Xyra

|19| MDNI

[xyras-maze]

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This blog contains sexual themes, heavy topics and might be triggering to some.

If you want to read my works please read the TRIGGER WARNINGS.

Scroll away if it's not your thing.

MDNI

Racists, homophobes, misogynists, pro-ana and s/h blogs, zionists, nazis, DNI

ALL THE PICTURES I USE ARE FROM PINTEREST

About me

Masterlist (WIP)

I'm Xyra, I'm a 19 year old student. I love writing about both light and heavy topics, and when I do, I don't fuck around.

I am not trying to romanticize those stuff, this is fiction.

Ask rules

[furiosa-femininst]

Asking AI to remove clothes from anyone should be enough to put people on the sex offender registry for life

[rawme-price]

A smutty pt2 of [transcription!reader] hehe...

Ever since you heard that ghost is...interested, in you, it's been odd. You have no idea if he's aware that you're the one transcribing his comms, it's supposed to be a secret to avoid black-mailing, after all.

But you swear sometimes you pass him in the halls, and he has this gleam in his eyes. As if he can tell that you know. You want to act on it, but what if he was just talking shit with gaz? What if he doesn't mean it?

Those are the questions running through your head as you get your next audio booted up. A ghost solo op, the kind you usually look foreward to because he's much more vocal by himself. Right now, though? You can hardly focus on the grunts and hums, too caught up in your dilemma.

Which is why the sudden moan makes you nearly spill your drink.

A rough exhale over your headphones, you crank the volume up to max and– that slick, slapping noise...no way. No fucking way.

Ghost is jerking off with his mic on.

You knew he did it on the field, most guys do, but he always mutes. This...this is rare. You slip on both sides of your headphones and lean back to enjoy, not at all guilty about the way your thighs rub together.

"Mmhhh, fuck–" his voice is low, restrained and quiet. Obviously he doesn't want to be found. You try to imagine ghost in all his bulky gear, palm wrapped around his dick. "Yesss....there we go...."

God, did he bring lube? Sounds like it, you think, listening to the slick sounds of his pumping. He likes it fast, then. He grunts particularly loud, "shit– hey. B13, I know yer– mmhhh– listening."

What.

"I know it's you, lovie, I see the way you've been lookin' at me." Your face is burning hot, stomach pooling with arousal at being directly spoken to. "Fuckin' hell...makes me wanna bend you over, show you a nice time."

You subconsciously rock in your seat, eyes half-lidded as ghosts rough voice fills your awareness. "C'mon, love, touch yerself. I want you to, please–"

You've never unbuttoned your pants faster, glad that your office is the only occupied room in the hall. Your hands slip under your waistband, and you try to imagine it's ghosts.

He makes it easy, rumbling "I'd be nice an' sweet at the start. Mmnh, Get you warmed up– ah– and ready." He groans particularly hard, the slick sounds pausing. You imagine him trying not to finish too soon. "Wouldn't want– hah– to break you on the first night."

Ohh god. The idea of ghost looming over you, moving you as he needs. You imagine how impress he'd be that you can take all of him...you probably wouldn't mention you bought a dildo after hearing size during mission audio a month ago.

"Fuck, lovie, ahm' close–" you speed up, desperate to finish at the same time. Ghost moans into his fist, gear rustling. Then, in a deliciously unexpected move, he whines loud and high. "fuck! Fuuuckkk– yes–! Haahhhahh...shit. come talk to me."

With that, the audio cuts off.

...you silently pull out your personal thumb drive and reason that it's not really a federal crime if the audio is meant for you...right?

[toasttew]

Turning off the phone to reconsider whether I should continue reading the fanfic after I had witnessed the most cringiest stuff ever known to man

[momoboyds]

THE RILEY EFFECT - ONE

next pairing: simon riley x fem!reader ✶ 1.5k words, simon is unwell (delusional)

the first time someone refers to you as simon’s wife, you almost lose your damn mind.

you’re in your office helping a baby-faced recruit fill out some documents, when he thanks you and calls you mrs. riley.

“i’m sorry, what did you just call me?” you have to refrain from scowling, because who the hell is mrs. riley?

the recruit stares at you for a moment before repeating what he just said. “i called you mrs. riley,” he responds with a frown fixed on his face. “aren’t you married to lieutenant riley? he said–”

married!?

you shut that down quickly. “your lieutenant is delusional.” you hold up your hand to show him your ring finger. “do you see a ring on my finger?” you ask, almost laughing when his eyes widen and he starts apologizing immediately.

“i–i’m so sorry, mrs. riley. i mean ma’am!”

shit, now he’s calling me ma’am.

