scared of damaging the pictures, but during your tantrum, one of the water tubs you threw must’ve hit a button on the thermostat that lowered the temperature. 

The cold is supposed to make the ink in the pictures expand and eventually leak from the plastic confines of the film itself. It’s only a matter of time until your photos are ruined. The photos that date back all the way to last summer, all of Simon, who, shockingly, triggered your tantrum. Just thinking of him makes your eye twitch. You find it hard not to get mad at him, especially after how frustrating he’s made your observing, as if it’s just some kind of game to him. Your harsh breaths create a harsh contrast to the quiet thumping of your heart that’s loud enough to reach your ears, and the gentle trembling of your limbs forces you to lean against the wall. You’d rather he just be mad and not want anything to do with you at this point. It’d be so much easier for you if that was the case. 

Ever since Simon confronted you about your “stalking”, he’s been coming more frequently. Just about every week now, usually requesting bacon and some kind of fish. He gets more talkative every time. More willing to share his personal life, his past, what he hopes for in the future, what he plans to make with each item he buys, hell, sometimes even jokes around with you―it’s torture. It’s torture because you don’t know how to react to it. You’ve spent so long treating him like a hobby, something you can choose to focus on or stray from, but all of a sudden, he’s decided to share so much of himself that you feel like it’s all you can focus on. You can’t handle so much information about your subject. 

It’s caused a few meltdowns over the past few weeks. 

Every so often, whether it be at work while sharpening knives, at home trying to sleep, or even walking down the street with your headphones on playing the sweet sounds of ocean waves and rain to calm you, you’ll remember that he knows. He’s known. It disturbs you and makes that knife slip in your hands, scares your circadian rhythm into deviance, and forces those waves to crash into rocks as the rain turns to thunder. Everything feels out of order, the puzzle pieces of your mind scattered and a few missing, with you unable to solve why or how exactly everything went so wrong. Why you feel so wrong. Why, out of everything, the thing that bothers you the most is that unsettling feeling of the ever-so present fact that Simon is painfully aware of your tendency to follow. 

You lean against the wall and slide down into a sitting position, your knees reaching your chest and your arms automatically wrapping around yourself in lieu of a hug. You wish it was him. For the quickest moment, you wish it were his arms around you instead, his calloused fingers stretched over your back and his rough palms rubbing circles into your lats. The thought makes your hands tremble and your gaze shifts to the ruined film strewn across the room, the flickering red light overhead reflecting off of each polaroid, the faint sound of water dripping from the counters crossing with the buzzing of the lightbulb. You let out a shaky breath and hold yourself a little tighter, allowing your head to fall limp ahead of you, your forehead resting on your knees. 

It’s ridiculous how much this affects you. How much he affects you. 

— 

Simon considered that maybe you stayed home today, the idea of you falling ill worrying him, but after checking your flat, he found nothing but your keys missing and your lack of presence. Therefore, you must be in your shop. However, your shop is currently closed. 

He could break in. He’s done it before, after closing once you’d gone home, and snooped around your little photography room curiously. He was, admittedly, mildly impressed with some of the photos―a few of them he didn’t even notice, though many of them he can recall seeing you out of the corner of his eye or hearing a faint click behind him―but otherwise indifferent to each one. He hadn’t taken any but was tempted, just to maybe let you know that he’d been there long enough to steal something, but decided against it; he’d tortured you enough with his much-too-dramatic confrontation. You don’t need any more stress. Even he knows that, despite not being the best at showing it. 

There’s no lights on in the shop. Nothing that hints at your presence, nor anything that invites his own in, but the feeling in his gut tells him to just go in through the back door and hope to God nobody sees him. Simon sighs and looks around haphazardly, not seeing anyone out in the open, and walks as casually as he can around the back of the butchery. There’s a door the same color as the wall, with a small handle rusting at the edges and a lock that barely functions. I would remind you to fix it, but it would give me away, he thinks, I’ll just replace it myself one of these days. 

