ghost’s emotional support recruit

El | 18+ | writing for myself

[el-laine]

Not to rush you, buuuuut when is part 3 of cat shifter coming? 🥹

Probably in the next couple days. Sorry about the delay, I wasted my weekend watching people play RE9 instead of writing or doing anything productive, so I have lots of backlog. Edit: Holy crap, sorry for the extra delay but it's going to take me a little longer.

[el-laine]

I saw this vid on instagram and it reminded me of your cat shifter!reader story

Reader realizing they don't have to just survive anymore and can be a child for once. This is in the future though lol. They're still a feral shite, even if they clung to Simon. Baby steps.

[el-laine]

Cat!shifter reader x Simon (PLATONIC) Part 1 | Part 2

Holy guacamole. I never thought I'd get this much traction. Thank you so much everyone, and I hope you enjoy. Apologies in advance for any typos/clunkiness.

This part mentions trafficking of shifters & animal cruelty. Proceed with care. 

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ──────

Present day You're the most stubborn kid Simon's ever met.

He's tried every trick in the book short of outright kidnapping, to get you to come to him on your own. But you want nothing to do with him.

Can't you see he's trying to help get you off the streets? Into the care of someone who could ensure your safety? Shifters outside of sanctioned work don't have regulations put in to protect them. No oversight. No safety nets. It makes them easy targets for traffickers looking to carry out underground operations. 

He's seen the worst of it; shifters tagged like livestock. Sedated and shock collared to keep in check. Some even bolted to the concrete floor or crammed in ill-fitting crates with the barest modicum of hygiene. Fed god knows what and forced to shift for the amusement of the buyers. 

Johnny nearly killed one of the sellers they needed alive to interrogate — just about tore the man's throat before Simon stepped in. 

The conditions were so abysmal that despite the overwhelming evidence, nothing changed. Nothing done to protect non-working shifters; they're less than human to the government, and treated as such. 

Traffickers don't care if you're man, woman or child. A handful of shifters sold to the right buyer earns a small fortune. 

And It's Simon's job to make sure you don't end up like that. 

Which is why he's out here again, attempting to get you to trust him through association by food — the only method that works more often than not — at least when you're not in a mood. 

He's late today, the sky streaked with oranges and purple, but he's not in a rush. You're not dumb enough to pass on free food now that you know he'll keep bringing it. Even when you're being a little shithead. 

He adjusts his grip on the plastic baggy before coming to a stop in front of your current residence: an overturned cardboard box, marked with dirt and scratches, half-collapsed against a bush. Crude, but it makes do. You weren't very happy when he followed you back to your make-shift home a few days ago, threw a whole fit and everything.

You aren't inside when he crouches to take a look, but he knows you're nearby, evident with the meow that follows him cracking open a tin of wet cat food. Simon turns his head— 

There. 

A fixture in the hard shadow cast by the street-light, a pair of glowing eyes stare at him. He knows it's you. Any other cat would've already inched closer at the prospect of a free meal. 

He sets the tin on the ground, "Hey kid, I've got dinner." Your feline form is already on the smaller end so he can't even tell how old you are, but he knows you need to eat. He'll get the specifics when he can get you to a specialist, but right now he's more worried about you eating enough to shift later.  

After a couple moments with no response, Simon cuts his losses and stands, wiping his hands on his jeans, "Olright. That's tha' then. You better be 'ere tomorrow, you little menace"

He just hopes you don't piss in the food again.  ──────────────────────────────────────────────── A week earlier: Simon can't concentrate.

It's been less than 24 hours since you bit him and bolted. And you've been on the back of his mind since. A sense of dread dogs him; it feels wrong to have let you run, not when you're still at risk. What if someone else finds you first? While he's here, babysitting a bunch of recruits bumbling over themselves to impress him? 

Scenario after scenario run through his head and he must've been glaring because Soap comes over to nudge him, "What's got you in a mood, L.T? Yer givin' the rookies a ghastly look. Did ya run out of your favorite tea today? Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, aye?"

"Negative." His reply is clipped. 

"Ooh, tetchy today, ah see." 

Take a deep breath. He isn't about to snap at Johnny for trying to lighten the mood when today's training is about building trust with your fellow soldiers. And Simon's here scowling at them. 

