#Ghost headcanons

[oceantornadoo]

dubcon, objectification, forced (?) threesome, f!reader

they say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.

ghost finds you ten months after your divorce, nursing a drink in a shithole of a pub. he doesn’t consider himself a good man, licking the tears on your cheeks when he fucks you for the first time, ignoring your whines of how “it’s been a while” and you’re “too tight.” he doesn’t like to keep birds around longer than a night, but something about how you wrap your leg around him in the morning makes him stay a little longer.

he lets you call him simon after you whine that you “can’t fuck him without knowing his name.” it takes a bit, but you get used to sleeping with someone who isn’t your ex-husband. he calls you bird instead of sweetheart, love instead of darling and after a while, the word honey loses its significance. when simon tells you he’s military, you try to leave his bed, only for him to pull you by the thigh, apologizing with his tongue in your cunt. simon doesn’t date and you aren’t ready for it, content to stay in your respective apartments, living for his occasional half-smiles and usual gruff admonishments. its a bit new to simon - he’s used his camera app more in the past weeks than he has in years. always pictures of you: his cum on your tits, the bruises he leaves on your hips, a rare photo of you sleeping. he even lets you corral him into taking a cheesy mirror picture, his arms dwarfing your waist with his face tucked into your neck, your jawline exposed as you turn to kiss his cheek.

it’s two months later when you promise to cook him a meal for the first time, a sunday roast he hasn’t tasted in years. “better not take too long, bird, ‘m starvin’.” simon murmurs in your ear, hands squeezing your stomach and waist as you fumble with your keys. “i’ve had it slow cooking before i left for yours last night. it’ll put us in a food coma.” you finally put the key in the lock, turning it with force before simon decides to fuck you against the door. he dips to bite your neck, sending you into your apartment giggling, swatting him off you. the weight of your divorce is finally off your shoulders, happy butterflies fluttering in your stomach formed by simon’s continuous presence.

the butterflies die when you see a familiar pair of boots at your door.

“stay here.” you order simon, a change from your usual dynamic. you can’t focus on his reaction, set on edge by the sounds of pots clanging in your kitchen. there’s no point in creeping - he knows you’re here. you turn the corner and there he is - your ex husband. “you’re just in time, sweetheart. nice ‘f you to make a roast.”

john’s standing there like he owns the place, like he knows this kitchen he’s never been in. he’s boiling potatoes on the stove, keeping an eye on the slow cooker timer. he’s even poured himself a fucking drink, a scotch he had to have brought since all you have is wine and simon’s whiskey. all smug and entitled in his civvies, commanding the room like he pays your rent. he's still as handsome as ever, darker eye bags the only indication he's been losing sleep.

“what the fuck are you doing here, john?” john doesn’t answer immediately, instead using a fork to test the potatoes. satisfied, he takes them off the burner and turns to the sink, dumping them out in a prepared strainer. “‘s our anniversary, sweetheart. thought that’s why you made the food.” you can sense simon still in the doorway, his presence unknown to your ex. it gives you strength, a guard dog at your back, and comfort that he’s letting you run this on your own. “our anniversary ended when we signed the papers. i don’t know how you got in here, but you need to leave.” he frowns at you and it almost tugs at your heart strings. your brain conjures images of his coldness and constant distance, and you shut that down real fast. unfortunately, he doesn’t get the memo. john takes a step closer, hands up like he’s approaching a wild animal. “honey, i-“ and that’s when ghost steps out of the darkness.

there’s a long pause. it boosts your ego a bit, showing john you’ve moved on, until the silence is so long that you start to worry. you chance a look at simon’s face and find it confused, not at all the guard dog you thought he was. a glance at john’s reveals the same. you’re about to ask your question when they answer it for you. “captain.” “lieutenant.” “what?”

the transformation happens in an instant. both men straighten to their full heights, wiping any emotion off their faces. their brows furrow as they flex their hands to control their instincts. how could you not see it before? simon only mentioned he was military, but the stamp of the SAS is clear as day. it was in the harsh lines he carried, a companionship with death, not unlike the one john had.

john started first, of course, always having to take control of the situation. “you fuckin’ my lieutenant, sweetheart? miss me that much?” you rolled your eyes at his cruel words, inching closer to simon. “whatever we do doesn’t concern you.” you emphasized the “you”, spitting it out with venom. john hums low, making you nervous. you turn to simon, but he's quiet and calculating, communicating silently with his captain.

"didn't know you had a wife, sir." you answer before john can. "we divorced a year ago." john chimes in. "to the day, actually. she served me on our anniversary." simon looks down at you, the man you thought you knew now gone. his eyes are black pits, targeting you like you're prey. "that's cruel, bird." you sputter, backing into the kitchen cabinets. you walk until your back hits the sink, each man on either side of you. john has his arms crossed and head cocked to the side, like you're about to get chewed out by the school principal. simon looks...no longer human. unrestrained. whatever spark you two had has gone out, replaced by sheer loyalty to his captain. "show the captain what he's been missin', love. y've been starvin' him." he moves at lightning speed, picking you up and dropping you on the island counter, sunday roast long forgotten.