He easily opens the door without a key, the rusting lock giving into the slightest force worryingly quick. It turns inwards, and Simon walks into the room, closing the door behind him and reaching for the string on the side of the wall. He pulls on it and the overhead bulb flickers before turning on, an orange-yellow glow casting the room in a decent amount of light, making the cleaning tools and chemicals visible. Simon ignores all of this and instead reaches for the door, opening it before walking out into the dimly lit kitchen. It’s freezing, and the white lights cast an even glow onto the counter, reflecting off of the metal surface and illuminating the clean table. Simon looks around, and to his disappointment, you’re nowhere to be seen. Despite this, he moves on and searches for the next door, eventually finding the one that leads out into the main shop. He soon finds himself clicking the door shut behind him whilst being behind the counter you typically are. The role reversal feels strange, the new view of looking outside the shop rather than gazing inside as he usually would.

Simon makes his way towards the end of the counter and finds yet another door, though it’s locked with a slightly better lock than the last. It looks newer rather than an old lock that’s simply held up well over the time you’ve had it, so he assumes it’s been changed recently. It would make sense, considering it's the lock that guards your oh-so-precious photography room—or, at least, the stairs down to it. He hesitates, his hand hovering over the door, balled up into a fist with his knuckled readied in front of the door, about to knock. 

He can hear something. It’s shuffling. Maybe some soft breaths, the tell-tale hitch of them a sign of your distress―something Simon’s not particularly proud to know of―and a tell-tale sign that maybe Simon should leave you alone. He’s not a sadist; he doesn’t enjoy seeing you upset. It’s satisfying at most, knowing your remorse for your stalking, knowing that you’re guilty enough to be so upset over it. Assuming that that’s the reason you’re so upset, of course. He thinks it’s a good show of character, or a nice way of knowing that you don’t have the worst intentions. And maybe, going by that logic, Simon isn’t the best person―but he’s willing to go without remorse if it means that he feels no guilt keeping you safe. 

Simon steps back from the room, his hand dropping to his side. He sighs and walks around the counter, heads towards the front door, and flips the misleading ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’ before he walks out. Even if you’re not closed, he can’t imagine you’d want any customers while you’re in the middle of whatever you’re doing. Your photography room is important to you, or so he assumes; he can’t imagine there’s many things that would draw you away from the room besides him. The room is so clean it almost annoys him. The organized nature of it all, the pictures of him strung up and strewn across the room so perfectly, the drawers filled with camera film and different camera lenses―the sight of it seems so wrong, knowing the less-than-perfect hobbies the room provides sanctuary for. 

He can’t imagine you breaking down in there. It’s aphantasic, how little he can visualize any sort of mess taking place in the room. He wonders if you break down often in that room. If you find it safer than your house. If, sometimes, when your store is closed for no apparent reason on an average, festiveless day, the true reason behind its closure is the fact that you’re too busy crying over lost potential photos and an unpredictable tomorrow in your little safe room in the same place meant to be your workspace to open up shop. He, quite frankly, can’t imagine something more pathetic than being so swept up in your own sorrow created by your own mistakes that you could’ve so easily avoided had you not done an objectively disgusting act.

And, for whatever reason, that patheticism is the exact reason Simon finds himself heading towards the local hardware store, a new lock and some WD-40 on his mind. 

— 

It’s been two days. You wake up in your photography room. The floor is wet and your clothes are wet and you hate the feeling of your clothes sticking to your skin. You slept here last night, after going home the previous night to sleep in an actual bed, then came back here in the morning to spend another day mourning the pictures you ruined and the potential friendship you threw away by acting so recklessly. By being so obvious. You’re about one more mistake away from hopping off the nearest bridge with a ball and chain wrapped around your ankle.