“please don’t apologize, it’s quite alright.” it’s not his fault his lieutenant has been spreading lies about his marital status.

despite you reassuring him that everything was fine, the recruit stammers out another apology then flees your office. you sigh as you watch him go. you can only imagine what he’ll say to simon the next time he sees him.

she called you delusional, sir.

turning back to the stack of paper on your desk with a groan, you pick up your pen to resume your work. you spend the next forty five minutes preparing reports, scheduling meetings, and answering your emails.

you’re so engrossed in your work, you don’t hear simon entering your office without knocking. he just lets himself in like he belongs there. it isn’t until you hear a throat clearing, that you become aware of another presence in the room with you. your head snaps up quickly at the sound, your eyes immediately honing in on simon.

you give the behemoth of a man looming in your doorway a look of exasperation. he stares at you for a moment with soft amber eyes, before shutting the door and tugging his hoodie off. you watch him as he tosses it onto the couch, along with the book he has tucked up under his arm.

there’s just something about the way simon makes himself at home in your office that pisses you off. when he meets your gaze again, you start in on him immediately.

“has anyone ever taught you some manners? you can’t just walk into someone’s office without announcing yourself. i don’t barge into your shit.”

simon takes a step towards your desk with a smirk on his face. “you don’t come to my office at all, sweetheart.” he grins when you glare at him.

“because i have no desire to do so,” you reply, rolling your eyes at him. “now, was there something you needed lieutenant riley? did you want to explain to me why you have that recruit of yours calling me mrs. riley?”

simon doesn’t respond right away. he busies himself with the blue stress ball you keep on your desk. you open your mouth, ready to give him a piece of your mind— because you’re not about to let him stand there and ignore you —when he sets the ball back down and takes his mask off.

the words die in your throat when simon’s face comes into view. he runs a hand through his curly blonde locks with a ghost of a smile on his lips. he knows exactly what he’s doing, distracting you like this. he always seems to lose the mask whenever he realizes you’re two seconds away from wringing his thick ass neck.

when you’ve got a good look at simon, the fire returns to your eyes and you demand an explanation. what you don’t expect, is for simon to be so damn transparent with you.

simon wants you to be his wife. he wants to put a ring on your finger. he wants the wedding, the reception, the fucking honeymoon. he wants to take care of you, keep you on his cock every night until his name is all you know. simon wants you to be his in every sense of the word, he needs it.

“i’m willing to wait for you to come to your senses, sweetheart.”

“come to my senses?” you stare at him in disbelief, before glowering. “the audacity of you to come into my office thinking you can speak to me this way. you can’t just–”

simon cuts you off, not giving a shit about your little rant. “don’t care. i’ll speak to my wife however i want.”

you almost let out a scream of frustration, because you know he’s dead serious.

“keep dreaming, you big blonde bastard! i wouldn’t marry your crazy ass even if you were the last man on earth!”

you’ve finally reached your limit with simon. it was time for his ass to go. you roll your chair away from your desk to stand, smoothing down your skirt on the way to the door. you wrench it open with more force than necessary, pointing while you order him to leave. he’s overstayed his welcome.

simon moves away from your desk, but he doesn’t leave. he doesn’t plan to. he bullies his way into your space until your back is pressed up against the open door. “you think i’m crazy?”

you lift your chin and fold your arms across your chest, refusing to be intimidated by him. “you’ve got folks walking around here calling me mrs. riley. for fuck’s sake, simon, you just told me you wanted to marry me. we’re not even in a relationship, we’re barely even friends. what am i supposed to think when you say shit like that?”

simon doesn’t reward you with the response you want. he just looks you up and down, his lips curled up into a smirk, “mmm, you’re so pretty when you get worked up like this. think you’d look even prettier crying on my cock.”

your small sound of disgust makes him laugh. it’s low, mean. and you just might hate him for it.

when simon finally decides to put an end to his bullshit and give you some space, you sag against the door, trembling slightly. this has to be some form of harassment, you think to yourself when your eyes land on that infuriating man.

much to your surprise, simon is already watching you like a goddamn hawk from where he’s seated on your couch. he has one arm stretched out over the backrest with his legs spread obscenely wide.

“you see something you like?” he doesn’t miss the way your eyes linger on his thighs.

“no,” you reply coldly on the way back to your seat, fully intending to ignore him since it looks like he won’t be leaving your office any time soon.

when you look away from your computer screen every now and then, simon is still seated in the same position he was in before you sat down. he’s quietly reading the book he brought with him. the only noise you hear from him is the soft sounds of pages being turned. you do find it hard to believe that he actually has the decency to let you finish your work in peace.

you think you like him better this way, quiet and not trying to piss you off every chance he gets. simon almost seems normal when he’s not running his mouth. you spare him another glance before turning back to your computer, silently wishing for time to pass quickly.

and of course it’s the blonde menace who decides when your cut off time is. he closes his book, walks right up to your desk and pries your pen out of your hand.

“hey–”

“hi, baby,” he croons, removing the pen from your line of sight completely when you try to snatch it back.

another pet name?

“i don’t have time for your games, simon. why did you interrupt me?”

