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part4 ((tw: graphic depictions of insulin needle usage))

(X) ~ please read this thread for context

Simon hated giving himself the shot. It reminded him too much of being back at home. His mother's hands always shook, eyes too far away to focus. Tommy was either too little or too high and though it was one of his needles. His father... his father was always too rough

His father used insulin as a punishment

Just like Roba--

Simon blinks, feeling the pump scar on his hip with shaking hands.

He blinks a few times, pushing back POW memories and childhood nightmares away to lift his shirt. Simon stands in front of the mirror with glazed-over eyes, trying to remove himself from the act and just...do it

His fingers ache and tiny pinpricks of red dot all over his finger tips and in the webs of his fingers and toes-- Gaz once asked him how many years sober he was

Just do it. Do it Simon-- I cant. DO IT--

The Major stood, hovering in the doorway like a black cloud ready to settle… when did he get there?

“Let me help you with that,” his perpetual sickly sweet smile turns lecherous as he steps into Ghost’s sanctuary. “Please?” His face contorts into a vicious green monster that.. if he looks hard enough the blur in his vision would convince him was Nigel Riley.

"You--" The Major takes a step forward as Simon takes a step back - his back knocking into the side of his desk with a bruise already forming.

"Where is Sergeant Mactavish?"

Where are the exits? Where can I escape to?! Where is Johnny?

"Train-training, sir." The insulin needle clutched in his hands is slowly losing grip from his white-knuckle hold.

"Hmmm, I see..." Cowells walks about the room, looking under piles of clothes, feeling the cloth of his balaclavas, running a forked tongue across his lips as he studies the room; yellow snake eyes settle on his shaking form. "I heard form a little birdy--" "Price."

To this the Major laughs, deep within his belly and for a lot longer than one would laugh- his cackles are loud and grate against the gargling sound rising in Simon's ears.

"Yes-" He wipes the nonexistent tears from his eyes on an embroidered handkerchief 'the same one all Majors got upon promotion'-- Simon thought sourly. "Yes, it was Price. He told me you let the Scot give you the shot?"

Simon doesn't move- his face goes numb, his hands shake, and the sweat from his brow slides back and down his shirt causing an involuntary shiver-- but the Major notices. He always notices.

"And he doesn't seem to be here," He takes another step forward, securing Simon, pinning him between the Major himself and the desk.

"So who will give you the shot?"

~~~

His side hurt.

Really- his whole abdomen has turned a gross, yellowing-green shade over the last couple of weeks. He couldn't bend down without being in pain - his right side was tender and too firm which accentuated the raw pinpricks that seemed to grow and grow, turning bright red from being stabbed in the same place.

Johnny's training schedule got changed

They barely saw each other and when they did Simon was in too much pain to move, to talk -- to do much of anything other than lay there.

His side hurt and he's been feeling weaker.

His laps are slower, his pushups are weak, and he cant move without feeling dizzy or lightheaded. His hands constantly shake and the new tremble has been causing gun burns.

Simon's side hurts and the Major is back to give him his shot.

"How many carbs did you have?"

"251 grams."

"Hmmm, your scale says 4 units for every 251 grams - sounds easy enough!" Simon hates that sound. It sounds too much like his father. He was always too cheerful to calculate doses-- as if he knew something Simon didn't.

Simon watches with blurring vision as the Major draws up his insulin, bypassing the four and giving him six units instead. "Sir?"

"Well now, can we be sure you counted correctly? My little birdy has been telling me you've seemed off lately, any reason why?" His voice is like nails on a chalkboard- so condescending they scratch at his ears. His cringes as the Major comes closer, using that stupid snapping motion for Simon to lift his shirt.

Simon suddenly feels six years old again

"N-no, sir." The Major's hands are like ice

"Good." The needle hurts, his abdomen hurts, his head hurts--- his eyes feel blurry, his mind feels weak and lethargic- as if he'd move and immediately fall over.

'take the needle out' 'stop pressing it in so far' 'go faster please'

his mouth wont move

"There. Those six units will do a lot better than four- sometimes counting is hard right?"

he can't move but can feel Major's icy hands on him, pulling his shirt down, pulling his mask back down.

"Good."

he feels numb

reblog, comment and like!! my DMS AND ASKS ARE OPEN((please bug me about this i need someone to talk to :())

all ideas for this will be under the tag #diabeticsimonriley

Blind Love

Medusa Soap x Hero Ghost

Don’t hate me for OOC! I tried my best…

————

Off the coasts of Sparta, in a small island once the shrine to Athena, broken and litter with the horrifically grandiose tender status of blissful hubris of mortal woes, was the lair of the only mortal Gorgon. For those Greek heroes who fall onto this island they would think this is a old shrine to Hecate, statues made from Daedalus’ own hands, details etched with perfect precision.

The marbles were well warn down to it’s white base hollow flat color only seen in the crevasse of the folds of marbles. A lone figure lives there abandoned by the gods, by all the gods, by the very goddess he worshipped, left to rot on a lifeless hideous island. The beach were rocky and new, filled with old rotting ships bobbed up and down some lossly drifting around the island, the locals call it The Fool’s Grave.

Sun-kissed and specialed with iridescent scales, and built like Achilles himself walked a lone figure, in robes of blue and gold, did he walk, past the Forrest of stone he made. Those statues of men were his only comfort for normality, if only they weren’t staring in fear, fear of him. He was cursed for a life of loneliness and isolation, waiting for a Heracles to slice his head off. He was curse to stay on the island, for no boats will move pass the shore, as even Poseidon does not wish to offend Athena.

A low rumble, scrapping of rocks and he knew their was another hubris hero coming for him. He turns around to find, a tall almost Harclean man standing there, impressive and broad, cover in dark leather armor, dark almost black cape, with a spartina helmet plums of black horse hair. A spartan is here to kill him. As this giant of a man, maybe a child of a god, maybe a son of Zeus was here to kill him.

He was No coward for every statue was a signs to the gods, a sign that he still live that all their heroes all their oracles and quest meant nothing to his hate and vengeance. He knew all these heroes that come were sent by the gods to die. These heroes full of pride and glory will all turn to fearful stone. The low hisses of his snakes were the only sound besides the dull beat of his heart in his chest. The man looms closer, foot steps sinking into the sandy soil.

He let out a familiar sign and his gaze rised, his cool almost white eyes meet, a void. Darkness except for the intense gaze of the Spartan.

He waited. And waited. But nothing arises.

The hero was inches away, a head taller, head bent staring down at him. It was almost embarrassing.

“You… You can stare at me?” The gorgon asks.

The hero drew his sword.

‘So this is how it ends?’ That was the only thought in Johnny’s head as the sword cleave through his neck. The world went sideways, but the gaze of that hero never blinked, never waiver. Maybe… If only.

—————

Inspired by @astheriiiart

@imakepapertrees @sparklingsprinkles @secretlyasalmon427