About me - Recent Works - Rules - Requests - What I'll Write For -
About Me !!!
Helloo!! On this blog you can remember me as tonia. I don't write super often but I do love writing and reading so I'm making this to utilize whenever I get the urge to write something! I do take requests but please please please read my rules before you do !! Asks however are always open if you'd like to chat or want to submit works/ideas of your own. Some things about myself; I am currently 23, I am fem presenting non binary and bisexual (so yes, I will write for female characters as well as male characters). I am of mixed race(Black, Mexican, and Italian) so there will likely not be any reader descriptions unless it is asked for in a request or otherwise specified.
Most Recent Work:
Wuthering Waves Scar x Reader What He's like in a Relationship General Headcanons
Lighter x reader headcannons + drabble
Yan!Dabi x reader, don't walk home alone at night
Perv!Roommate!König
Simon Riley x reader, trauma bond sex
Captain Price, dirty old man
Simon Riley is emotionally stunted but he loves you
Burnt Out!Reader x Captain Price
Rules
I do accept requests but i will not make any promises regarding when they'll be completed or if ill write that specific request, essentially; dont rush me and be kind and it will get done eventually. :)
I will write PLATONICALLY for child characters and child!reader scenarios, not in any other contexts.
I will write Yandere, dark content, and nsfw content. Any hate or rude messages will be ignored and promptly discarded. I do not tolerate disrespect of any kind. That being said, there will always be a Trigger/Content Warning indicator somewhere in the post.
Feel free to send in your own ideas/short fics in my ask box its always open. :)
I'll update this post periodically with any current hyperfixations(meaning id be more likely to write for any piece of media im currenfly hyperfixated on) and keep it pinned for user convenience. Still feel free to request for any character from the media listed below at anytime just if I happen to have it listed as a hyperfixation it'll be more likely for me to get to it sooner :)
What I'll Write For !!
Genshin Impact
Arcane
Honkai Star Rail
Baldur's Gate 3
Cyberpunk 2077 & Edgerunners
Zenless Zone Zero
Wuthering Waves
My Hero Academia
Jujitsu Kaisen
Call of Duty
Hyperfixations !!!
Zenless Zone Zero: Lighter, Lycaon, Tsukishiro Yanagi, Nicole, Hugo
Cyberpunk 2077: RIVER WARD, Johnny Silverhand, Solomon Reed, Judy Alvarez
Genshin Impact: CHILDE, Ororon, The Captain, Arlecchino, Lyney, Tighnari
The locker room had steadily emptied while you waited for Kyle to get out of the shower. Scrolling on your phone idly as you sat on the bench near his locker. Only glancing up when you heard Kyle's voice rounding the corner.
He looked good. Obviously. Skin still damp and glistening under the fluorescents. Towel slung dangerously low on his hips. Head turned to the side mid conversation.
Then your eyes drifted to who he was talking to. Then drifted lower. Johnny, no towel at all. Cock swinging heavy between his legs without a care in the world. Towel uselessly hanging over his shoulder. Hair curling over his chest dripping with water, slicking down his happy trail all the way to the base of his cock. Jesus christ. Kyle was a treat in itself, but this was actually making your mouth water. You couldn't stop yourself from staring. And unfortunately it wasn't long before they caught sight of you as well.
"Ye like wha' ye see?" Johnny grinned.
Obviously you were quick to turn away. Growing tense as you watched him near in your peripheral.
"Ye cannae get all shy on me now..."
You slowly turned your head. Eye level with his cock. Close enough to see the veins raised below the velvety skin. Johnny thrust his hips into the air gently so it bounced. Making your stomach twist with need. Subconsciously leaning just a little closer.
"Nosy wee whore..." Johnny muttered. Thrusting again so this time his cock dragged against your cheek. Laughing at your surprised expression.
He gripped the base of his cock. Slapping the half hard length against your face. Only laughing louder at the blissed out expression on your face.
"See how far the runt can throat it..." Kyle ordered somewhere to your left. His own towel now dropped. Fisting his cock. Normally you'd be desperate to get a peek. But for now you were far too preoccupied.
Price has, on mutliple occasions this week alone, verbally torn some poor unsuspecting soldier to shreds.
It's absolutely terrifying, given the captain hardly deals with anyone outside of the task force and never cared enough to properly yell. The entire base has been eerily tense, terrified of being the next to fall to his wrath.