"simon?" he doesn't answer, scarred hands squeezing up and down your body as john watches from behind him, arms crossed and eyes searching. your mind is telling you one thing but your body wants another. some twisted part of your brain reminds you that john came to visit on your anniversary, even though you threw him out a year ago. simon's no better, coaxing your sweater off your torso, leaving you exposed in a lacy bra. your nipples harden and john sees, making a clicking noise with his tongue. "warm 'er up, lieutenant." simon obeys instantly, pulling down the cup of your bra to suck on your nipple. he's ravenous, no sunday roast in sight, and he's decided you're his meal instead. he sucks hard, a calloused hand reaching up to pull your other tit out so you're fully exposed to your two men. he squeezes it with reverence, rolling your nipple between his fingers as he sucks hard on the other one, not minding his own teeth.

it's dirty - watching john watch you. you hadn't fucked in the last months before the divorce. he was always too busy, on base or deployed, and you were so angry you couldn't let him near you. now, your ex-husband moves closer, taking in the sight of his lieutenant feasting. "miss me, sweetheart?" you shake your head on instinct. he sighs at your attitude. you're seated on the corner of the island, perfect for john to come up on your side, one large paw making its way towards your jaw, turning you towards him. "say it." you shake your head again. john sticks a thumb into your mouth, pushing against your teeth. you try to force him out, but simon bites your tit, making you gasp and let john in anyways. you suck his thumb defiantly, gazing at him with all the emotions you can't convey.

you look so pretty like this, john decides. laid out for his lieutenant, taking his orders as well as your emotions will allow. he decides to forgive you for your indiscretions with ghost - at least it was with one of his own men. they're practically an extension of himself. john hooks his thumb into the gap between your tongue and teeth and pulls, forcing you right into his space. "i reckon your cunt's nice an' wet, though. should i check? know she's missed me even if you won't admit it." your eyes go wide, giving him an answer he already knew. simon follows orders well, manhandling you into position by yanking off your jeans. there's a wet spot on the light fabric of your underwear. john can practically see your cunt clinging to it, begging for him to say hello.

"want ya to take 'em off y'self, bird." simon's finally speaking, the glaze in his eyes fading. he looks at you, then his captain, and it makes sense. how you're used to being led but refuse it all the same. how you're desperate for affection but won't date him because he's military. you're scarred from the chains of your marriage, so it only makes sense that he's the one you seek out - the opposite of husband material. more dog than human on his worst days. simon stares at you until you follow his command, meekly lifting up your hips as you take off your underwear. your cunt is sopping, in a way it only does when you’re ovulating, practically begging for it. your ex-husband whistles through his teeth like he’s praising a recruit. “knew she’d be happy to see me. hullo, darling.” you can’t find it in you to cringe. john starts running his fingers through your folds, inspecting, and all you can do is stare. stare at the veins in his forearm. stare at simon behind him, eyes trained on his captain’s movements. stare at the counter where your juices start to gather and wonder how the hell you got into this situation.

“pinch ‘er tit an’ watch ‘er flutter.” simon’s callous with his instructions but john follows them anyway, his unoccupied hand reaching up to pinch your nipple. you can’t help the gasp that escapes you, the way your cunt flutters around john’s fingers. he hums thoughtfully. john decides you’ve been good, if not a bit quiet, and presses his thumb against your clit as a reward. he starts rubbing in that pattern that would get you off without fail during your marriage. he fits one finger into you easily as you grip the counter hard, the sudden sensation overwhelming. simon peers over his shoulder like a fucking scientist. “‘f she gets bratty, i pull back the hood til she screams.” like your cunt’s a machine and they have the two pieces of its manual. john’s movements are making you desperate, hips starting to buck against his fingers. he chuckles and adds another, not hiding a smile when you sigh in relief. simon’s hands come to your waist, helping you fuck yourself on price’s fingers. it feels so wrong, having them barely listen to your pleas, and yet being under their watch is the most right you’ve ever felt in your life. that’s what brings your orgasm - not john’s thick fingers on your cunt, his rough thumb in your clit - but two sets of hungry eyes on you, like you’re their last meal. john fucks you through your orgasm, simon not letting you out of his grasp until tears start to form, the embarrassment of your own wetness coming to the front of your mind. john slowly removes his fingers and brings them to simon’s mouth to taste, not satisfied until his lieutenant hums in agreement. the two men turn to you, naked save for your disheveled bra around your waist, somehow making the scene more depraved.

“‘ow ‘bout that roast, love?” simon murmurs gruffly.

good thing john never signed the divorce papers.