“you’ve been doing overtime all week. you’re done for the day.” you open your mouth to speak, to question him about his knowledge of your work hours, but you think better of it when he pins you with a warning look. no wife of his is going to work herself to death.

“fine,” you relent, no longer willing to engage in a battle you won’t win, even if you do wish to wipe the look of satisfaction off of simon’s face with your fist.

you catch yourself sulking a little while simon gathers his belongings and announces his departure. when he asks if you would like to walk with him to the mess hall for dinner, you decline. and when he starts phishing for answers, wanting to know where you’ll be, you tell simon to fuck off and mind his own business.

“that smart mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble. i’ll allow it today, just this once.”

simon figures he’s tortured you enough for one day, so he decides to leave you be.

for now.

-

a/n: i’m writing for my other man again. stay turned for part two. p.s. he gets worse

MASTERLIST | SIMON’S MASTERLIST | AO3 - you’ll need to be a registered user

[skyrigel]

“Give the bags to me,” you whined, making a grab to his hand full of the shopping bags.

Simon turned so quickly towards you, frowning as if personal offence was done to him.

“Wot?”

“Give some to me. I'll hold it.” you said, trying to coax him into it with a sweet smile he could never refuse.

“I can hold em' lovie.” he shrugged, making a show of lifting five and three bags on each hand in his argument.

Like you didn't believe Simon couldn't, that man could lift a truck with the strength in his arms.

It wasn't about that, but—

“I wanna hold your hand, si, that's why.”

“Oh.” Simon whispered, cheeks brightening a deep pink and slowly he raised the bags but didn't give them to you.

You stared, as he transferred all of them to his other hand and took yours with a shy smile.

“cold, eh.” he said, tangling his warm sweaty fingers between your cold ones.

“You're warm.” you smiled, leaning forward as you walked to see the bulk on his other hand looking comedically huge.

“Course' I am,” Simon said, brushing his thumb over your knuckles before deciding to put your joined fist inside his jacket pocket.

A grin, warm and golden spread all over you, mischief sparking up, “I can still hold the bags.”

“Shut up, love.” he said, lifting eight of them high in air to show that he could.

“I make my boyfriend hold eight bags, eight of em'”

Simon' face reddened, 'my boyfriend' always did that to him.

“Ya' can make up for it later.” he squeezed your hand in his grasp, lips curling into a sweet smile.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

masterlist

[succubusvalentine]

ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ʀɪʟᴇʏ. ꜰᴇᴀꜱᴛɪɴɢ ᴏɴ ꜰʟᴇꜱʜ ʏᴏᴜ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛᴇᴅ.

Simon knows what will happen when he dies. He knows it'll come quicker than most. And he knows that he can't do anything to stop it, no matter how hard he tried. He would die before you.

He knew that when he died, you would be taken care of. His men would never allow you to be alone, to carry the burden of him being gone.

He knew that when he was six feet under—for the second time. The insects would feast on his flesh, they'd taste the abuse he went through, the screaming, yelling, fists against his pale skin. Then they'd taste the metal, gunpowder, dried blood, scar tissue. Everything that hardened him into the man he was.

But when the arthropods dug deeper, beneath his pain and suffering—They would find his heart, the one part of him that once may have been obliterated, crushed between the fingers of his father until it was a purée on the floor. They will find the love he had for you. Insects will taste how you took his heart and moulded it back together with gentleness and patience that no one else would give him.

The carrion feeders will taste your laugh within Simons pulmonary veins. They will know how your eyes flickered in the light when they feed on his aorta. They'll hear your laugh when they get to his right ventricle. They'll know the touch of your skin from his mitral valve.

The insects would feast on the one part of his body that was built from love, patience, and your sweettouch. Once tainted but now the sweetest part of him, rather than his heart being a crushed purée, you'd made it into the filling of a raspberry pie he would only dream of while watching a cooking show on the busted tv when he was a child, barely flinching when he heard his fathers drunken screams. Before he was dragged by the back of his shirt his eyes flickering to the screen with that beloved pie just one more time.

Simon knew you'd come to him again, he just needed to wait patiently. And for you, he had all the patience in the world.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

no IDEA where this came from. Guys im so emo. bring my husband back to me guys. manifest with me twins.

(im trying to be funny while there are TEARS on my CHEEKS homedawgs.)

Buy my cat a treat? (•˕ •マ.ᐟ

[libelulalune]

141 x insecure reader

summary : The boys are at a pub celebrating, when a few drunken words have your stomach twisting to knots.

cw : mentions of insecurities regarding female genitalia, short reader, petite reader, talk of low self esteem, eventual smut, virgin reader, bit angsty but fluffy in the other part (pt 2 in the making)

authors note : very self indulgent btw. (this is my first fic in a while, be nice)

There’s only one word that could describe the state you’re in:

buzzed.

Incredibly fucking buzzed.

