Includes all non-event writing. Separate Masterlist for October events.
Valorant:
SFW-
Harbor X Reader
Call of Duty:
SFW-
141 Headcannon
Pianist!Ghost (Blurb)
Post-TBI!Soap x Teacher!Wifey Part 2
Domestic!Ghost x Reader
Soap x Reader (drabble)
Ghost x Medic!Reader Part 2 Part 3
Domestic!Price x Reader
Ghost x Reader (Reader Death Angst)
Domestic!Gaz x Reader
Ghost x Reader (Drabble, pet names)
Ghost x Drunk!Reader (Spelling errors)
Angry!Ghost x Reader Part 2
Yandere!Ghost x Reader
Konig x Reader
Ghost x reader
NSFW-
Older!Playboy!Ghost x Reader Part 2 (mild nsfw)
Price X Reader
Toxic!Ghost x Reader Part 2
Ghost x Yapper!Reader
DC:
SFW-
Cheater!Jason Todd x Reader (Hurt/no comfort)
Jason Todd x Reader (Small hurt/comfort)
Jason Todd x Reader Part 1 2 3 4 5
Jason Todd x Roy Harper
Jason Todd's Death
Dick Grayson x Reader (Blurb)
Dick Grayson x Reader (First date)
Angry!Jason Todd x Reader
You sit up, a low groan pulling from your chest involuntarily, joints aching with sleep. After a few minutes—which still didn’t feel like enough—you push to your feet, the cold of the floor helping to drag the last dredges of sleep from your bones.
You grab your phone and head to the bathroom, turning on the shower playlist without needing to look down.
Once you were clean and feeling better than you had in days, you stand in front of the mirror. The small tremors in your hands rattle up to your ribs.
“Okay. I can do this,” you breathe, followed by a heavy sigh, “Red Hood isn’t important.”
One more deep breath later, you clean up the mess from last night in the living room, throwing everything in the trash. All of this was behind you.
Not.
‘I’m grabbing some food. Wanna join?’ Sent 13 hours ago
Your stomach growls in response; you were hungry. Your chest tightens at the thought of going out again. The phone wavers in your hand, and it takes a second to realize you're shaking.
No.
The best way to combat anxiety is to do the thing making you anxious. You could do this—maybe he wasn’t even hungry anymore.
‘Offer still standing?’ you send. Then immediately set the phone down on the edge of the sink, squeezing your eyes shut.
A ding echoes through the air, but you don’t move to look at it immediately. Taking a deep breath to try and settle the nerves rinsing up to your throat.
Disappointment fills you when you finally look back down.
‘How are you doing, Sweetie? I heard what happened. I told you, Gotham isn’t a good place for someone like you.’ From your mom. You sigh softly; there was no good response to that.
As you try to formulate an acceptable answer that won’t get you disowned, another notification chimes. This time from Jason.
‘sure. I’ll pick you up’
You stare at the message, unease climbing up your spine. Before you can fully spiral, a second message comes through.
‘You going to tell me your address or what?’
The panic eases a fraction—he doesn’t know where you live. He’s not malicious. Just a guy taking you out to lunch. You send him the address, saying you’ll meet him outside. Probably smarter to not give a random guy your apartment number.
Twenty minutes later a red and black sports bike pulls up. The dark visor reflects your surprised features. He flicks the visor up and those forest green eyes stare back at you.
“Hey,” You can’t see his mouth, but you hear the smile.
He holds out a helmet, similar in style to his with a metallic visor instead of a solid black one. Stupidly, you stare at him.
“I’m not getting on that thing. I don’t know you,” your voice is sharp as you step back, grip tight on your bag.
“Relax Princess,” He tips his head. A spark of recognition flicks through your subconscious. Your eyes narrow slightly at him, and he steps forward. “Close your eyes.”
He holds the helmet over your head like he’s going to help you. Apprehension feeds the doubt in your mind. If he was who you thought he was...then he wouldn’t hurt you—right?
