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omg you mind holy wow i love your brain i would never come to lobotomize you omgomg by god i need more bartender!simon you recently mention, maybe abt how they interact and develop? idk i really dont care what exactly you write, i js need any words from you abt bartender!simon

Hmmmmmm I have some headcannons!

You show up for work thirty minutes early because you're NOT risking losing this job.

Simon sometimes lets you bang on the back door for a few minutes, yelling for someone to let you in, until Soap gets tired of hearing it and opens the door. Simon finds it funny.

You think Simon is the owner of the pub until Price comes in one day with cash for your tip payout. You screamed as soon as you saw him walk in through the backdoor, thinking you were being robbed.

Simon barely managed to swing into the kitchen and grab you around the waist before you pummeled Price with an empty beer keg.

Price later told Simon he thought you were a perfect addition to the team.

You do your tips at the end of the bar every night as Simon polishes the glasses across from you. Lets you have one drink on the house.

First floor is the restaraunt/pub, second floor is the pantry/walk-in fridge/office where Price does money work, third floor is the studio apartment where Simon lives (Price discounted it for him).

When it's slow, you and Simon and Johnny all take a smoke break in the alley out back - you don't smoke, but you talk to them while they share a cig, complaining about customers together.

You bring it up to Simon that you've noticed how Johnny always comes to the front of house when Kyle brings the new kegs in, "Simon, need ya to check somethin' - ah, hey, Garrick!"

Simon scoffs at your revelation. "Jus' now seein' that?"

You live ten blocks away from the pub and ride your bike to work. Simon let's you stuff it in the alley for safekeeping.

If you're feeling especially sporty, you pop in your earbuds and take your skateboard. Simon nearly had the breath sucked from his soul when he saw you zipping by the window the first time.

You mop front of house because Simon hates it. Simon restocks the to go boxes because you can't reach the top shelf where the overflow sits.

You tried to pour a lager once when Simon was busier than usual. After watching you attempt it, he banned you from doing it ever again.

You enter Pino grigio in the POS as "peeno greeshio" and Simon hates it, but you love the way Soap cackles from the kitchen when he sees it.

Kyle sometimes sticks around to help you drag the new beer kegs up the stairs, and he shows you how to connect them to the taps.

You're constantly begging Price to set up a Karaoke machine in the corner of the bar. He says when you can afford it, you can buy it.

You broke the soda gun once; you and Soap were frantically filling container after container with tonic water while Simon was on his back under the bar, cursing and trying to turn the water off.

Monday mornings are deep-clean days, and everyone has to participate. You're all wearing sweats and bleach-stained shirts, pulling out the stove, sweeping behind the kegs, dragging the mats into the alley to clean them, emptying the fridge and scrubbing the entire thing.

Simon doesn't like to think too much about how hot you look in your sweatpants, ratty t shirt, and sweaty, flushed skin when you're exerting yourself.

You're constantly thinking about how those sweatpants hug his hips, those muscles in his arms flexing, and the grunts he makes when he's shoving the stove back into its place.

Simon gives you full permission to return any nasty attitude the customers dish at you.

After you go home for the night, Simon often finds himself lying on his bed, one arm behind his head and the other hand on his chest, staring at the ceiling, replaying the events of the day - and they're all centered around you

Part 5 of college!simon x reader 👀 hope ya’ll enjoy feel free to like comment and reblog to help this blog grow. Your comments mean a lot to me!

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Ever since the window incident you hadn’t seen him around as much. Your classes got so busy. You got caught up in studies—Arabic class was kicking your ass. All these letters, different conjugations on writing it in its initial, middle and last form. It was swirling in your head. You were dazed, walking late in the night from the library, a hot cocoa in one hand. You were your fluffy ear muffs, a beanie, and fluffy gloves to stay warm.

November was rearing its head—it had gotten so much colder. Thank god your window got fixed. Not that you’d admit that to him though. As you walked, you caught a shadowed hunched figure on the bench, hidden from the lamp post. His head was down, and brows furrowed. He wore a fur lined afghan jacket, black and zipped. Hands—red and stiff from the cold worked deftly holding a pencil.

Simon?

You stood for a moment, seeing the sketchbook in his lap and before you knew it—your legs carried you over. You stepped over the pathway and onto the grass.

“What are ya drawing?” You ask, foggy air blowing out your mouth.

He’s stunned and lifts his head up, mask pulled up to reveal just his chapped and swollen lips. He didn’t expect to see you at this hour of the night—and judging by the weight of your buckle bag—you’d been studying.

“You draw—I-I just happened to see you and…” Damn it. You trailed off awkwardly, hands stuffed in your dingy zip up sweater, hair blowing slightly in the cold wind. Behind, the tall towering university library stood. Illuminated with passerby’s and chatter.