[machveil]

official Roommate!Simon “Ghost” Riley post

Favourite ship dynamic: no one truly knows what exactly is going on between the two characters, including the characters themselves. But whatever it is, it's written in the fabric of the universe.

[khioneee]

free chicken.

pairing. simon ‘ghost’ riley x reader

the dim light of the briefing room flickered over the map spread across the table, casting long shadows. you stood close to simon, your shoulder brushing his as the team reviewed the details of the next objective. the tension in the room was lighter than usual.

soap was grinning, as always, but this time, it was contagious.

‘this one’s free chicken,’ soap said, tapping the map with the blunt end of his marker, a cocky glint in his eye. ‘no sweat. barely a challenge.’

you blinked, confused by the term, and turned to simon. ‘free chicken? what does that even mean?’

simon’s gaze didn’t leave the map, but the corner of his mouth twitched beneath the mask, a hint of amusement only you would catch. ‘it means easy. something we can take without a fight.’

you frowned, glancing back at the objective. ‘sounds too good to be true.’

he finally glanced your way, his eyes catching yours for a fleeting moment. ‘it usually is.’

something about his tone made your stomach flutter. like he was talking about more than the mission, his words carrying a weight you couldn’t ignore.

‘maybe this one really is easy,’ you suggested, trying to lighten the mood, though you didn’t quite believe it yourself.

simon’s eyes lingered on you, unreadable, before he murmured, ‘nothing worth keeping is ever easy, doll.’

your breath caught at the way his voice dipped low, soft in a way he never used with anyone else. your chest tightened, the words sinking in. before you could respond, soap cut in with his usual energy.

‘all right, enough flirting over there,’ he teased, jabbing his thumb toward the exit. ‘let’s grab this chicken before it flies the coop.’

you stepped back, cheeks warm, as simon shot soap a glare sharp enough to cut steel. but as you moved to gear up, you felt simon’s presence linger behind you, his voice low and meant just for you.

‘stay close,’ he said softly, his eyes locking with yours. ‘even if it’s free chicken.’

you nodded, the warmth of his words settling over you as you followed the others out. trap or not, you knew one thing for certain: you’d always stay close to him.

an. yes ik chickens don’t fly.

[bittybat28]

Copia digging through his desk drawers confusedly: “where the hell are those stickers for the good ghoul chart?”

Sodo: “oh..they’re in Phantom”

Copia stopping: “d-don’t mean they’re ON Phantom?”

Sodo: … -shakes his head- “no i meant what i said. he had the whole pack for breakfast”

phantom groaning from the hallway: “my tummy hurts!”

Copia sighing deeply: “this..is why we cannot have anything nice”

[hannachuuu]

Ghost in your school

someone talk to be about this please, its been stuck ever since my brain created this idea and i just need to share this with likeminded people.

-The scenario of Task Force 141 coming to your uni complex to teach you and your fellow students some self defense.

-As they strut into class, fully geared you put two and two together that this was most likely a cover up for something else going on behind the scenes.

-You were smart and confident, the way you looked price into the eyes keeping a straight face questioning that ´self defence´ in front of the whole class, earning a couple laughters from the task force and a hidden smirk from a certain masked man.

-How he was intruigued by you once you waited outside in the parking lot for them, having brought coffee from the way too expensive place down the street.

-How you couldnt help yourself but try and figure out what was going on and wether you should be concerend. Nothing ever happend in the small town you were living.

-The first self defense class and how you would be repeatedly slammed into a training mat by no one else but ghost himself, making you achy and sore for the next few days. The sight of his bulky arms and broad chest always made up for that, of course.

-He would notice how you would sneak away after classes, down to the bleachers by the footballfield, just to have a quick smoke.

-How he would follow after you, making you expect for him to scold you, leaving you speechles after snatching the cigarette out of your mouth, smoking it himself while mumbling that smoking is bad for you.

-That resulting in regular smoking sessions of you two.

-The bickering between the two of you after that incident, keeping a low profile in school, yet somehow you always seemed to catch his eyes across the room or even the hall.

-How every time you spoke to him you would try to figure out more and more about what was going on, making you chew your pencil in class instead of listening, while adding small puzzle pieces together.

-The way you were laying in your cushioned bed at home, cozy ready to be reading a book, only for it to be sitting on your chest while all your thoughts were suddenly revolving around him.

-The way as the week progressed your Attire would change from a rather preppy attire to more carefully thought out Outfits, only to pique his interest more.

-The way you changed from your vanilla perfume to a dark musky cherry one, once he mentioned how he likes cherries a lot, him immeditely noticing the next day.

-How he would go back to base with his dinners prepped by you after a couple weeks, his fellow commerades teasing him about it. Yet they were the most delicious meals he has had in ages.

-How after a couple weeks his usual grim morning demeanor would change into a relaxed almost anticipating one, you not missing a single day of waiting by the parking lot with coffee.