You push yourself up by your elbows, and eventually the palms of your hands make contact with the ground, then you’re sitting up with your legs outstretched at awkward angles. Your knees hurt when you bend them, and as you try to push yourself up, you have to stop and breathe for a bit to get a handle on your pain. It’s not the worst you’ve felt. Far from it, honestly. But for some reason, this little thing keeps making you stumble, keeps making you hesitate in pushing yourself up, your knees feeling as unstable as a fawn and your frame as shaky as a leaf in the wind. When you finally manage to completely push yourself up, your femur feels as though it’s barely attached to your tibia; the two bones are balanced so unevenly that it feels like you’re standing on stilts. 

The doorbell rings and you curse out loud. Rather loud, in fact, for the small room you’re in. You already sense who it is. You’re not in the mood for this, already knowing what’s bound to happen, and despite this, you make your way out of the ruined room and up the stairs. Lo and behold, 

Simon stands at the counter, waiting for you to get behind the other end of the counter to take his order. You do so, putting on a pair of latex gloves before speaking.

“What are you looking for today?” you ask politely, slipping on the black gloves, leaning forward against the counter as you wait for an answer.

“It’s been a while since we last had a chat,” Simon hums, opting to stay standing straight, “and, for some strange reason, I haven’t heard any camera noises recently.”

Your mind pauses for a moment before you sigh and stand up straight, taking a step back from the counter, “I don’t want to do this with you today.”

“Why not?”

“Please. Not today.”

“I don’t remember having a say in when you’d follow me around and take pictures of me minding my business.”

You purse your lips at his valid point and look away for a moment, “Did you not just say you haven’t noticed me take any pictures of you recently?”

Simon is silent for a moment, before taking a step closer to the counter, voice a little quieter, almost gentler, “So I can’t complain a little about you stalking me, then? Because you’ve stopped for a month or two?”

“But that’s not―” you choke up, despite mentally begging yourself not to, your voice cracking. You sigh defeatedly, tiredly, and lean against the counter as if it can offer any more than physical support. You stare down at the grimy-clear surface. You need to clean it.

“Not…?” Simon presses on, though his voice is gentle, softly coaching you through your emotions.

“It’s not stalking,” you have to defend yourself with a broken voice while quiet, labored breaths leave you and force you to breathe manually. You already did horrible the first time Simon decided to interrogate you about your observing―you don’t know why he’d think it was a good idea to try and do it again. He already knows that you “stalk” him, or however he wants to classify it, so why does he have to keep bringing it up?

“Then what am I supposed to call it, huh?” he asks, the gravel leaving his voice gradually, exposing something soft and fuzzy in its leave. Something smoother, something that makes the hairs on the back of your neck shoot up. 

I don’t have an answer for him, you realize. You can try to explain yourself however you like. You can tell him that you’ve been following him―or, had been following him before being confronted―and taking candid pictures of him, leaving them to hang in the dingy room below your shop, with dates and locations attached to each photo to ensure that you remember each one. You can explain the thought that goes into every photo, and how each one is selected from the many taken from that day. You don’t do any of that, however; instead, you stare at him and hiccup again, hot embarrassment rushing to your face as you let out another shuddering breath and dare to draw another one back in.

“Hey, listen,” Simon reaches a hand across the counter and puts his palm over the back of your latex-covered hand, making you look at him with glassy eyes, sniffling, “I’m not doing this to make you upset. I don’t want you to cry, or feel guilty, or think that I’m in any way mad at you. Because I’m not.”

It’s barely reassuring. You’re just glad that you have the shop hours posted outside so that nobody thinks to come in right now, since you’re sure it's at least an hour beyond closing by now. Simon’s thumb rubs circles against the back of your hand as he continues, “You stalked me for at least a few months. I don’t know why, I don’t know who else you’ve stalked, I just know that you’ve been following me around for a while. I would like to know why you’ve chosen me.”