He then clears his throat, shifting.

“Yea, tattoos. Ain’t it elegant, rough and pretty.” His smooth baritone voice responded, eyes flickering to his sketchbook, then you. His eyes were rid rimmed and lids dropping. You found his natural features breathtaking. The corner of his lip tilted slightly, but then faded just as quick as it came. For a second, you thought you’d seen it and gazed at his face for a moment. The wrinkles under his eyes ceased.

“I like them. You should keep up with it.” You said, knee shifting slightly to lean your weight onto one leg. He was hunched over sitting on the bench, sketchbook in his lap. Evangelion tattoos cover the page and surprise flickers in your eyes. You’d seen his canister of pencils before but this was interesting.

“She sittin’ real pretty…gonna finish er’ and make a final sketch.” He said, eyeing his artwork. Just then, a sudden thought crossed his mind as his fingers worked deftly with the pencil.

Pretty like you.

He stiffened up, fingers clenching the pencil, eyes flashing to his sketch. He then looked up at you, head tilted slightly. You didn’t seem to pick up on his movement, just sipped your hot cocoa, muffed hands holding the cup. White gloves, he observed.

“How long have you been drawing?” You asked, curious. You tipped your head down to look at him, cheeks flushed and lips parted. You sniffled a bit as the cold was getting to you.

“Eh—a while now. Jus’ have all these ideas in my mind. Ya know.” He said, although eyes discreetly looking away as if holding something in. Memories of being late night at base crossed his mind—bedside lamp lit, sketchbook in his lap. Soft snores of Johnny sounded. Nothing but endless thoughts of rage and war on his mind, yet when he picked up the pencil, it settled. Like water lulling against the shoreline.

You picked up on his subtle movement—and gazed at him, rocking slightly on your heels.

“You don’t have to be ashamed of it.”

“I’m not.”

“Then what’s on your mind?” You asked, brows knitting together. You wiped your glove under your nose, sniffling, shifting in your spot.

“You should get inside, lass.” He said bluntly, not moving from his spot. He continued to draw and you chewed at your lip, seeing how cold his fingers were. Careless man, not wearing gloves. At least something to keep himself protected. You knew he dodged your question—and you wondered what he possible could be hiding.

“You’re going to get sick.” You said.

“And if I do let me be.” He responded, eyes still staring stubbornly in his sketchbook. Fingers moved softly, in long brush strokes.

You sighed and shifted in your spot and then decided to leave your hot cocoa beside him. Lipstick marks kissed the mouth, and his head jerked up, confused and slightly surprised. He watched you, icy eyes peering up. “What d’ya think y’er doin’?”

“Leaving that for you. Fine, if you don’t drink it. Im not nasty or whatever. But its hot enough to keep your fingers from falling off.” You scoffed, then shoved your hands into your pockets, seeing his brows slightly raise.

He seemed surprised and wordless for a moment—and that made you amused. Kindness seemed to stump him. Although you felt entertained at the scene unfolding, apart of you wondered why this was odd for him. Something so simple as sharing hot cocoa on a cold night.

Maybe he lacked this kindness.

Something warm radiated in your chest and for a brief moment the amusement faded away—something softer forming in your eyes. Simon cleared his throat and then looked back down at his artwork.

“Get goin’, yeah? And don’t get me sick.” He ordered, although voice sounding lighter. Of course he had his usual bite, but you could tell something has eased up.

“Why? Afraid of a lil’ runny nose, cap?” You joked, the corner of your lip tilting up. You bounced off, boots crunching on the reddened leaves.

Cap, he repeated in his mind. Why that nickname? Even more, why the hot cocoa?

He stared at your retreating form, confused and bewildered. His brows couldn’t stop that pinching it always did—and that slight crazed look in his eyes was quite entertaining.

“Bloody lass…leaving er’ drink. Wot she think? M’ gonna’ drink this?”

Then he muttered and hands clumsily held the cup. His hands were freezing. His fingers barely registered the warmth first—and he thought it was plain cold. But when he sipped—right over where your lipstick marks were, it was hot.

“Yea, right. Hot cocoa my ass—“

He grumbled, still clutching and holding it. He hoped to god lipstick did not smear on his lips.

Maybe the night just got sweeter.

this is part 2 of my college!simon idea :) enjoy! feel free to like comment & reblog.

Simon mumbled and grunted. He was heaved over the barstool of the Bistro, finished a long day of studies and classwork. A.D, B.C, blueprints of Greek palaces and Knossos rebuilding—my ass. He thought in annoyance, brows slashes down in a glare, rough eyes peering out from his balaclava mask. A girl beside him eyed his mask to which he stared, biting into his sandwhich.