[1raven0]

IM TOO YOUNG IM TOO YOUNG IM TOO YOUNG FOR A BABE

HEY IM BACK TO BOTHER UU

OK IMAGINE THIS

simon seeing how you always coo at babies you see in public (grocery store, shopping, park, etc) and he decides then and there that you WILL be the mother of his children. and like maybe he never even wanted kids but after this happens one or two times he is SET on it.

idk just a thought that i had to share!

I am listening so hard

Simon gets hit with baby fever hard, he doesn’t even know what baby fever is - he just sees you with chunky little babies and snotty kids and something in his brain goes off. he just gets the itch to make you a mom, the urge to buy those stupid little baby shoes that look so fucking cute and why don’t you have a baby now—

Simon isn’t subtle either, he’ll silently guide your shopping trips so you end up in baby aisles, little onesies and pacifiers on display. you don’t even have a kid, but Simon picks up a cute little ducky pacifier and sets it in the cart. “Simon? We don’t need tha—”, turning his back to you, he just sets off out of the aisle, “Might.”, he mumbles

Simon who empties your guest your room one day, paint buckets in hand. he claims to just be ‘redoing’ the room, also lovie, if a box for a crib gets delivered call for him - Simon will sign for it! he’s like a man possessed, just mutters something about, “Could ‘ave a permanent guest…”, and it leaves you chuckling. he’s even got the 141 over to help, Gaz helping Simon paint while John squared try to assemble the crib

Simon who acts shocked when you tell him you’re pregnant, pretends to be innocent, “Really? How could tha’ ‘ave happened?”. he’s extremely excited even though he’s keeping a straight face, but you can tell - his fingers are tapping against his thighs and he’s bouncing his leg a little. and what a coincidence, Simon somehow predicted you’d need a nursery! good thing he converted that guest room, right doll?

[msriri030]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

cw: mention sex work and slight toxic work place

The club buzzed with electric anticipation, fueled by a swirling rumor that someone important to Don Price was visiting tonight. You had no idea what your boss had done to arrange to host this visit for the Don—and honestly, you didn’t care. All that mattered was that, while you were on the clock, you were the club's star singer. But when the lights dimmed and the applause faded, you became just another pawn—another sex worker your boss dangled before wealthy patrons, provided they played their cards right.

With a sigh, you ran your fingers through your hair, smoothing it back with a touch of pomade. In the mirror, you checked the fading bruise from last night’s "guest," ensuring the makeup the kind bartender lent you concealed it. Satisfied, you leaned back, drawing a deep breath to steady yourself.

Knock. Knock.

The door swung open, and your boss' voice crashed into the room—gruff, sharp, and impatient. “Don’t screw this up. Got it?”

“Got it,” you replied coolly. As his footsteps retreated, you muttered under your breath, “You bastard.”

Rising from your chair, you adjusted your suit, making sure the lapels were sharp and every detail flawless. A final glance in the mirror—your practiced smile in place—and a sip of water later, you strode toward the stage, your heart thudding in rhythm with the faint murmur of the crowd.

As you approached, the band filled the room with a sultry, polished rhythm that kept the patrons engaged, the melody weaving through the dimly lit club like a spell. You lingered just offstage, nerves buzzing, waiting for your cue. The announcer stepped into the spotlight, microphone in hand, his polished smile betraying just a flicker of unease beneath the surface.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and esteemed guests from all walks of life,” he began, his voice smooth and confident, “please welcome our star performer, Mr. [Your Name]!”

The crowd erupted into applause as you stepped into the spotlight. The familiar warmth of the stage lights greeted you, casting a golden glow over the room. Your eyes scanned the sea of faces until they landed on one that sent a chill down your spine—a man seated next to Don Price. His vermillion suit and open black coat were striking, but it was the skull mask obscuring his face that unnerved you. Though his expression was hidden, his gaze felt piercing, unrelenting. You tore your eyes away and accepted the microphone from the announcer, who leaned in close.

“Good luck, songbird,” he murmured, his voice tinged with both encouragement and warning.

The lights dimmed, the room quieted, and the moment was yours. Drawing a deep breath, you began your performance with one of the club’s favorites—Antes de Ti by Mon Laferte. The band played a soft, smooth melody, their instruments blending seamlessly with your voice as it filled the room. You swayed gently, letting the music guide your movements as you sang:

"Antes de ti

Yo no conocía el amor

Estaba sola y triste como esta canción

Transitaba el lado oscuro de la luna."

Despite the music and the adoring crowd, you could feel his gaze. The skull-masked man’s attention was like a tangible weight, burning into you. A quick glance confirmed that he and Don, in front, were engaged in a quiet conversation, their heads close together. You silently thanked the heavens as the song neared its conclusion. Just one more chorus.