So buzzed that you’re already nursing your fourth beer, head propped against the wall, trying to make out some words from the conversation everyone’s having… though mostly, you’re tuning out.

I mean, it’s just guy talk, after all.

After another very successful mission, the boys and you, are getting drunk. The drunkest of all, as always, is Johnny.

He seemed to have had a one-night stand a couple days ago, and he’s drunk enough to amuse everyone with the story.

Long black hair, somewhat curvy, with a tiny waist and perky tits. Your nose wrinkles in disgust as he keeps talking about his out-of-body experience with the girl, almost eight years younger than him. You roll your eyes sometimes, annoyed, yes, but also secretly happy he’s happy.

“I cannae get over it! The lass had a wee waist, she did! Could wrap both me hands round it an’ still feel like I’ve got room tae spare.”

He keeps babbling, hands in the air for comparison, as if he’s actually holding it while he speaks. You roll your eyes for what feels like the tenth time. The guys just keep laughing and shaking their heads, not really taking him seriously.

Then… the description gets a little more lewd.

“‘Er figure was somethin’ else. Daftly perky n’ proud tits, all natural, pretty lil’ cunnie… Christ, I cudn’t look away.”

Now, it’s different when it’s only the guys, but with you listening… the tension shifts. Price’s eyes flick from you to Soap to his beer. Everyone else sighs, rubs at their temples. You try to act like you’re not listening, scrolling on your phone, staring somewhere else but more than his lewd words, your stomach drops for a different reason.

Ever since you can remember, you’ve felt insecure. Height, body, hair… everything. It felt like you were “girling” wrong your entire life, growing up chubby, still trying to get in your ideal shape. You fought to become a soldier, despite everyone saying you were too short or incompetent. It was hard, but you were trying to prove something.

Now, at 23, still a virgin because of your insecurities, you hardly ever feel bad about it. Between work and exhaustion, there’s little space in your mind for anything else. But there are rare moments like this, where someone’s words make you question if you’ll ever end up with someone at all.

Because, however annoyed the guys sound, Johnny’s description is clearly doing something. Price loosens his collar every so often. Simon swallows. Hard. Even inside his mask, Gaz is listening carefully, looking a bit spaced out. And you’ve never seen Johnny’s eyes spark like this before. And it kills you.

Not only are you still somewhat chubby, your heavy tits slightly sagged, your outie visible, asymmetrical. You can barely look at yourself, let alone let anyone else see. Words like Johnny’s are exactly why you can’t.

The thought of sex makes you melt, smile, dimples showing. Someone looking into your eyes as they fill you up. Kisses everywhere, their body warm against yours, sweet words whispered in your ear… All the things you crave but would never reach.

Johnny, as drunk as he is, turns to you.

“‘Ave y’ ever had sex, lass?”

You swallow, caught off guard. Shake your head. Take another sip of beer before putting it down and fiddling with your hands.

Johnny groans in disappointment.

“Why the hell no? Ye’re a bonnie lass, an’ it feels bleedin’ amazin’.”

You sigh.

“Jus’ haven’t had the time,”

You mutter. You know it doesn’t sound convincing.

It doesn’t.

Johnny snorts. “Ah’m no buyin’ that. C’mon, tell us.”

“Mactavish,” Simon’s voice rumbles almost immediately, silencing him.

Johnny communicates with Simon with just his eyes, it doesn’t take much skill. Right now, he’s saying two things: drop it.

Johnny nods and takes another sip, while you sit red and embarrassed in your seat.

You stay red in your seat, skinning your fingers alive and trying to make yourself small. The laughter and chatter around you continue, but it all blurs together. You feel the weight of everyone’s eyes, or maybe it’s just the way Johnny’s words linger in your head.

You take a slow sip of your beer, trying to focus on the cold liquid rather than the heat climbing your neck. You hear Johnny muttering something else, but you can’t catch it. You don’t want to.

Finally, you clear your throat, summoning as much composure as you can. “Well… it’s shit like the ones you were just saying that gets me scared,” you mutter, your voice quieter than you’d like, but firm enough. You put the empty cup down, standing before anyone can reply.

Johnny frowns, blinking at you through his drunken haze. “Scared? Wha—”

You cut him off with a small shake of your head. “I’m… I’m gonna head back to base,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. You pull your jacket closer around you and step away from the group, feeling the heat of embarrassment and a sting of frustration all at once.

The others start to murmur behind you, but you don’t wait for explanations or apologies. You just walk, boots clicking on the floor, trying not to cry or yell at yourself for feeling weak.

By the time you reach your room, the door shuts behind you with a solid click, and the noise of the world fades to nothing. You slump onto the bed, pulling the covers over yourself. The anger, the embarrassment, the longing…it’s all tangled together.