All around the Bistro had calmed down, a few people in and out. Simon always took the seat closest to the exit, it was better for an escape—and he maintained situational awareness. Not only that, but he liked when he sat alone. His brooding form took over at least two seats.

“Bloody hell…the man took chicken outta chicken…” Simon said, staring at his sandwich in disgust. His eyes had widened by a fraction. He chewed the last bite before setting the stale sandwich down, already pissed they messed up his order. He shook his head in annoyance and then managed to catch you.

His head paused in its moment and he drank you in, hair illuminated by the dangling overhead lights. The warm light made your hair softer than usual, and you wore a flowy skirt, some boots and a buckled bag hang off your shoulder. Along with a tank top you’d managed to find in your laundry that wasn’t dirty.

Wait a minute. He’d seen you before. This was the lass that lived across from him. In that tiny corner of a “room,” your “dungeon” as he called it. His eyes narrowed as he watched you order your usual. He had no idea what it was but he was tempted to find out.

Only so he could get rid of whatever the hell he’d been ordering lately. After you received your ticket, you made your way to the opposite seating area away from him, hair flowing and following your movements.

“I keep seein’ that lass…tis a sign or wot?” He’d mumble, more so to himself. The plastic cup nudges his lips before he drank the water, washing away whatever chicken—fake chicken had been left.

——

Sometime later at night, he’d been walking down the pathway to his dorm. His hands were stuffed casually in his pockets, the sound of music blasting through his wired headphones was the only thing he was focused on. His boots crunched over pebbles, the gravely path taking a turn up a slope. The moon hung high and heavy in the sky.

It was then he caught wind of some laughter pouring out like champagne. Smooth, easy, flowing. Kind of like—you. There you stood, standing ahead and walking, just having finished dinner and on your phone, smiling widely. Your head was tilted up at the moon in amazement, talking about how you’d seen more balls than you cared to admit—

To which he cocked a brow curiously and carried on walking, although slightly slower this time. God. Maybe it was from all the training that weighed him down. He knew it was an excuse to eavesdrop more but to be fair: you piqued his interest. Ever since he’d seen you in that bathroom, hair tousled and half asleep.

“My damn window won’t shut.” He heard you complain, sighing as your head tipped down, focusing on the rocky path. You adjusted your bag, hair flowing. Some laughter sounded over the phone and then said, “Just get that masked man to do it, the one you been telling me about.”

Masked man?

Oh.

Him.

Who else wore a looming skull mask in the dead of night? Him.

“No, absolutely not—I don’t even know him.” You said much quieter, eyes wide and lifting to peer around to see if anyone heard. It seemed like you didn’t know he was directly behind you, hanging a few feet back. He shuffled in his spot and for the first time in a while for the day, found his lip itching to grin. It was too easy. You seemed naive in the moment.

It also seemed apparent to him you’d been talking about him—to whoever friend it was over the phone. His finger tapped against his thigh, head cocking to the side curiously. Although he couldn’t blame you for doing so—lotta lassies fawned over him. He found himself disinterested though, unable to see himself in a relationship for the time being. Maybe it was the trauma, maybe it was the fact he preffered to be with his goldfish and venting to it, only to be returned with blobs of bubbles blowing out.

Just then, his boot crunched loudly on a twig and your head snapped around, hand clutching the phone. He stared, now pausing in his movements, as you were blocking his path. He watched as color drained from your face quite amusingly—and you fumbled to disconnect the phone call.

“Yeah, yeah, make sure to tell him what a nice ass—“

The phone cut off. Now both of you stood staring at each other.

2009 riley…

Seriously. I love 2009 simon riley so much. I love his droopy blue eyes, his cursing, his voice, his youthfulness, his baclava and sunglasses. everything about him screams biker boyfriend. He deserves so much more attention… HIS BLUE EYES ARE SO……. not to mention he looks adorably high. Maybe i’m just a sicko for droopy eyes. HE LOOKS SO TIRED! They remind me of a puppy and i’m not sure if i’m going crazy or what. HE’S JUST SO ADORABLE DAWG I CANT…beefy ghost is cute too, but 09 ghost js gives me the tall handsome, well-built biker boy. Why did they have to do him like that bro…. (Pics not mine)

Bartender Simon when a customer yells at reader for a mistake?

I love the way you guys think LOVE keep em comin!!

It starts when he's restocking his bar, carrying crates with fruit, bitters, coasters, and straws. He comes down from the pantry upstairs to a decently relaxed lunch crowd, when he hears the second half of the customer's tantrum.

"You expect me to eat this?! It's bloody raw!"

"I'm so sorry, I can take it back aga-"

"You already did that - went to the kitchen and stuck it under the warmer for a few seconds and thought I wouldn't notice, huh?"