"Antes de ti (Before you)

Yo no conocía el amor( I didn't know love)

Por cada estrella una decepción ( For every star a disappointment) 

No había nada-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah~

(There was nothing-ah-ah~) "

The final note lingered in the air as you extended your hand toward the crowd, lost in the emotion of the moment. But then, your hand accidentally locked with his. The masked man. His gloved fingers briefly brushed yours, and the intensity of the connection sent a jolt through you.

"Antes de ti, mi amor! (Before you, my love!)"

The crowd erupted into thunderous applause, oblivious to your inner turmoil. But as you froze on stage, the masked man rose from his seat and began walking toward your boss. Your heart sank.

The announcer, sensing something amiss, stepped forward quickly and dismissed you with a practiced flourish. You retreated backstage, your thoughts racing.

What did I do? Did I offend him?

The uncertainty gnawed at you as you slipped into your dressing room, waiting for the inevitable knock that would summon you to face Your boss' wrath. 

The knock came, sharp and deliberate.

You braced yourself, then opened the door, expecting your boss’s fury. Instead, the man in the vermillion suit stood before you, his tall frame filling the doorway. The mask caught the dim light, casting shadows that seemed to deepen its ominous design. Up close, his presence was overwhelming—an aura of authority, mystery, and something darker emanated from him.

You cleared your throat, adjusting your tie to mask the unease creeping up your spine. “Can I help you?” you asked, voice steady.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped inside, closing the door with a soft click. The air grew thicker, more charged. His gloved hand rose, brushing over the edge of his mask before he finally spoke, his voice smooth and deliberate, carrying an accent you couldn’t quite place.

“You performed beautifully tonight,” he said, his tone a mixture of admiration and something else—something you couldn’t name. “But I came to discuss something more… more important than music.”

Your instincts screamed at you to tread carefully. “I appreciate the compliment,” you replied, carefully neutral. “But I’m not sure what business we could have.”

He chuckled softly, the sound both disarming and chilling. “You sell yourself short. A voice like yours… and a presence like yours…” His gaze, though hidden, felt like it was peeling back layers, scrutinizing your very soul. “... has value far beyond this club.”

You stiffened, unsure if this was flattery or a veiled threat. “If you’re looking to negotiate something, you’ll need to speak with My boss.”

“Your Boss?” He scoffed lightly, the corners of his mouth barely visible beneath the mask. “Your boss’s not the one I’m interested in.”

Your pulse quickened. This wasn’t about Club’s business. This was about you.

“What do you want?” you asked, your voice firm despite the uncertainty gnawing at you.

The man stepped closer, his presence enveloping the small room. “What I want,” he said, his voice dropping into a low, almost intimate murmur, “is to offer you something this Club never could.”

Before you could respond, he leaned in just slightly, enough for you to catch the faint scent of something sharp and expensive. “Freedom,” he said, the word hanging in the air like a forbidden promise.

Your breath caught. Whatever this man’s intentions were, one thing was clear—tonight was going to change everything. He extended a single crimson rose, its petals almost too perfect, as though crafted rather than grown. You hesitated before taking it, the velvety texture brushing your fingers. 

Lifting the rose, you studied it carefully. “You promise me freedom,” you said, your voice steady despite the racing of your heart. “And I don’t even know your name. What do you want from me in return? We both know nothing is free in this life.”

The man chuckled, the sound low and smooth, as if amused by your boldness. His gloved hand reached out, brushing against yours as he gently adjusted the rose in your grip. “Clever,” he murmured. “You see through the illusions most are blind to.”

Before you could step back, his arms encircled you with a deliberate slowness, not forceful but undeniably commanding. The leather of his gloves was cold against your skin as he pulled you closer, his presence intoxicating and suffocating all at once.

“I don’t expect you to trust me,” he said, his voice now a near whisper, inches from your ear. “Not yet. But I see what others overlook—the fire in you, the defiance you try to bury under obedience. You don’t belong to anyone else.”

His words struck a nerve, stirring something deep within you. You tilted your head to meet his gaze—or rather, the unyielding mask that shielded his face. “And you think you can free me? Just like that?” 

His hand trailed down to your waist, holding it lightly but with undeniable intent. “Freedom comes with a price, it’s true. But it’s not what you think. What I want,” he paused, the room heavy with his words, “is you. Not as a pawn, not as a commodity. You, as you are—your loyalty, your will. In exchange, I’ll give you a life you never dared to dream of.”

Your heart thundered in your chest as his words sank in. The rose in your hand felt heavier now, its beauty tainted by the weight of his proposition. “Why me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

The man leaned in even closer, his breath ghosting against your cheek. “Because you’re more than you think you are. And with me, you’ll finally realize it.”

The room felt impossibly small, as though the air itself had thickened under the weight of his presence. Somewhere in the distance, the hum of the club faded into an afterthought, leaving only the two of you in this charged silence. His towering frame loomed close, not menacing but magnetic, drawing you in despite the warning bells ringing faintly in the back of your mind.