You stare at the ceiling, letting your thoughts drift. Johnny was drunk. That’s all. It’s nothing personal. But even so, the words he said… the way everyone reacted… it gnaws at you. You try to push it away, tell yourself it’s just another night of drinking and talking, but your heart keeps racing, reminding you how alone and unseen you feel sometimes.

You sink into the pillows, hugging yourself tight, wishing for comfort that isn’t there. Tomorrow, it’ll be work, routines, training…but tonight, it’s just you, the embarrassment, and the quiet ache of wanting something you’re not sure you can have.

Part two btw 🖤

[l3ibnest]

modern warfare 4

[sweetmeldies]

Crocheting in my nest bed rn and all I can really think of is the 141 coming in. Gonna include kitties in Kyle’s, because my kitties are curled up with me 🩷

Simon would come in and lay on you. You’d have to lift your WIP out of the way. He’d lay his massive head on your chest. Mans is a human heated weighted blanket. And poor war criminal pookie is so touch starved, he’d let out a freeloader sigh and just sink. You’d comfortably rest your WIP across his shoulders, extra points if it’s something long like a blanket. Moments later you’d feel his breath even out and soft snores leave him.

Johnny would see what you’re doing and flop into bed next to you. He’d sit close to you, your shoulders touching. You’d gently lay your head onto his shoulder as he chats to you about his day. You let his voice run through your mind and let it wrap around you like a warm hug. Eventually he would as you to tech him how to do it. (He would then later get frustrated and leave the bed to go workout)

Kyle sees you peacefully working on your WIP and carefully climbs in by you. Book in hand, he’s careful of the furry babies that lay curled up by you. He settles in comfortably and cracks open his book. You each work/read quietly, just existing in each other’s presences. Your kitties curl in between you, letting out soft purrs that set the comfort level to 100.

For John I could see you seeking out him. This workaholic is buried in paper work in his office. You had dinner together, and decided to go your separate ways. Slight loneliness seeps into your chest, and you decide to seek the dear captain out. You slink into his office with your WIP, hooks/needles, and yarn and set up shop on the spare chair in his office. Like Kyle, you work quietly on your separate projects, just existing in each other’s presences 🩷

[notesfromvienna-deactivated2025]

a pathetically comprehensive, lore accurate-ish, and realistic list of my simon "ghost" riley headcanons/character study ☠︎︎

because i <3 him and the sheer amount of (imo) mischaracterisation bothers me enough to write this.

when imagining or writing ghost, i tend to pull from both the original and the reboot. using the original as a sort of "core skeleton" while layering in reboot traits based on what i feel blends well and makes sense.

a reminder that these hcs are my opinion and i love all interpretations of that man. and i love you.

on deployment

moves like a man who’s already imagined every way he could die in a room and has decided none of them are going to happen today. nothing is rushed, but nothing is slow. there's no flourish, no ego, just pure purpose. he clears a room like he’s already memorised it (which he probably has).

favours close quarters not because he likes it bloody, but because he trusts his hands more than he trusts ballistics. distance = uncertainty. knives, suppressed pistols, garroting, etc. they offer control, silence, and no need to rely on anyone else.

he doesn’t panic. not when he’s shot, cornered, when someone on the team goes down. everything he’s feeling gets buried and stored for later. he falls apart in his own time.

if ghost is involved in an interrogation, it’s already too late for diplomacy. he doesn’t jump to torture, but once it's on the table, he doesn’t flinch. it’s not about sadism. he just sees it as a tool, same as thermal goggles. a means to an end. when soap answers “he might” after milena asks if he'll cut off her hand, it's because ghost has done it before. not performatively. not out of anger. but because it worked. a knife under the fingernail. a limb dislocated just enough to break resistance without rendering them useless.

he doesn’t enjoy torture, especially given his past. but he’s already made peace with being the one who’ll do the things that need doing. if someone has to carry that weight, better him than someone who won’t survive the guilt.

ghost keeps two knives on him at all times. one for practical use like cutting rope, gear, food. the other is strictly for killing. he sharpens them both the same, but never mixes them up. it’s not about superstition. violence shouldn’t bleed into routine.

he checks and cleans his weapons obsessively after every op. same routine, same order. not because he’s afraid of failure, but because routine is grounding.

he sleeps light, rarely more than a few hours at a time. the mask is always within arm’s reach. even on base, even when he knows he’s safe, it never leaves the room. nightmares come and go. mostly memories, some imagined scenarios where he failed. he doesn’t tell anyone. just wakes up, hits the gym, and starts over.

because he’s a lieutenant, he’s most likely in private quarters or a shared officer’s bunk with only one other person, not standard troop barracks. in special forces environments, high-ranking operators usually have separate, secure quarters. think: small room, metal frame bed, footlocker, wall rack for gear, single desk, maybe a hard chair. strictly utilitarian. nothing overtly personal. no pictures, no posters, no decorations. but the space is maintained. backup masks.