It’s an awful question, really. You don’t think he could’ve chosen a worse one. You would honestly take prison over answering this, because truthfully, you don’t know―Simon was there, and for whatever reason you felt inexplicably attached to him. It could’ve been something he said the day you two met, something he did, or just the way he acted, but whatever it was, it elicited a strong enough feeling from you to cause you to start following him. You sniffle again, and Simon must sense that something’s not right, because he squeezes your hand and leans in a little further. 

“I think I should at least know why, right?” he asks, before pausing, and offering, “Maybe we could trade information?”

You furrow your eyebrows at this. “Huh?” You wince at the way your voice cracks.

Simon doesn’t mention it. “I’ll tell you something I think you’d like to know, in exchange for you telling me why you decided to stalk me.”

You don’t answer him, partially because you’re not sure what he could possibly tell you, partially because you don’t know what you could possibly tell him. After a few moments of silence, though, you nod your head and a nearly unintelligible “okay” leaves your mouth. Simon takes this as an invitation to share his information, and so he does.

“I knew for a month before I told you,” he tells you in a low voice, “and for that month, and the month after that, I watched you.”

You swear your heart stops for a moment. What? “... what?”

“I watched you close your shop every day,” Simon hums, “and I made sure you got home safely. The area you live in is dangerous. Plenty of roadmen just waiting for someone as… unaware as you to come by them.”

Your heart starts beating again, faster and faster, and you think you can feel your pupils dilating. Simon’s words reach your hypothalamus and you can physically feel the dopamine multiply, hell, you can feel it lighting up your nerves and flooding your veins. It feels like lightning coursing all throughout your body. You’re nearly positive the blacks of your pupils have consumed the majority of your iris, leaving just a ring of color in your eyes.

“Is that why you watched me?” Simon asks, a hand coming up to brush his thumb over the tears that’ve trickled just below your eyes, “Did you think I was unsafe? That I couldn’t take care of myself?” You shake your head, and a breathy “no” leaves you, making you take a deep breath, stuttering as you exhale. Simon keeps his hand on your cheek and pauses, a curious look on his face. 

— 

No? 

Simon tries to think. He considered the―frankly horrifying―possibility of you fancying him, but that idea went as soon as it came, both out of lack of evidence and because he truly can’t stand the idea. It would only mean he’d been playing into it, and that’s the last thing he wants to do. He watches your pupils grow uncannily big and only gets more concerned. He forgets what it means when the pupils get bigger outside of being under the influence, and since he doesn’t recall seeing you take anything while talking to him, he can only assume that that’s not the case. 

“Do you know me from somewhere?” Simon asks, bringing his hand down from your cheek to your own, squeezing it gently, “Should I recognize you?”

You shake your head negatively, “No.” 

Simon thinks for a few beats, each feeling a little longer than the last, before speaking up again, “Did I seem particularly interesting?”

Despite what he hoped the answer would be, you shake your head again wordlessly, a “no” never escaping you verbally but your body language more than enough to tell Simon that he wouldn’t be able to guess why exactly you stalked him. He supposes it can’t be too easy to tell your victim why exactly you stalked them, but he told you what he did, so he thinks it’s only fair if you return the favor and grace him with the answer to the question, “Then why did you do it?”

You take shaky breaths, still hunched over the counter, staring down at the dirtied glass so as to not make eye contact with Simon, “You’re new.”

He stays silent. You continue after swallowing, “You were right there. Everyone else― they don’t come here as often. If they do, they make too much conversation. They give too much of themselves to me. I don’t want them. You’ve never… been so open, not as much as them. I didn’t find you any more interesting than them, I just― I just thought that you were better. You’re so rare. I needed you, like… like a―”

“Like a toy?” Simon tries to interrupt, only for you to shake your head negatively, looking up at him and finding his eyes.

“Like an artifact.”

Simon tries to think. An artifact? As if you were a museum curator, looking for new items to add to your displays, a collector of sorts looking for something new. Something special. And he had the luck to be the one you found different, to be the one that you need, for God know’s what reason. 