He leaned in, his movements deliberate yet unhurried, and the faint scent of leather and something darkly intoxicating mingled with the cheap perfume you’d hastily dabbed on earlier. His voice was low, smooth like velvet over steel, sending a soft tremor through you.

“By the way,” he murmured, his breath brushing against your skin like a whispered secret, “people call me Ghost.” He paused for a heartbeat, his words hanging in the air before he continued, softer this time. “But you, dollface…” His lips tilted into the barest hint of a smile, one that held both mischief and something deeper, something almost tender. “You can call me Simon.”

The name hit like a soft ripple in the storm, grounding him in a way that made your heart lurch unexpectedly. Ghost spoke of shadows, danger, and the unknown. But Simon? That felt real. Intimate. A name not given to just anyone, but to someone who mattered.

Your breath caught in your throat as his gaze��hidden behind the mask but still piercing—seemed to hold you captive. His gloved hand reached out, fingers brushing the curve of your jaw, light as a whisper, before retreating. You felt a warmth rise to your cheeks, unbidden.

“Simon,” you repeated softly, the name rolling off your tongue with an unfamiliar ease, like it belonged to you now, like it carried a piece of him that he was offering. A nervous, fluttering feeling settled in your chest as his head tilted slightly, watching you with what felt like infinite patience.

In that moment, the world outside dissolved, the distant hum of the club fading into nothingness. It wasn’t about the suffocating glamor of the stage, the shadows of his mask, or the bruised dreams you carried in your heart. It was about him—a man who had given you more than just a name. He had given you a sliver of himself, something real, something raw.

The silence between you felt alive, stretching and pulling like a taut string, yet it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was charged with something unspoken, something you couldn’t name but felt deep in your bones. Your hand, almost without thinking, reached out. Fingers trembling, you lifted his mask.

And there he was.

The face beneath the mask took your breath away—not because it was flawless, but because it was human. His features were strong yet softened by a vulnerability he rarely let anyone see. Scars etched across his skin told stories of battles fought and survived, and his eyes—those eyes—bore into yours with an intensity that felt like it could unravel your very soul.

You stared into the deep, stormy pools of his gaze, searching for the truth behind his promises. His eyes softened, and for a moment, you saw not a shadowy enigma, but a man—Simon. Just Simon.

He leaned closer, his movements slow, deliberate, as though giving you the chance to pull away. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. The world stilled, and your heartbeat thundered in your ears as his lips brushed yours in the lightest, gentlest touch.

It was a kiss that spoke of unspoken promises, of a hope neither of you dared to name yet. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing a tender path along your jaw as he deepened the kiss, pulling you closer. The warmth of his touch melted the walls you didn’t realize you’d built around your heart.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours, his breath mingling with yours. His voice, low and intimate, broke the silence.

“You deserve more than this, dollface. Let me give you more.”

"Okay, Simon," you whispered, your voice barely audible but laced with a newfound strength. The simple utterance of his name felt like a key turning in a lock, freeing something long buried within you. His eyes searched yours, and in them, you saw a flicker of something you hadn’t expected—hope.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, more was possible. A life beyond the suffocating confines of the club, beyond the bruises hidden beneath layers of makeup, beyond the weight of a world that had always demanded too much of you.

Simon’s hand lingered on your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin with an aching tenderness. “We’ll figure it out,” he murmured, his voice a low, soothing promise. “One step at a time.”

You nodded, leaning into his touch, your heart pounding as the last remnants of doubt began to fade. In the intimacy of the moment, the world outside seemed impossibly far away. There was only the warmth of his presence, the safety of his arms, and the quiet certainty that, whatever lay ahead, you wouldn’t have to face it alone.

And as his lips met yours once more, the kiss soft yet brimming with unspoken vows, you felt it—hope blooming in the spaces where despair had once lived.

[bloodonmysqueegee]

Adding onto my idea about the emeritus bros also going silly and feral with the ghouls on the occasional blood moon...:

Primo: Is often seen wandering the outdoor ministry grounds, separate from his ghouls Just one glowing white eye in the mist out there. You can't even hear his footsteps. Usually just silently stalks people, he will bite if you get near him.

Secondo: Immediately making a break for the doors, he is booking it off ministry grounds to the nearest house party or church. And he is going to stand outside like a freaky vampire and wait until someone accidentally lets him in. Don't let him in he's gonna bite.

Terzo: Always with his ghouls and helping them on their "hunts", always with two of them at least. Imagine that one glowing white eye at the end of a hallway again, then boom, several other colored ones appear behind it. You'd have to run I think.

Copia: Either slinking around or hanging from the Ministry's chapel rafters like a bat. He bites. He's also usually being followed around by his ghouls and/or rats sometimes. Happy to have some fun and bite people. He's really hungry.

Sister Imperator: I dont think she'd go feral, she can control herself. If she's going feral, it's because she actively chose to.

