"I'm used to being seen through but it feels so bad when it happens with you." // OxO // CLOSED! (Stalkers get ravioli)

Even before they could hear it, they knew there was something different in their house. They would come home to find things slightly different than they were when they left. Perhaps a mug of coffee that hadn't been there before, or a book left open on the couch. It was never anything bad though, so they elected to ignore it. That is, until they couldn't anymore.
/ / /
Gods, everything had been so boring before. They'd go about their daily routine (which, admittedly, was nearly nonexistent), then wander around aimlessly, hoping for something entertaining to fall into their lap. Eventually they hit the jackpot and someone new moved in. It wasn't their fault the new person was an idiot.

AKA; Person A has lived in their house for a few years now, and grown used to the somewhat strange occurrences. But one night they return home after a near-death incident, and find that they are able to see, hear, and interact with the bored, sarcastic ghost that lives in their house. Said ghost also feels the need to make snarky comments about absolutely everything.

NOTES: (Title from the song Friendly Neighborhood Poltergeist by Rory Webley) It's been a while since I did a roleplay, so I might be a bit rusty - I came up with like three ideas last night though so here we are. I'm cool with mostly any directions this plot might go; it can be romantic, it can be platonic, they can get along, they can hate each other- whatever, really. I'm also okay with being either character, so you can choose who you'd like to be! I imagined this kind of on the side of a comedic, light-hearted rp, but it could get angsty too! My only hard limits are no graphic depictions of self-h@rm, su1cide, or any drastic instances of self-inflicted pain in the time the plot takes place. In backstory or flashbacks though, feel free to include it. Character sheet will be up soon! ^^

Person A or B?:
Name:
Age:
Gender:
Sexuality:
Appearance:
Personality:
Strengths:
Weaknesses:
Likes:
Dislikes:
Background:
Other:

(may i?)

(sure!)

(can i be the ghost? or do you want to be the ghost?)

(you can totally be the ghost ^^)

Person A or B?: B
Name: Simon Percival Andrews, goes by Percy or Simon.
Age: died at age 20, has been in the house for an additional seven years.
Gender: male
Sexuality: bisexual
Appearance: dark brown hair, big grey eyes, long fingers and sharp cheekbones and nose. thin lipped and about 6'1''. Hair is always a mess, and wears a yellow hoodie, ripped jeans. Has a blue streak in his hair and speaks in a soft, raspy voice.
Personality: Caustic, judgemental. hates himself, and people in general. nihilistic and masochistic.
Strengths: Analytical
Weaknesses: won't work with other people to reach a solution; feels worthless when he can't solve problems on his own.
Likes: Chinese food, Halloween, playing piano.
Dislikes: people, spiders
Background: killed himself for unspecified reasons. He'll probably tell you why if you ask politely.
Other: doesn't appear translucent or transparent. You can either see him like you could see a normal person, or not at all.

(He looks awesome!)

Person A or B?: A
Name: Beckett Rowan Myers
Age: 24
Gender: Male
Sexuality: Not straight. He hasn't given it much thought, but he knows that much.
Appearance: Short, wavy dark purple hair that's a bit too grown out and nearly falls over his eyes. You can see some dirty blond at the roots, giving away that it's been a while since he dyed it. He has green-ish hazel eyes behind his big round glasses, and freckles dotting his face. He's pale; not alarmingly so, but enough that you can tell he doesn't get out much. He wears soft sweaters and worn t-shirts with sweatpants or jeans. He stands at 5'10 with soft features.
Personality: When first meeting him, he seems soft-spoken and meek. Those who know him well (not many) know that he's determined and passionate, and easily entertained. He's been known to stay up late into the night reading, writing, or something of the like. He's often exhausted the next day as a result of this, but he maintains his optimistic nature.
Strengths: He's very creative and a quick-thinker. He's organized (for the most part), and has a great memory.
Weaknesses: He's not great in social situations, and tries to avoid them as best as he can. He's not good under pressure, and has been known to break down under stress and go completely silent as if he physically cannot speak.
Likes: Animals, hot chocolate, books, and Saturday mornings.
Dislikes: Alcohol, people, crowds, and warm weather.
Background: He has an older sister that used to be his world. She now lives in NYC pursuing a career as a lawyer. They write each other letters, as both of them have a passion for the old-timey feel of it.
Other: He works at the local bookstore full-time. He proposed getting a library cat at least five times, but the idea was shot down. He's happy with his long-haired white cat Zelda, though.

(he's so cute asdfjk!!!!!! do you want me to to the starter or do you want to)

(aaaa thank you! would you be cool with starting?)

(sure)
Simon drifted down the stairs, still amused by the fact that his feet trailed through them. He went to the kitchen, peering inside the fridge and in the cabinets, to see what Beckett had brought home from the grocery store the other day.
He did take a liking to this boy. When Beckett came to see the house, before he had bought it, Simon thought about spooking him. He didn't, obviously. Most of the previous 'viewers' of the house had found his antics unnerving. He decided not to scare Beckett, unfortunately, because he was cute. "A bad decision, really," Simon said to himself, watching Beckett's cat wander around.

Beckett crouched in front of one of the bookshelves in Leaning Tree Books, skimming the selection of titles toward the bottom. It was a slow day, so he was taking his time organizing the new arrivals, even reading the first pages of a few that caught his eye. He was currently in the horror section that was tucked away in the back of the quaint little shop. The twists and turns of the various tiny rooms made it difficult to navigate, but the regulars to the shop seemed to enjoy the cozy, maze-like atmosphere. Beckett agreed with them.
He checked his watch; 6:23 PM- his shift was almost over. He always looked forward to the quiet drive home. He played soft music, maybe an audiobook or something as he drove. If he was lucky, he would catch sight of an animal in the distance, or it was raining (Beckett adored the rain), or the sunset was particularly striking. He sighed to himself as he continued shelving books.