“You needed me?” Simon asks, thumb swiping over the back of your hand, “Nobody else?”

“Only you,” you confirm, turning your hand over so that your gloved palm is in contact with Simon’s bare one, “it was so strange. I didn’t think for a second that I was stalking you. I just wanted to know you.”

“… Do you know me now?”

“Not as well as I want to.”

So you still want to. Simon’s conflicted. He’s not sure how he feels about being some kind of collectible. He’s sure you didn’t mean to equate him to an item―or at the very least, something inhuman―but he can’t help but feel that you’re doing just that. The lock in his back pocket feels heavier. Like these conflicted feelings weren’t weighing Simon down enough, he just needed the extra weight of the steel lock to remind him of where he is. How close to the ground he is. How close to you he is. Who he bought the lock for. How much better is he than you? You stalked him first, but he stalked you back. You broke into his flat, he broke into yours. You observe him, he watches you. Same difference.

“I bought you a new lock,” Simon comments after a few beats of silence, amusement poking through his conflicted feelings at the sight of your suddenly confused expression, clarifying quickly at the look, “for your photography room.”

Your expression hardens and you sigh, “I’m not using that room anymore.”

“No?” Simon tilts his head, “lost your interest in photography, all of a sudden?”

“The room’s not in the best condition right now,” you admit, watching as Simon pulls a lock out of his back pocket with his free hand, sliding the metal across the counter to your end. He’s surprised by the admission―just a few days ago, he couldn’t imagine your room being any less clean than a research clinic. You take the lock regardless, flipping it over in your hand and smiling at Simon, “Thank you, though.”

He nods and you hesitantly slide your hand away from his, walking back towards the stairs, with Simon following behind you closely as soon as he rounds the corner of the counter. It’s a quick walk down the stairs to your locked-up room, and Simon steps ahead unprompted to grab the rusted lock, not missing your look of appreciation as he yanks off the decayed hunk of metal. Orange dust flies into the air in the lock’s unexpected departure and the particles soon melt into the surrounding air. You fit the bar of the lock through the uneven hole in the bar of metal attached to the door, and open the door before the bar can go all the way through. 

When Simon sees the state of your photography room, he can hardly believe his eyes. There’s splattered dye everywhere, all various shades of blue and purple―from your polaroid film, he guesses, seeing all the tattered plastic-paper pictures strewn across the floor, all having the same colored clumps attached to the interior plastic. There’s tubs of water knocked over, accompanied by puddles of the same water gathered on the floor, desecrating any originally-decent pictures. The red overhead light bulb is flickering and the room is darker than light. There’s several camera lenses shattered to bits across the floor. Cameras follow the shattered glass, several models from the same brand of each camera broken, either the lithium batteries leaking or the lens broken or the camera itself looking like it’d been run over. 

The room is a mess. This pleases Simon greatly.

He stays silent as you kick a few shards of glass out of the way, though he keeps an eye on you to make sure you don’t get hurt doing so, watching as you walk across the room and open up a drawer underneath the only intact table in the room, the others greatly dented or a hole worn in them. You put a single picture out of it, though not before brushing small shards of glass off of the polaroid, making Simon take a step forward and hold out a hand as if to take yours and inspect it for cuts. The red light makes it nearly impossible to tell, but the way that you don’t react to the glass makes him think that it hadn’t punctured your skin at all. When you walk back over to him, he sees what’s in your hand; a picture of him.

“This is my favorite one,” you hum, holding the picture out for him to take. Gently, he takes the film into his hand and reads the caption. 24/06/23, Mosley St. It’s a picture of him walking towards the camera, but looking off to the side, watching a car speed by. He can’t remember the moment, but judging by the look he sees on his face, he imagines he was wondering who in their right mind decided to go so fast in whatever speed zone that street is. 

“It’s very nice,” Simon replies, something warm settling in his chest, “I don’t believe I saw you take this one.”

