Kraken Shifter!Ghost who hates his kraken form. It’s too emotional. It comes when he’s terrified or furious or pushed so far past himself that there’s no him left, just instinct and teeth and ink-black water.
So when you’re all crammed into the flat one rare, quiet evening, Johnny sprawled on the couch, Kyle nursing a drink and pretending not to laugh at whatever Johnny’s saying, Simon thinks shouldn’t be like this, fidgeting, restless. Unable to settle no matter how many jokes Johnny throws his way or how gently Kyle needles him into a smile.
Even your hand in his hair doesn’t fix it. Not this time.
He keeps shifting under your touch, eyes fixed somewhere that isn’t the room.
You don’t push. You just watch him for a minute longer, then ask softly, “Simon… do you need to shift?”
He shakes his head immediately. A lie.
You don’t call him on it. You just smile, small and knowing, and stand, offering your hand. “C’mon. Bath’s free.”
He follows you without a word, gaze stuck on the floor. The water fills the tub, steam curling up the tiles, and when you step aside he hesitates, just a second, before climbing in letting go.
He shifts, just a soft, almost shy ripple through the water.
And when it’s done, he’s… tiny.
So small it knocks the breath out of you.
Not the house-sized horror you’ve seen tear through buildings, ships, and oceans. Not the nightmare that lives in the back of his head. This Simon could fit in both your hands, all smooth dark skin and delicate tentacles, eyes bright and uncertain as he blinks up at you.
Johnny leans into the doorway behind you, mid-comment, and stops dead.
“…Oh,” he says. “He’s so small.”
Kyle hums softly in agreement, already grabbing a towel without being asked. “Yeah. That’s—bloody hell.”
You swallow the instinct to coo, to fuss, to say anything that might make Simon feel like he’s done something wrong. Instead, you crouch and offer your fingers. One tentative tentacle reaches up, curls around you, light as a heartbeat.
“Okay,” you murmur. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”
He lets you lift him out, water dripping as he wraps himself around your wrist, then your forearm, clinging. By the time you step back into the living room, he’s half-looped around your bicep like he belongs there.
The room hums with quiet. The show plays. Outside, the world keeps turning.
No one makes a big deal of it.
Johnny flops back onto the couch and restarts whatever brainless show was on. Kyle settles in with a blanket, glancing over every so often.
You sit, arm propped comfortably, and Simon slowly loosens his grip, inching closer until he’s curled against your chest, tiny, warm, and content in a way. A tiny, tentacle-y, mer-creature cat, just... resting.