He must've taken too long to respond, because the sergeant's smile tightens, "A word, Ghost?" and starts to herd him out of earshot of the rookies. Bloody mutt.

He sighs, "'m fine Mactavish."

"Aye, right! 'course you are L.T" The words are full of sarcasm, waiting for him to explain himself.

…

"How'd you reckon you earn a shifter's trust?" Simon finally asks, and before Soap can probe, he clarifies. "There's this kid…" 

He explains the rest, how he met you and the apprehension at the situation. How is he supposed to gain your trust? Soap should know. He'd ask Price, but the old bear wouldn't be a lick useful, and bouncing ideas with Garrick would only have him back to square one; neither of them can tell what's going on in a shifter's mind.

"Ahm not sure but maybe…"  ──────────────────────────────────────────────── (cue the montage) After turning over Johnny's idea in his mind all night, Simon's equipped for a reunion the following day. And he's brought gifts.

It's more or less what he expected. You're avoidant, testy the moment you see him. It's clear you don't want him close, even when he comes bearing food and toys.

Just the other day he watched you throw a feather wand into oncoming traffic and stare at him.

Punk. 

He knows you're hungry, but you refuse to eat with him nearby and you won't touch anything he hasn't opened right in front of you. The one time he opened the can before you arrived, you went ahead and pissed on it before bolting. The team won't let him live it down. 

The neighbors started giving him pitiful looks after he faced rejection after rejection. A resident even told him that he'd have a better chance adopting any other cat than you. Apparently— you've got a bit of a reputation.

It was like trying to make peace with something that wants nothing to do with him, yet still waits for him every evening. He was late once and you threw a hissy fit, because surely how dare Simon be tardy when your feeding takes precedence over everything else? 

He's trying to be patient. You're just scared. Testing him to make sure he won't pull any tricks on you or disappear, along with your meals. 

Johnny said it would be slow progress. Simon just hopes you come around soon.

──────────────────────────────────────────────── Present day (a couple minutes later) He's halfway back to the mart after dropping off your food when he hears it: A yowl, shrill in the distance. 

It could be any other stray — there's no shortage of them in Manchester — but Simon's intuition is rarely wrong. He turns back, already jogging, and he doesn't have to get far: a black shape tears around the corner, little paws skitter on the pavement as you let out a series of distressed, frantic cries. 

You see him. And bolt straight for him.

Simon's left dumbfounded as you pounce, scaling him like he's a bloody tree, and his hands reach up, uncertain. The question on his tongue dies when a woman rushes past with an empty dog leash, calling out a name.

No wonder. He lets out a breath of relief.

"Did some mutt chase you? You olright?" He murmurs, resting his hand on your back to hold you up. You just mew pathetically into his jacket, claws biting into the fabric.

Simon exhales, and tucks you closer against his chest, "C'mon kid, let's get you sorted out."

[el-laine]

@i-lepidoptera-i @missj609 @hypertail @mer-not-man @quinniquest

I hope I tagged properly

[el-laine]

Cat!shifter reader x Simon (PLATONIC) Part 1 | Part 2

Holy guacamole. I never thought I'd get this much traction. Thank you so much everyone, and I hope you enjoy. Apologies in advance for any typos/clunkiness.

This part mentions trafficking of shifters & animal cruelty. Proceed with care. 

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ──────

Present day You're the most stubborn kid Simon's ever met.

He's tried every trick in the book short of outright kidnapping, to get you to come to him on your own. But you want nothing to do with him.

Can't you see he's trying to help get you off the streets? Into the care of someone who could ensure your safety? Shifters outside of sanctioned work don't have regulations put in to protect them. No oversight. No safety nets. It makes them easy targets for traffickers looking to carry out underground operations. 

He's seen the worst of it; shifters tagged like livestock. Sedated and shock collared to keep in check. Some even bolted to the concrete floor or crammed in ill-fitting crates with the barest modicum of hygiene. Fed god knows what and forced to shift for the amusement of the buyers. 

Johnny nearly killed one of the sellers they needed alive to interrogate — just about tore the man's throat before Simon stepped in. 