Nihil: this image basically

[mymiraclewitch]

Okay, I have a couple of headcanon for ghosts, specifically Hetty and her painter suitor, and I needed to tell people who have seen the series and not from me telling them the lore for them to understand the HC.

• The painting we are shown is not the only painting there is of Hetty. I want that man to have gone on and become a famous painter, and most if not all of his famous pieces are of her. Like Sam and Jay, get some kind of ad or brochure mailed to them about a "special exhibit," and the cover of it is of their girl hetty!

• Her painting is to come out of the basement, and it has replaced Elise's painting since she did, in fact, build that house.

• When they hang the painting, there is a plaque explaining who Hetty is and how she built the house and all that jazz.

• I fully believe that hetty and her painter met because he was commissioned by her father to paint her portrait, and sparks flew once they met. (That would make such a great meet cute)

• He also let her in on the creative process of the painting and basically introduced her to the fact that she can make decisions for herself and is allowed a voice.

• They fully had secret meetings by the lake on the house property, and he would sketch her in the sunlight and all that romantic shit

• The painters name is Thomas, and Hetty ended up naming her son that bc she was allowed very few choices in her life and wanted to name her son after her first love and the man that let her make her own choices.

I have a crap ton more HC's, but this post is getting too long, so I might make another post. What are yalls headcanons? What do yall think? I want to know. Also, I will gladly talk ghosts with anyone, my DMs are open

[machveil]

YES!!! YES WAIT— I HAD THIS INSTAGRAM REEL SAVED, it’s literally this oh my god😭

TATTED UP! Simon Riley who lets you turn him into a colouring book. He doesn’t care how you colour his tattoos, he just wants to see the scrunched up look of concentration on your cute face.

“What colour do you want?” You murmur as you glance at your numerous eyeshadow palettes. Simon wants to say black or grey but he sees the way you eye the pink palette for a moment too long.

“… Pink.” He finally answers, his gaze focused solely on your bright smile.

You find joy in colouring his arm with various shades of pink and purple as he watches. “Look, so cute.” You murmur, eliciting a low laugh from Simon.

“Yeah.” His voice rumbles, “You wanna colour the rest in?”

BONUS

“Aye, LT, you got your tattoo redone or what?” Jonny can barely hold back his laughter as he looks at Simon’s arm. The previously edgy tattoos were now adorned with feminine colours and glitter.

“No. Just making the misses happy.” Simon doesn’t really care for his teammates’ reactions because the memory of your smile is enough to block out Jonny’s cackles.

[damagedghoulette]

*After an argument*

Swiss: I kinda feel like you don’t like me anymore

Dewdrop: I’ve told you multiple times that I don’t

[machveil]

can i hear more about guard dog! simon and puppy! reader?👀

yes you may, anon<3 mwah

CW: canon typical violence mention (but, like, minimally descriptive)

GuardDog!Simon Riley who’s used to playing rough. Ghost is used to fighting tooth and nail, brawling with the goal to maul and maim. he’s used to throwing soldiers around, bruising his knuckles and drawing blood. he’s used to clawing to survive, cold, dead eyes glaring at the enemy. but Simon? Simon only bares his teeth to smile at you, boyish and handsome. the only roughing up he receives is when you muss his hair up, smoothing it out again as you gently scratch his scalp

GuardDog!Simon Riley really does treat you like his puppy, cute and soft in his eyes. he plays tug of war with you, fighting over the remote when it’s movie night. he plays fetch with you, retrieving whatever you need so you don’t have to get up. he knows how to roll over, lets you lay on top of him while relaxing. he wouldn’t dream of playing rough with you, only manhandling you to hear you laugh and shriek - no, when it’s just Simon and his puppy he mellows out. he still bites, but there’s no fear of losing his life, just marking you as his with a content rumble in his chest

GuardDog!Simon Riley who traps you in bed with him, cuddles up to you like his favorite toy, soft and warm. gently nipping at your skin, hands pawing at your hips. comfortable and safe, chapped lips pressing kisses to your neck. it might not be a collar, but seeing the silver chain of his dog tags around your neck makes him feel at ease, his name dangling on your chest. it soothes him when he can pet your hair, playing with it gently before smoothing it out under his palm. he’ll help you prep it for bed, be it brushing or braiding, making a bun or ponytail, or carefully helping tuck it under your bonnet; gaze warm and fond as you talk about your day, he’s just happy to pamper you a little

GuardDog!Simon Riley who’s alert at home. as soon as you get up from bed he’ll be groggily following behind you. it doesn’t matter that it’s barely two in the morning, he’ll pad his way with you to the bathroom - stands guard while leaning against the wall. sometimes he’ll knock just to hear your voice, claims it’s to make sure you didn’t fall asleep in there (he just likes hearing your sleepy, raspy murmurs). as soon as you open the door he’s scooping you up, sock clad feet silently moving back to your room. he knows you can walk, but you’re so warm against him

[nihildenial]

let me give you how i see teenage!copia:

he dances in his underwear and socks to metallica. hairbrush microphone. over-slicked back hair. he just combed his gross late pubescent teen boy pencil mustache. hes sliding around in his white socks.

he's an orphan and doesn't know he'll cause the death of the three older men who actually talk with him during interchurch meetings and are actually his brothers. he's awkward and only an altarboy so no one really pays attention to him other than to gossip about how he must be a bastard because he has a demon eye.

but he's never smiled as hard at himself in the mirror as he has right now. he looks like a cool rockstar. he picks up the guitar he bought using his satanic altarboy salary and managed to play the opening riff without messing up.

maybe he can play a cover of fuel when he's Papa one day.