"No sir, I gave it to the che-"

"I don't want to hear fucking excuses, just go fix my damn burger. I'm paying for this shit, aren't I? And you're working for my tip. So fucking work, cunt."

Humiliation isn't enough to describe what you feel - there isn't a strong enough word for it. Claiming you're a liar, saying you grovel for tips, yelling at you in front of your other tables, calling you a cunt - it makes your eyes sting with oncoming tears, staring at him and using every muscle in your jaw to keep from spitting insults back at him. You want to throw the food in his face, but instead, you grab his plate and storm off to the kitchen before he can see you cry.

The man scoffs, looking at his watch. "Fuckin' great..."

Simon's still standing at the bottom of the stairs, holding his crates and staring daggers at the man. He knows what it's like, being berated by customers. He says "that's customer service for ya" and moves on. But for this wanker to berate you - he sees red. He sees his next target.

He swiftly crosses the restaurant floor, boots thudding against the old wood as he drops his crate behind the bar. Soap's already yelling about the asshole when he pushes his way into the kitchen.

"Order it fuckin' rare and ye get fuckin' rare, bloody clipe- talkin' mince, bawface bastard-" he slams the burger back onto the grill with a tense arm, continuing to grumble as it sizzles. "Cookin' ye a nice strip o' shoe leather-"

You're sitting on an overturned crate, sobbing into your hands, pen and notepad on the ground beside you. Price is on one knee, one arm around your shoulder and the other on your leg - you'd never officially met the owner of the pub, but now was as good a time as any, you suppose.

"Wot happened?" Is all that Ghost could say without going off on a rampage. He's saving that for later.

"He fucking embarrassed me, that's what happened!!" You snap, looking up at Simon. Your eyes are red and puffy after only crying for a minute or two, cheeks wet from your tears. You hug your arms around your middle and choke on a sob. "Told me his fucking burger wasn't cooked, so I sent it back- then he tries to say I never even gave it to Soap?! Calls m-me a cunt in front of my tables?! Make me fucking work for his money - I don't want his goddamn money!!"

Price shushes you, worrying your anger might be leaking through the kitchen door - he doesn't want the same customer to hear you bad-mouthing him, although it's rightfully deserved. He rubs your back gently as you drop your head into your hands again, shoulders shaking as you cry.

Simon's seething - he's already moving before his brain can catch up, still stuck on the picture of your teary face. He marches behind the line and reaches across Soap, picking the burger right off the grill.

Soap makes a shocked sound. "Ye gone mad, LT?!"

"Table six?" Ghost asks, holding the sizzling burger patty in his hand, grease dripping onto his forearm.

You stare between his face and the patty - your crying stopped, your face now replaced with a stupefied expression. "Uh- yeah."

And like that, he's off; he shoves himself back out onto the floor and makes his way towards the customer who yelled at you. The burger burns his hand, but he doesn't even notice the pain. He drops it onto the table in front of the man, who yelps in disgust. "What the fuck-"

"Better?" Ghost says, hands clenching into fists at his sides as he looked down at the man, now stuttering and blubbering in shock. Specks of grease are freckling his white dress shirt.

"Are you- is this a fucking joke?"

"It's your fuckin' burger."

"I can't believe this-"

"Then get the fuck out my pub." Ghost growls; he grabs the man by his arm, ripping his blazer off the back of his chair, and drags him to the front door. The other customers look with wide eyes as he busts the door open with his shoulder and throws the man onto the sidewalk. He wheezes as he hits the ground, and Ghost throws his blazer at him next.

"If I ever see your face in 'ere after this, 'm throwin' you out again and keepin' your bullocks as a fuckin' souvenir."

The man stares at him, flabbergasted, as Ghost walks back inside. People are focused on their meals now, heads down and pretending they didn't see Simon body a man to the ground - the guy deserved it, after all.

Simon huffs, picking up the burger from the now-empty table. His hand stings a bit, but he has years of callouses built up to keep any real burns from settling in. He gently kicks the chair back into place and starts heading back to the kitchen, when he sees you.

You're staring at him with wide, wet eyes, standing in the entryway to the kitchen and mouth slightly ajar in awe. You've fully stopped crying, but there are still tears on your face from before. Eyeliner and mascara are smudged a bit, but it only makes Simon's fondness for you blossom.

He gently nudges your shoulder with his elbow as he pushes past you. "Take a fifteen. I'll watch your tables."

You stare after him as he throws the burger into the trash, grabbing a fresh towel and wrapping his hand. Wide back facing you as he looks at Soap, who stares at him with a frustrated sigh.

You're horny now. Horny for Simon - and you're definitely relaying this entire shebang to your friends tonight.