he doesn’t like silence, but he prefers it over the wrong kind of noise. won’t sleep near people who talk in their sleep. can’t stand hearing someone cry in the dark. he’ll get up, walk out, find somewhere quieter. he can’t afford to be reminded of what he’s tried to forget.

the mask - he doesn’t wear the mask to be scary. but he understands that it’s part of the effect now. he lets people believe whatever they want. that he’s not human, that he’s multiple people, that he’s a ghost in the literal sense. superstition makes enemies hesitate. hesitation gets them killed. sometimes, he leaves survivors on purpose. lets one crawl away, bleeding and incoherent, babbling about the skull-faced man who didn’t say a word. that story will spread faster than any report. good stuff to him.

relationships - absolutely none. the notion that he’d ever let a relationship happen on deployment is absolute bull if we’re going with realism. he loves his job too much to potentially lose it to that.

and thus, ghost doesn’t get involved. not with anyone. he might notice someone. maybe a base nurse; calm voice, steady hands, the kind of woman who would’ve been his type in another life. but that’s all it is. a passing thought. something he shuts down the second it surfaces.

attraction distracts. feelings get people hurt. worse, they make you hesitate. ghost doesn’t have room for hesitation. he’s learned that getting close to someone means dragging them into his wreckage.

so he keeps it professional. polite, distant, unreadable. if he looks, it’s quick. if he remembers her, he won’t admit it. if there’s a version of him she might have loved, he knows it isn’t the one wearing the mask.

with task force 141

to his dismay (at least at first), ghost works well in a team. especially because he doesn’t need to be the center of it. he’s not barking orders or pulling rank. he lets others lead if they’re competent, but if things fall apart, he takes over without hesitation.

soap - ghost trusts him more than most. doesn’t mean he’s soft with him. it just means soap is the only one he doesn’t second-guess on instinct. still checks the corners, still runs his own numbers, but if soap calls out a threat, ghost’s already moving to neutralise it.

gaz - he keeps him at arm’s length. not because he dislikes him, but because gaz is younger, still carrying some belief in clean warfare and clear morality. ghost doesn’t want to be the one who breaks that. not directly. it does annoy him sometimes though.

price - he and price have an unspoken understanding. price knows what ghost’s done. he doesn’t approve of all of it, but he never asks for an apology. he trusts ghost to go to hell so the rest of them don’t have to.

off deployment

simon doesn’t “go home.” he just leaves base. his one-bedroom flat is somewhere quiet and nondescript in a smaller northern town where no one asks questions. second floor of a squat building, curtains always drawn, nothing on the door to indicate anyone lives there.

it’s furnished enough to be functional: one bed, one chair, one table. blackout blinds. industrial-strength lock on the door. nothing personal, no family photos, no décor. it looks like he’s either just moved in or is preparing to leave at any moment. both are true.

he’s got money, not much to spend it on.

no close friends, maybe a few regulars at the veteran-owned pub closest to his flat.

and for the love of god, simon does not wear the mask off deployment. not in public, not around civilians, not even walking to the corner store. people always imagine him in full gear like he’s stuck in the role, like he can’t let it go, but that would mean missing the point of it. it isn’t a comfort thing. it’s not his personality. it’s a switch. it tells his brain: you are not simon right now. you are ghost. you do what needs to be done.

wearing it outside of deployment would mean the job followed him home. which would completely defeat the purpose of it. that mask is recognisable. it draws eyes. photos. questions. the whole point of being off-duty is that no one notices him because he's not working. he dresses to disappear: black hoodie, beat-up boots, head down. sometimes a beanie, sometimes shades. always forgettable. civilian.

he doesn’t wear anything that links back to task force 141. no patches. no flags. no military cut. he doesn’t want to be seen as ghost. he doesn’t even want to be seen as a soldier. just a man walking home, hands in his pockets, trying not to think too hard.

always at the gym late at night or early morning. places that are open 24/7, quiet, and never busy. not a fitness influencer, not doing anything flashy. just heavy compound lifts. low reps, high weight. keeps him grounded, keeps him from spinning out. beats the shit out of the boxing bag too.

surprisingly competent in cooking. not a “foodie,” but he knows how to make decent meals. protein-heavy, minimal sugar. cooking is ritual. control, routine, heat, transformation. it’s calming. but he won’t eat out unless he absolutely has to.

listens to old industrial, dark post-punk, and late 90s uk metal. killing joke. early godflesh. portishead when he can’t sleep. nothing too upbeat. lyrics blurred, vocals buried. background noise for thought.

there’s a lot of debate surrounding his looks, so i just choose to believe dark blonde/light brown hair and brown eyes. i like the idea of him having light eyelashes too.

and yes, even a man as locked down as simon has needs. he’s not sexless. he’s not a monk. he's a middle-aged white guy. but the way he deals with sex and attraction is incredibly controlled, emotionally distanced, and shaped entirely by trauma, guilt, and the constant awareness that closeness equals risk. he’s not above physical release, but he doesn’t want intimacy, and he doesn’t let anyone get near enough to make it something more.