You give a shaky nod, eyes fluttering shut, letting him pull the helmet on. He removes his gloves, rough hands tightening the strap through the D-ring under your chin. Once he’s satisfied with the tightness, his hand hits the visor with a small thwack, causing you to jolt slightly.
He laughs quietly at your reaction, holding out a hand for you to take. “Foot here, then sit on the back.”—he points to the foot peg near the rear wheel.
You stare at the bike concerned; there was no way that seat was going to fit you; it was smaller than a dinner plate.
“It’s safer than it looks, you’ll be holding on to me, okay?” He says, sensing your discomfort. You shook him a quick skeptical look, then hook your leg over the back of the bike.
Once your situated he slides in front of you with a smoothness you didn’t know a man of his size could have. His visor tips back, “I’m going to touch you, ‘kay?”
Before you can respond, he hooks his hands behind your knees, pulling you tight to his back. An embarrassing noise falls from your lips. Shaky hands press to his shoulders, stabilizing yourself.
“Arms around my waist,” he commands softly. You hesitate for a second before wrapping your arms around his ribs, hard muscles under your fingers.
Don't feel him up. Don’t feel him up. Don’t feel him up. You repeat to yourself mentally.
The low grumble of the bike hums beneath you, and you unconsciously squeeze tighter. That familiar coil of anxiety worming its way up your throat again.
His gloved hand rolls the throttle, releasing the clutch as he takes off. Your helmeted face presses to his shoulder as he shifts gears; eyes squeezed shut.
You can’t tell how long he’s driving for before he stops. He presses a warm palm to your thigh, and you slowly look up, seeing you’ve stopped in front of a restaurant.
“You okay?” He hums flicking his visor up, eyes dancing with amusement.
“That was-” you pause realizing your visor is still down. You push it up, sweaty fingers leaving a foggy mark on the plastic. “That was terrible. Never again.”
He smiles climbing off, offering a hand, “I still have to take you home baby girl.”
You let out an exasperated noise, and he tips your head back to undo the chin strap. Allowing you to take the helmet off.
He mirrors your movement, running a hand through his hair. “Shall we?”
Jason took you to a local restaurant, nothing painfully fancy, but not the slums either. You’d heard this place was good by some friends and had been meaning to try it. They were a 1950’s diner style restaurant, their big seller was burgers and milkshakes.
It was a homey feeling inside, a few people in further booths and one at the counter. Enough to make you feel safe but not enough to be overwhelming. Frankly, you weren’t sure he did it on purpose; he didn’t seem like a huge people person either.
You slide in the booth across from him unsure what to say. “So...”
He smirks in that careless way of his, “So... you're not a Gotham native?”
“No, moved a few months back, wanted a change of pace. Overbearing parents.”
His head bobs understandingly, “Ya, I get that, I spent some time out of country, though I don’t think my dad knew.”
“Oh? Where at?” you say, interested in his backstory that was clearly not online.
“Tibet, it’s okay, lots of mountains,” Jason doesn’t elaborate more, though you want to push.
Despite your initial reservations, the conversation flows easily. The way he talked to you like he knew you for years, eased some of the panic in the back of your brain.
But for some reason you couldn’t shake the way he had said, ‘relax princess’. It was too reminiscent of Red Hood that night in your apartment. But you’d seen him and Red Hood separately. There’s no way he logically predicted being a suspect and planned around it.
“And for you?” The waitress drones, eyes blank in that too-long shift kind of way. You pause for a long moment, completely forgetting you were supposed to be ordering.
“Cheeseburger, no pickles, and a vanilla milkshake, please,” You could feel your cheeks heat in that familiar embarrassment. Then add in a quick, “Thank you.”
If Jason noticed your space-y-ness, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he turns the focus back on you, asking about your history, gently probing that made you feel seen in a way you didn’t know possible.
God—no. You couldn’t be liking a possible vigilante.
“Do you have family-?” You blurt out, almost too quickly you realize you interrupted him. His fidgeting stops, and his lips quirk up a tiny bit.
“Yea, a dad and a few siblings.”