The conditions were so abysmal that despite the overwhelming evidence, nothing changed. Nothing done to protect non-working shifters; they're less than human to the government, and treated as such. 

Traffickers don't care if you're man, woman or child. A handful of shifters sold to the right buyer earns a small fortune. 

And It's Simon's job to make sure you don't end up like that. 

Which is why he's out here again, attempting to get you to trust him through association by food — the only method that works more often than not — at least when you're not in a mood. 

He's late today, the sky streaked with oranges and purple, but he's not in a rush. You're not dumb enough to pass on free food now that you know he'll keep bringing it. Even when you're being a little shithead. 

He adjusts his grip on the plastic baggy before coming to a stop in front of your current residence: an overturned cardboard box, marked with dirt and scratches, half-collapsed against a bush. Crude, but it makes do. You weren't very happy when he followed you back to your make-shift home a few days ago, threw a whole fit and everything.

You aren't inside when he crouches to take a look, but he knows you're nearby, evident with the meow that follows him cracking open a tin of wet cat food. Simon turns his head— 

There. 

A fixture in the hard shadow cast by the street-light, a pair of glowing eyes stare at him. He knows it's you. Any other cat would've already inched closer at the prospect of a free meal. 

He sets the tin on the ground, "Hey kid, I've got dinner." Your feline form is already on the smaller end so he can't even tell how old you are, but he knows you need to eat. He'll get the specifics when he can get you to a specialist, but right now he's more worried about you eating enough to shift later.  

After a couple moments with no response, Simon cuts his losses and stands, wiping his hands on his jeans, "Olright. That's tha' then. You better be 'ere tomorrow, you little menace"

He just hopes you don't piss in the food again.  ──────────────────────────────────────────────── A week earlier: Simon can't concentrate.

It's been less than 24 hours since you bit him and bolted. And you've been on the back of his mind since. A sense of dread dogs him; it feels wrong to have let you run, not when you're still at risk. What if someone else finds you first? While he's here, babysitting a bunch of recruits bumbling over themselves to impress him? 

Scenario after scenario run through his head and he must've been glaring because Soap comes over to nudge him, "What's got you in a mood, L.T? Yer givin' the rookies a ghastly look. Did ya run out of your favorite tea today? Woke up on the wrong side of the bed, aye?"

"Negative." His reply is clipped. 

"Ooh, tetchy today, ah see." 

Take a deep breath. He isn't about to snap at Johnny for trying to lighten the mood when today's training is about building trust with your fellow soldiers. And Simon's here scowling at them. 

He must've taken too long to respond, because the sergeant's smile tightens, "A word, Ghost?" and starts to herd him out of earshot of the rookies. Bloody mutt.

He sighs, "'m fine Mactavish."

"Aye, right! 'course you are L.T" The words are full of sarcasm, waiting for him to explain himself.

…

"How'd you reckon you earn a shifter's trust?" Simon finally asks, and before Soap can probe, he clarifies. "There's this kid…" 

He explains the rest, how he met you and the apprehension at the situation. How is he supposed to gain your trust? Soap should know. He'd ask Price, but the old bear wouldn't be a lick useful, and bouncing ideas with Garrick would only have him back to square one; neither of them can tell what's going on in a shifter's mind.

"Ahm not sure but maybe…"  ──────────────────────────────────────────────── (cue the montage) After turning over Johnny's idea in his mind all night, Simon's equipped for a reunion the following day. And he's brought gifts.

It's more or less what he expected. You're avoidant, testy the moment you see him. It's clear you don't want him close, even when he comes bearing food and toys.

Just the other day he watched you throw a feather wand into oncoming traffic and stare at him.

Punk. 

He knows you're hungry, but you refuse to eat with him nearby and you won't touch anything he hasn't opened right in front of you. The one time he opened the can before you arrived, you went ahead and pissed on it before bolting. The team won't let him live it down. 

The neighbors started giving him pitiful looks after he faced rejection after rejection. A resident even told him that he'd have a better chance adopting any other cat than you. Apparently— you've got a bit of a reputation.

It was like trying to make peace with something that wants nothing to do with him, yet still waits for him every evening. He was late once and you threw a hissy fit, because surely how dare Simon be tardy when your feeding takes precedence over everything else? 