simon doesn’t date. he’s not on apps, he’s not making conversation in cafés, he’s not texting anyone good morning. emotional connection is a liability. he doesn’t know how to open up without letting something ugly slip out. and even if he wanted to, he doesn’t believe he’s capable of being cared about for who he actually is.

he’s had chances. a nurse who lingered a little longer when handing him a chart. a woman in town who made a joke about his accent and waited for him to laugh. he felt the pull. he shut it down. not worth it. not fair to them.

if he’s going to have sex, it’s a one-off encounter with no strings. someone he meets in a bar, speaks barely a dozen words to, doesn’t take back to his place. it’s fast, quiet, controlled.

but most of the time, he doesn’t bother. sometimes the need builds, and he shuts it down instead. pushes it down like hunger. like rage. goes to the gym, takes a cold shower, fights the impulse until it passes.

buuuuuuut i am going to make a seperate post about ghost if he was in a relationship. what kinda woman she’d be, what’d he’d be like, etc.

i deeply apologise for how long this is. goodnight.

[evilwoman18]

“Oi, Ghost,” Soap called across the room, slapping a hand onto the table where Simon was sharpening a knife, “we’re headin’ out after drills tonight. Pint and darts. You in?”

Simon didn’t look up. “Gonna have to ask my partner.”

Soap blinked. “Y/N? You serious?”

Simon finally glanced up, his tone bone-dry. “You want me to die?”

Soap laughed. “Mate, it’s just a few rounds at the pub, not a classified op.”

Simon shrugged, going back to his blade. “Still dangerous.”

~

Y/N stood barefoot by the counter, a tea mug cradled in their hand. They were dressed in one of Simon’s shirts. Something he’d never admit made his chest feel ten times too full.

“Ran into Soap earlier,” they said casually. “He asked if I was letting you out of your cage anytime soon.”

Simon looked up from the stove where he was methodically stirring scrambled eggs. “…Did he now?”

Y/N smirked. “Apparently you’ve been telling the others you need my permission to do things.”

Simon didn’t flinch. “Not untrue.”

“You make it sound like I’ve got you on a leash.”

He turned off the burner, walking over to them with a plate. “Do you?”

Y/N gave him a look, one brow raised. “Simon.”

He leaned in close, lips brushing their ear. “You’re the only thing I’d willingly ask permission for.”

They rolled their eyes, even as a flush crept up their neck. “That’s manipulative.”

“But effective,” he murmured, setting their plate down with quiet finality.

Y/N shook their head, grinning. “So you use me as a buffer?”

“I use you as a reason,” Simon corrected, sitting beside them. “If I say no, they keep pushing. If I say my wife wouldn’t like it, suddenly everyone backs off.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. “You like that they respect me that much?”

Simon looked over at them, soft and matter-of-fact. “I like that you’re the only thing that makes me want to go home.”

~

Thank you for reading! 💚

[wraithest]

simon points out the final girl getting chased by the slasher in the horror film you’re watching together and sighs out a dreamy little “that’s us” and then just doesn’t elaborate at all

[machveil]

[lxvvie]

thoughts on crawling under the covers with blanket simon? lying in the warmth and darkness with him is actually a need

Especially when he's home recuperating from a particularly taxing assignment. You come home to a dark house, and when you go to the bedroom, you see the large lump under the covers, and you know your blanket gremlin's under it, cocooned in the dark abyss that is the comforter.

You lift up the covers some, expecting His Gremliness, but all you get is a big hand reaching out to grab your arm and pull you in. Before you know it, you're under the covers and in Simon's arms, and your big little eepy kreecher gremlin has you safely bundled up and won't let you go for anything.

Against the quietness of your home, you two find comfort in the sounds of your breathing.

That is, until Simon started snoring.

[sleepytopia-deactivated20260528]

The Dog Likes You (I Don’t… Yet)

Simon "ghost" riley x reader

Summary: Your new neighbor is quiet, broad-shouldered, and built like he eats bricks for breakfast. He barely says more than two words when you pass him in the hall. But his dog? His dog is obsessed with you. And slowly, Simon Riley realizes maybe... he is too. Even if he’ll never admit it out loud.

The first time you met Riley, he barreled into you in the hallway, tail wagging, tongue out, like you'd been best friends in a past life.

“Riley, no- get back here- "

That gravel-rough voice chased after him, exasperated and deep. You looked up. And there he was.

Simon Riley. Unit 4B. Tall. Tattooed. Constantly wearing black. Never made eye contact in the elevator. Never smiled. Always looked like he had a secret and a kill count.

“He’s not usually like this,” Simon muttered, gripping the leash and yanking the excited shepherd back to heel. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you smiled, crouching to pet him. “He’s sweet.”