[iskinpeople]

🤭🤭

Virgin!College!Simon x Nerdy reader :3 [SORRY FOR NOT POSTING FOR AWHILE]

College!Simon still being a virgin but has eyes for your small stature, doesn't even realize that he's overfilling his cup with water until his mate points it out and his face flushes in embarrassment. He keeps watching you for days until he finds out you take the same class as him. He walks up to you, his 6'2 stature towering over you as he stutters out his name, holding his hand out for a shaky handshake. Over the next few weeks you guys grow close, studying and eating lunch together until you both find out you've been moved into Simon's dorm. He shrugs it off and tells you it'll be fine but he's internally panicking, his heart pounding against his ribcage as he excuses himself and goes to clean up his dorm, hiding his crusty socks (which he nutted in while thinking about you..) and washing the bathroom. The next day he helps you move your stuff in before studying with you for a few hours.

After you guys go out Simon buys some alcohol and sneaks it back into the dorms, prompting you guys to get so drunk you end up making out and stripping eachother bare. You guys make out, lips and teeth crashing against eachother as you get ontop of Simon, rubbing your slit along his his throbbing shaft. Simon whimpers, pulling away and slurring out that he's still a virgin before kissing your neck. You tilt your head back to let him kiss your neck as you slowly sink down on his cock. The stretch aches so good you clench, making him whimper and buck his hips up into you. He flips you on your back, drooling onto your tits as he thrusts fast bt sloppy, hitting your spongy spot over and over again. For a virgin he has amazing stamina, thrusting into your tight, slick cunny for hours and hours. Leaving you a whimpering, fucked dumb mess as he blows his last 8th load into you, pulling out and collapsing beside you.

[oceantornadoo]

simon riley AND reader who are absolutely terrible at dating.

he ghosts you after the first date. you thought it was a once-in-a-lifetime connection with unmatched banter and crackling physical tension. guess not. you lose a couple of nights of sleep over it and chalk it up to men ain’t shit and move on.

simon who can’t stop thinking about your date as he gets shipped out the next day. runs through an op quicker than ever, barking at soap more than usual, toeing the line of unprofessional. every day that passes is a day he can’t touch his personal phone, leaving your text thread abandoned.

you get a text a month later. “you around?” have to check the thread to remember who it was, finding yourself absolutely shocked, struggling to remember the hulking mass of a man who made you giggle so much over that one dinner.

simon shows up to your picnic date with apology flowers and a new leather jacket. explains why he was gone without prompting, a gruff monologue as you find yourself getting distracted by the new scratch on his eyebrow and the scruff on his face. unconsciously, your fingers brush it barely, wanting to make sure it was real.

simon stops mid-sentence, gripping your wrist in an iron hold. the shock of what you did hits you, profuse apologies spilling from your lips as you try to explain and tug your wrist back. he won’t let you though, keeping it in place, your soft skin against his worn calluses.

“‘s okay, love. jus’ ask next time. still jumpy from work.” you finally snatch your hand back, embarrassment warming your body as you nod your head in acknowledgment. he thinks about letting the awkwardness settle and take roots, adding a string of failed dates to his black book.

instead you make the choice for him, attention catching on a nearby curious toddler. you give the little bugger a wave with your biggest smile, sticking out your tongue to make the kid laugh. simon decides then and there that he’s going to keep you.

[urmomschocolatemilk]

I 🩷 bikers

Biker!Simon who’s tatted uppp. He’s rolling up his sleeves while he rides to let everyone get a look at his muscly arms laced with inked designs because yes, he does want to show off

Biker!Simon who's rolling up next to you at a red light, head turning while he thrums his fingers on the seat under him. He can feel your heated gaze through your window.

Biker!Simon who flips open his visor and lets his eyes find yours. He wants you to know that he sees you staring and he's staring right back at you

Biker!Simon who passes his phone to you with the new contact sheet open on his screen, ready for you to fill out

Biker!Simon who trashes on the TikTok bikers and calls them cornballs but doesn’t hesitate to send you photos of him in a compression shirt and helmet at any chance he gets

Biker!Simon who buys you a helmet before your first date, and takes you home. And no matter how much you beg him that night, he refuses to go above sixty on the highway because he why would he ever put his girl at risk like that?