“Zelda, do you think I should make Beckett move? Should I spook him? I wonder if he’d find it funny.”
The cat didn’t look at him.
“You’re right. I’ll let him be. Just occasional things, okay? Okay.”
Still nothing from Zelda.
“I do wish I could eat yogurt.”

Beckett hummed softly to himself as he put away the last of the new arrivals and slipped on his coat. There was a girl in the back room whose shift went a little longer so he didn't have to lock up tonight, which he was grateful for. He was always nervous he'd mess it up somehow. He got into his car (a relatively old one - it had been his mom's since she was Beckett's age), turned an audiobook on low volume, and was on his way. The book he was listening to was one that he had already read, but it was one of his favorites. He smiled to himself, quite content with how the night was going.

Zelda finally made a soft ‘rrow’ noise. “Thank you. Have you ever had yogurt? Vanilla is my favorite.”
Zelda turned away from him.
“I’ll take that as a no.”

The soft, deep voice reading over the car speakers fills the silence, and with the sun setting over the hills in the distance it painted quite a lovely picture. The soft clicking of his turn signal hummed in the background for a moment. Tapping a quiet rhythm out on the steering wheel, he slowed for a second before turning the corner. There was a flash of green on his right side, and suddenly a truck was skidding around him. He slammed his brakes as the truck scraped against the front of his car, a loud, shrill metal noise filling the air. It continued down the road at an alarming speed, swerving as it went. Beckett stared forward at where the truck had been just seconds before. He felt his hands shaking, his arms sore from how hard he was pressing against the steering wheel. Swallowing hard, he blinked away the tears that had gathered in the corners of his eyes. Still in shock, he clicked off the audiobook and drove the last few minutes home.

“I’m sorry I brought up the topic of yogurt when you couldn’t have possibly experienced the bliss of the creamy deliciousness.”
Zelda had no response to this.
“Well, I’m sure Beckett will be home soon enough.”

Pulling into his driveway, he sighed in relief. He slumped against the steering wheel for a moment, still trying to process what had happened - or rather what could've happened. After a minute or two, he grabbed his keys and hopped out, locking the car door behind him. He was glad to be home. He fell back into rhythm easily (though his hands might have been a bit shakier than usual), unlocking the front door, entering the house, and locking it behind him. He flicked the lights on, dropped his keys, and slipped off his shoes. He wasn't sure how he would spend his evening yet, but it would probably involve some borderline crappy food and binge-watching some show he'd found on Netflix.

"Welcome back, idiot," Simon said, watching Beckett enter the house. "You bought ravioli yesterday that you said you were going to eat today. It's in the cabinet." He knew Beckett couldn't hear him, but he figured it might help? Maybe.

Becket looked up, making direct eye contact with the strange man in front of him. He froze. He had never seen this man before, and he was speaking as if he was extremely familiar with him. How did he know about his ravioli? More importantly, how did he get in the house? How did he know about the ravioli? Maybe he did know this man and he had just hit his head and forgotten? "Sorry, but um… w-who are you?" The pure confusion and stress wormed it's way into his voice. He had had a long night already, and frankly he wasn't sure if he could handle a home invasion on top of it all.

"You can see me?" Simon took a step back, blushing. "This is going to be a doozy to explain. I'm . . . dead. Well, I'm a ghost. Or a spirit. Whatever. Zelda likes me well enough."
Zelda turned away.
"Great. Look, I'm not fully on your plane of existence." He willed his hand to do the thing where he could make it go through objects and shoved it into the counter. "See?"

Beckett just stared with wide eyes. "H-how…" He trailed off, not sure where to begin. God, this day was overwhelming. He hadn't given it much thought but he had always believed in ghosts to an extent, though he wasn't expecting one to just show up. How much had he seen? Beckett had done some embarrassing things when he thought no one was watching. He swallowed hard. "How long have you been here..?"

"Seven years." Simon shrugged. "I'm sure this is a lot to take in. I'd leave if I could, but I'm tethered to this house."

Beckett nodded, processing. Zelda was an excellent judge of character, so if she was okay with this guy, he was probably alright. Not to mention Beckett had never felt uncomfortable or afraid in the house. He kept thinking of new questions he wanted to ask, things he wanted to do. His mind was racing with new possibilities. But first; "What's your name..? Uh- I'm Beckett, but I assume you know that already."

He held out his hand. "I'm Simon. You can call me Percy, or Simon. Either works."

Didn't ghosts tend to go through things? Confused but willing to try (and admittedly very curious), Beckett reached out to try to shake his hand.

"It will work. I have to concentrate to do the thing," he said wryly, and took Beckett's hand, sure his own was clammy and cold. Beckett's, however, was very warm. "I forgot that people are . . .hot." He winced inwardly. Poor choice of words. Yikes.

"O-oh!" Beckett watched in fascination and slight embarrassment as they shook hands. Normal, other than Simon's unusually cold skin. It wasn't unpleasant, however. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting. Was that a ghost stereotype? Lost in thought, it took Beckett a second to process the unintentional meaning of Simon's comment, his lip quirking in amusement when he did.

“Don’t laugh at me. I haven’t had a conversation in seven years,” he said defensively.