Simon grunted.

Didn’t even introduce himself.

The dog liked you. A lot. Simon didn’t. Or so you thought.

But Riley started dragging him to your door every morning. Whining when you passed in the hallway. Sitting outside your condo like he lived there.

It was kind of cute.

Simon was not.

He was blunt. Quiet. Always tense like he was waiting for the ceiling to fall in. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t make small talk.

But he did start lingering longer when you pet Riley.

“You live alone?” he asked once, randomly, voice low.

You blinked. “Yeah… why?”

“Just noticed your lights’ve been out when you get home late. Thought something might’ve happened.”

Thought something might’ve happened.

Was that… concern?

Then came the day you twisted your ankle trying to bring groceries up the stairs.

Simon didn’t just help. He carried you. Bridal style. No hesitation.

“You should be more careful.”

“Yes, thanks, Simon, I totally meant to fall and eat concrete.”

He didn’t even smile.

But he did check in every day after that. Brought Riley. Brought food. Started asking if you needed anything when he went to the store. Then started knocking just to see if you were okay.

You started catching him looking at you differently. Softer. Longer.

One night, sitting beside you on the couch while Riley sprawled across both your laps, he spoke without looking at you:

“He doesn’t like many people, y’know.”

“He’s great.”

“…So are you.”

You turned.

He was already looking at you. Eyes bare. Voice low.

“Didn’t think I’d like you at first. Thought you were too chatty. Too soft.”

He paused.

“But… you make things quiet. In a good way.”

He kissed you that night. Rough hands, hesitant lips, the slow realization that maybe letting someone in didn’t mean falling apart.

Riley barked halfway through it. Simon groaned.

“He’s a bloody cockblock.”

You laughed against his mouth. “He’s the reason we’re here.”

“Tch. Don’t let him get smug about it.”

Extras:

Simon lets you borrow his hoodie after you mention you're cold. Never asks for it back.

Riley literally scratches your door when Simon takes too long to visit you.

Simon never admits it, but he keeps a photo of you and Riley tucked into his wallet.

He lets you scratch behind his ears when you call him “a good boy” but that’s between you and him.

© sleepytopia do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works

[kanescrochet]

Simon, who ends up with the crafty girl. One day, you notice his balaclava is looking worn and frayed, so you make him one to replace it. He starts wearing it more now every time he's out of the house. He wears it proudly and any time it gets complimented or he gets asked where he got it he just blushes behind it and proudly says that his girl made it for him

[ginandvodka-writes]

“Hi! Probably I’m busy right now, or maybe I’m just sleeping. Anyway, leave your message! I’ll call you back as soon as I can!”

Followed by your voice a small beep sounded, giving the space to leave a voice message. However, Simon didn’t say a word, instead he hung up the call and called you again.

Five seconds, two beeps.

“Please answer…” He murmured, almost inaudible, his voice so broken it physically hurt to hear it.

Almost a minute passed, and you didn’t answer his call, so the line immediately went to voicemail. Your cheerful voice was a balm to his broken soul, and at the same time it was the knife that was destroying him.

“Hey, luv…” He spoke once the line gave him time to leave a message. “I just… ‘m just wanted ya to know that I miss you, so fuckin’ much…” At that point he couldn’t hold back anymore, and tears sprang from his eyes, a lump formed inside his throat, and despite of how much it hurt, he continued. He told you about the team and their most recent experiences. Kyle’s newborn, John and his well-deserved vacations, and Johnny’s birdie.

“Ya should see him.” Amid his crying, he let out a small, soft chuckle. “He’s like a stupid puppy around her.” Before he could say something more the call ended. The intense beep of the line made a knot in his stomach, but he didn’t complain and just hung up.

For what felt like hours he just remained there in the floor, still as a statue and looking at the ceiling with so much in mind and nothing at once. Even in the darkness, his baggy eyes could be seen, as well as his messy hair and unkempt beard, which had begun to grow several days ago without him caring about.

Finally, when he dared to move, he looked at his phone again. The wallpaper was a photo of you both that you’d taken a while ago, so he looked at the screen for about two minutes, scanning your face. Then, he opened your chat, full of messages he’d sent but you hadn’t responded to any of them in the last year. Although that didn’t stop him to send you a new one.

“Don’t worry about the bill, I’ll pay it tomorrow. Love you.”

As punctual as always. He’d paid your phone bill the last year, every first of the month. In that way he could keep sending you messages, and above all, keep calling you so he can hear your beautiful voice in that voicemail.

That was his ritual for a year, since the day you died. You weren’t there anymore, and the only thing left of you was your voice. He was aware that holding into your voicemail wasn’t healthy, it was killing him slowly. But at that point he didn’t care.

He loved you to the bone, a burning fire impossible to put out, and if that little recording was all that was left of you, then he would hold on until the day his heart stopped beating too and his soul finally reunited with yours once more.