He's trying to be patient. You're just scared. Testing him to make sure he won't pull any tricks on you or disappear, along with your meals. 

Johnny said it would be slow progress. Simon just hopes you come around soon.

──────────────────────────────────────────────── Present day (a couple minutes later) He's halfway back to the mart after dropping off your food when he hears it: A yowl, shrill in the distance. 

It could be any other stray — there's no shortage of them in Manchester — but Simon's intuition is rarely wrong. He turns back, already jogging, and he doesn't have to get far: a black shape tears around the corner, little paws skitter on the pavement as you let out a series of distressed, frantic cries. 

You see him. And bolt straight for him.

Simon's left dumbfounded as you pounce, scaling him like he's a bloody tree, and his hands reach up, uncertain. The question on his tongue dies when a woman rushes past with an empty dog leash, calling out a name.

No wonder. He lets out a breath of relief.

"Did some mutt chase you? You olright?" He murmurs, resting his hand on your back to hold you up. You just mew pathetically into his jacket, claws biting into the fabric.

Simon exhales, and tucks you closer against his chest, "C'mon kid, let's get you sorted out."

[el-laine]

Cat!shifter reader x Simon (PLATONIC) Part 1 | Part 2

This post is inspired by @/rawme-price writing about cat!shifter reader (the shop cat one) so I wanted to give cat!shifter a go too.

Hope you enjoy. Apologies in advance for any typos/clunkiness

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ──────

You vaguely remember a time from when you were younger, full of lifeless bare walls and the choking smell of disinfectant. The incessant murmurs behind the glass, the dread of getting scruffed whenever you did something not up to standard. 

The memories are fuzzy, where you're left grasping for the wisps of the crumbling recollections of your childhood; a gaping chasm in your existence so wide it feels like you've only existed for three years, not however many you truly are.

For three years, as far as you can recall, you've lived on the streets. Stuck in your feline form, not because you can't shift — though the process would probably kill you in your current state — but because maintaining your human form would demand more food than you have access to. Shifting takes precious calories you don't have the luxury to waste; it's already hard enough to sustain your kitten appearance. 

You're exploring past your usual peripheries today, hoping to find some scraps or endear an ignorant human into giving you a meal to get you through the day. Most of them can't differentiate between hybrids and regular animals, so if you loiter close enough, they'll leave precious sustenance on the ground. It's not a foolproof method, however. Some humans aren't generous, especially when you have a penchant for biting and scratching anyone who gets within a foot of you. It's not as if you can help it either.

Every hand reaching could be your end. Every step too close is a threat. 

What choice do you have? It's survival and you want to live. 

By late afternoon, your stomach feels hollow enough to fold in on itself. You've only managed to get a bowl of milk and you don't want to scrounge through the dumpsters again. That's alley cat territory, and they aren't particularly fond of shifters, almost as if they can smell the wrongness on your fur, can tell you're not one of them. 

So when you spot a cling-wrapped sandwich on the pavement, instincts take over and you're springing into action. Food food food is all you think: the soft dough of the bread, how it'll crumble in your mouth. The acidity of the tomatoes. You can't remember the last time you had fruit. And the thing you've been longing for most: chicken. Fatty, juicy chicken that might keep you going for another couple of days. 

Everything else blurs.  Your fangs sink down— 

Salt. Sweat. Definitely not the sandwich you were eyeing. 

You snap out of your daydream and jolt back, looking up to see an enormous, masked man crouched in front of you. His scarred hand hovers over the sandwich, two small indents marking his index finger. 

Shit.

_________________________________________________

Simon wasn't expecting his day to go like this. After a grueling day at base clearing the paperwork he'd ignored for weeks — a part of his job worse than training rookies — he was starving, and the base cafeteria wasn't going to cut it. 

So why is it that he's staring down at the little shit that bit him? He should ignore it, leave the sandwich for the feral beast, and go home to make dinner and crack open a bottle of bourbon. He has better things to do, but something about your behavior makes him stop.

You're frozen, pupils blown wide as you continue to stare at him, as if locked in a standstill he didn't start. He gives you a once over: matted black fur, no collar, and a defensive posture tell him you're likely feral. 

It clicks. 

Ah.