He knows it’s a lie. Not because he remembers seeing them, but because it would be ridiculous if he didn’t see them. Despite this, he feels no guilt lying to your face, not when you get this proud look on your face that coincides with the disbelief appearing upon it at the same time, the two creating a look Simon can only respond to with the smallest bit of adoration.

“Really?” you ask, and Simon doesn’t hesitate to nod.

“Really.” 

He doesn’t mind it, really. Not when you seem so happy, letting him follow you back out of the room and up the stairs, an invisible tail wagging behind you in excitement, goosebumps erupted across the skin of your arms and the back of your neck. He thinks it’s worth it. 

Of course, for you, most things are worth it, if not everything.

[shnezok]

streloks gang but if they survived + its my personal hc designs for them :3

After what felt like 500 hours i finally managed to add all that stuffs to my toyhouse *fucking dies* if u wanna take a peek heres the link

[tar-dar]

Old unfished art from 2021/22 and 23

[pelaajanifta]

great news! with the monolith's help i finished my art! 🙏🏼

hereby i present you Ghost, Strelok and Fang!

and as a bonus i wrote a short text where Strelok is talking about her, the Zone

The sun shone brightly in the cloudless sky, painting the surroundings of the Red Forest in warm hues. Three stalkers silently gazed into the distance, admiring the pines and grass, while a pot of boiled potatoes cooled nearby. Beyond the horizon, loomed the chimney of the Chernobyl NPP.

"You know, Doctor mentioned that he’d help us get into the center of the Zone."

"Ah, Strelok, just don’t tell me you showed him the maps?"

"Yeah, Fang, I know we can trust him."

Fang squinted and let out a quiet snort. Ghost, who had been absentmindedly peeling a freshly boiled potato with his fingers, froze for a moment, then slowly turned his head toward Strelok. A flicker of interest passed through his eyes.

"And why the generosity?" His tone carried a hint of wariness. "The center of the Zone isn’t exactly Rostok, and Doctor... Well, he always knows something we don’t."

"Exactly," Strelok nodded. "That’s why we need to listen to his advice. And most importantly — he let slip that there’s something secret there."

Ghost stared thoughtfully at the potato in his hands, tapping it with his fingers.

"So, what exactly there is in the center of the Zone?"

"He won’t say. But I’m sure — it can change everything."

"Change what?"

"Everything," Strelok repeated. "And I want to see it."

A pause settled between them. Fang was the first to break the silence.

"But how are we going to get past the Brain Scorcher?"

Strelok cast him an amused glance and nudged him in the shoulder with his elbow. Fang tried to hide a smile, pretending to search for a better-looking potato. Strelok’s voice rang with excitement.

"We’ll manage! In the end, all stalkers are drawn to the center of the Zone, all of them, Fang..."

Strelok bit into the potato, unpeeled, with the skin still on, and it felt like the most delicious thing he had ever eaten.

[a-b-riddle]

Part two

There’s certain things that are only hot in fiction.

Example: stalkers that “look out for you”

It was little things at first.

You couldn’t remember the last time you took out the trash. Your house never seemed to run out of essential items: toilet paper, paper towels. You remembered running low on dish soap only for a new bottle to pop up two days later.

You felt like you were losing mind. It was impossible that you were buying these things and forgetting. Your bank account, although it reflected a pathetically low balance, hadn’t showed any transactions you forgot about.

It was until you had noticed two pairs of underwear had gone missing. It wouldn’t have gone noticed if it weren’t for the fact that they were your skin-toned colored panties. That you had sworn you tossed in the hamper…

To you, it was the beginning of something more sinister unraveling. But to Simon, it was a small reward for taking care of you these past few months.

[timpetum]

Sketched the Strelok's team. Bear Fang, Fox Ghost, Hare Strelok

[katerenko]

[giminal]

dont be mean abt my headcanons or i'll cry /j