You shift back and forth a moment trying to decide if you want to push his non-answer. “You don’t provide a lot of information, do you?”
He full blown smiles at that, “Guess not, nature of the gig I suppose.”
“The gig?” You tip your head.
He freezes, then leans back in the booth slowly, cheeks flushing, “Y-yea, I do some investigating work sometimes...”
Your eyes narrow, what kind of response is that? Jason’s leg starts bouncing again, vibrating the table.
“Riiight...” You say slowly, eyeing him as the waitress sets the food in front of you. He was gradually rising on the suspect list. Even as you tried to push away the thoughts of Red Hood, it nagged at the back of your mind. This was a cute guy out to lunch with you, focus on that first.
“That’s not what I meant- I mean I do investigative work, but I more run a business of sorts,” he combs a hand through his hair, the locks flopping back in place almost immediately.
“You’re backtracking now,” you hum, almost amused by his panicked words.
“Sorry...” He looks down, then lower,” ...I don’t do this much.”
“Talk to women or go out,” You smile slightly, taking a bit of pity on him. Maybe he was just socially awkward.
He sighs, “Both. I’m not very social. Bit of a night owl, I guess.”
An hour later, you feel like you hadn’t learned much about him; he did business, some investigating, lives alone, has a decent size family, but wouldn’t specify more than that all his siblings were adopted, not on the best terms with them though.
You couldn’t figure out if he was hiding things or just weird.
The Red Hood investigation was behind you—you try to remind yourself—you were moving on.
Jason Todd was a nice, attractive man. You would pursue this...cautiously.
Hate sex with Ghost except you wear lip plumper, because if he’s going to be an asshole so would you.
Tw! Kinda asshole! Simon, hate sex, nothing too heavy, reader is sassy, mildly degrading language.
He’s got you pinned beneath him, pressing you to the desk. His cock pressing an outline to your ass. You knew this was coming, you weren’t stupid. His intentions were obvious from a mile away. So, you planned accordingly.
You’d been walking around all day doing simple things to rile him up. Bending down, your uniform only accentuating your curves (fatigues do the same thing for women that they do men!!!!). Voice pitched up slightly, in that whiny way that made his eyes go glassy for a second. Lips—plump and pouty—covered in what would easily be mistaken as lip gloss. Something you knew he would take pleasure in ruining.
“You like getting me all riled up?” He’d snarl in your ears. “Need someone to fuck that bitchy attitude out of you?”
And when he shoved you to your knees, his leaking tip already pressed to your lips smearing pre-cum around. You’re fighting a smug smirk, knowing what was coming.
He was too lost in the feeling of your glossy lips to notice the slight building burn. You obliged quicker than usual, and if he noticed he didn’t say anything, only rough grunts following your tongue.
You wrap your lips around his length, the stretch burning your cheeks as you slowly bob your head. Teasingly—trying to piss him off more.
As expected, his hand tangles in your hair, forcing you deeper. Only letting up after you gag a few times, tears burning your eyes. He yanks you back with a harsh look, “Still got some fight in you?”
You can only roll your eyes in response, chest heaving with soft pants. Your lips pull up in a loose smirk.
It's a miniscule change, but you can see the second he realizes you are up to something. His brows soften ever so slightly, then a shift in his weight. His hand loosens in your hair.
“What the fuck did you do?” His voice is half a pitch higher than usual—tighter. Then he lets go of your hair entirely, “Jesus woman! What did you do!?”
You smile wiping his pre-cum (along with the plumper) off your lips, “Thought I’d give you a taste of your own medicine.”
His jaw tightens, hand fisting his cock trying to stop the burning. Rough curses falling from his lips. “The fuck is this!”
“Have fun!” you coo, already sauntering off. A teasing sway to your hips.
TLDR: The next few hours he’s panicking trying to figure out what you did to his dick. When the skin finally cools down, it all puffy and red. And he debates for a while how embarrassing it would be to go to medical.
The next few times he dicks you down; he pointedly does not let you give him head.
dededos
annaxmalina
titsay
yousharknotpass
germansingergirl
theartofmadeline