You're a shifter.

He works with shifters. Knows them.  And this isn't a cat. 

You're not acting like a regular one: no hissing, no meowing, and no running. Just still, like you're trying not to exist, hoping his attention shifts to anything other than you. 

It's rare to see shifters outside of the militia, but he's cracked down on enough research laboratories to know that domestic shifters were a thing. They sell well on the black market. 

Something uncomfortable wells in his chest. What if you got snatched?

Usually civilians can't tell the difference, but there are always exceptions with nefarious intentions to boot, and coupled with the fact you're tiny, you wouldn't survive. Simon can't, on good conscience leave you to your own devices. He remembers being that small, remembers what that felt like. No one deserves that. 

If you were an adult, he'd walk away without a second thought. But you're not. Bloody hell.

The longer he continues to look at you, the tenser you get, shifting on your paws. He has to grab you, even if it gets him bit and scratched; he's due for his shots anyways. And his resolve must show — because without another second, you bolt.

Simon sighs, picking up his sandwich from the ground. He can see your small form taking a sharp turn down an alley. 

Looks like he's got a cat to catch.

[el-laine]

I feel like Simon wouldn't work out with a young reader, romantically.

It doesn’t matter how you met or how you became exclusive, but once there is a relationship, you find out he's one of those asshole guys who refuses to hear you out because you're younger and don't have his wisdom. Anything you try to bring up is taken with a grain of salt; he will talk over you, doesn't understand your moods nor is he willing to listen seriously. Arguing with Simon is pointless because he makes up his mind and you don't get any leeway to respond.

He's awful to be in a relationship with in the first place. And as much as I love imagining him as a big guy who adores you (or is obsessed with you), I also wonder about the other side. What if it wasn't so wholesome?

Realistically he's married to his work. He doesn't communicate emotions well, he doesn't text or if he does, it's usually a monosyllable response to your own multitude of texts or one of those 'thumbs up' emojis. Being in a relationship with him is emotionally exhausting — it feels like you're the only person putting in the work: you reach out to make plans? They inevitably fall apart due to his schedule. You reach out to know how his day was? You get some vague one-word answer which he won't expand on.

Simon isn't the type to text unless it's about something he wants from you, in which case he calls. He knows your schedule but his calls are unpredictable, with disregard for any plans you might have had prior or been making for the two of you. What he says goes, or it doesn't happen at all. And on the off chance he agrees, he acts like you did him a disservice — and no one has a good time. There's no flexibility.

I'm sure the sex is great, but that's nearly every iteration of Simon out there. It's the pillow talk he's not good at, and he definitely doesn't get out of bed to clean you up; you're spryer than him, so do him a solid and take care of it yourself, won't you?

When you inevitably leave him (you can do better than this jackass), he's only mildly affected. It's more of an inconvenience to now have to find another consistent sex partner, and Simon wasn't emotionally invested in the relationship to begin with. He knows there's no future for him, and what would do him in was a mistake on the battlefield, not living a content life until he dies of old age. He put that notion behind him years ago.

────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ──────

Before anyone tries to murder me, this is just a take on Simon's character. This is my first time writing so apologies in advance for any mistakes or clunkiness. I want to explore multiple instances of how Simon could behave in different situations, whether he's mean/toxic or the opposite. This isn't to diss on any author who writes Simon with a younger reader, I like reading those too 😭🙏 please don't behead me.

[el-laine]

help me find this

Guys I was just reading about janitor reader and Simon. After some dub con, he got her pregnant and once he found out he kind of bailed? Reader suffers through pregnancy and birth and that was the end of the post. There was a link to a master list but it didn't lead anywhere and when I tried to click back it disappeared and now I can't find the post 😭. Can anyone find it?

[el-laine]

Need help finding a fanfic and blurb(s)!

There was this one fanfic set in a university setting, Simon played a sport (I think lacrosse? with the 141) and reader did pottery. Fake dating and the 'he falls first' trope.

The blurb was about reader being a woman in the military, semi-realistic style. Ghost lowkey hating on her and didn't believe she was doing anything worthwhile (I've seen a couple blurbs like this but all would be appreciated).

I can't for the life of me find these anymore, I'd appreciate if someone could link them or something sob.