Which, of course, means the team are insistent on figuring out what the hell is wrong with him.
They subtly track him around base, updating the group chat with any information. Price follows his usual routine with a firm scowl on his face, people leaving rooms when he walks in, but nothing out of the ordinary.
Not until gaz watches price step out to his usual place to smoke, walk and annoyed circle and do....nothing? Gaz is about to approach when price pulls out his phone.
"Hi, love," the scowl on prices face smoothes out instantly, and gaz knows he's talking to you, his spouse. "Just checking in."
He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, the same motion he does after an exhausting mission "I miss you too, sweet'art. Just a few more days an' I'll be with you, okay?"
For the first time in weeks, price smiles that soft loving smile. Gaz narrows his eyes, waits for price to fish out a cig while he talks but...it never happens.
Instead, price pulls out a piece of gum, settles heavily against the wall, and asks with all the adoration in the world "how's baby doing?"
Oh shit.
Turns out, price has been on the verge of homicide because his beloved spouse is pregnant and he doesn't want to make baby sick smoking around the house, nor does he want to upset said spouse with the "most foul smell I've ever experienced, john" by smoking on base.
Price quit smoking cold turkey for you and his future kid.
Being roommates with soap means he gets to hear every part of your life, and vice versa.
Every weekend when you're both able to, you buy takeout and gossip. Soap fills you in on the ongoing bet about when exactly ghost will realize gaz has been flirting with him for weeks, and you fill him in on your recent bedmates without noticing how jealous he is everytime you talk about them.
Right now, fore example, he's working very hard not to snap his chopsticks while you tell him about the guy you hooked up with two days ago. You wake a hand dramatically "like, I get that I'm into older men, don't get me wrong– but usually they can keep up with me!"
"What? Finally sent one into cardiac arrest?" Soap raises a brow teasingly, then adds "so what happened?"
"Nothing!" You toss your hands up, every bit dramatic and charming as you always are "why?! Because he couldn't get it up!!"
"Yikes." Soap mumbles more for the cue to continue, quietly thinking he'd never have an issue getting going if you'd let him–
"Which, isn't usually a problem, it happens yknow? But he was such an ass–" you scowl at the memory, takeout box crinkling slightly from how hard you hold it. Soap frowns too, mostly because he hates knowing someone you trusted to sleep with was mean, "he blamed me! Me! Said I didn't work hard enough!"
From the many, many, detailed accounts soap has heard from you he knows that isn't true. He's had dreams of you sucking him off from how often you talk about it. "What a cunt," soap sneers, knocking his shoulder with yours "bet his profile sucked too."
"It did! But he was nice, so I took a chance. Here, I'll show you–" you reach across the spread of food to grab your phone, settling back practically tucked into soaps side to show him your screen "here, look."
Soap leans over your shoulder, ready to verbally tear this man to shreds like you and him often do only–
John Price, 47.
Not looking for anything serious.
Soap coughs, doubles over choking on his food–
"Holy shit–! Are you okay? Johnny?" You gasp, slapping him on the back until he stops making concerning wheezes.
"That...that's my captain–"
"....oh shit, really?" You look back at the profile. Technically you never ended anything for good with him, just told him to fix his attitude. "Should I go back and bet blackmail?"
Thing about ghost is he's the biggest gossip, but no one knows.
He has no interest in bonding with anyone on base, so he mostly keeps to himself. That, paired with the fact he's naturally stealthy, means people don't pay attention to him before spilling their secrets all over the floor.
Ghost has been witness to many phonecalls, arguments, shared rumors. He keeps every bit og information tucked into his front pocket.
Until he meets you, price's kid. In some bar you doesn't frequent, dragged out for your father's bi-yearly socialization so he can still convince himself he's a good dad.
A good dad who is currently on the other side of the bar from you, chatting up some woman who could be your older sister. You sneer at the display, lean closer to ghost to whisper "you know he's been divorced five times?"
To your shock, ghost happily adds "you know two of those were secretaries he met on base? One of them 'cause he got her pregnant."
"No!" You gasp, turn fully to ghost almost too gleefully. No one ever wants to shit-talk your dad. "Seriously? Is that the one who tried to kill him?"
"Mhmmm," ghost nods along. He takes one of the greasy chips from your plate but you don't mind because he points to garrick whom you've met twice before "last one caught him an' garrick snoggin in her own bed."
"Seriously!?" You whisper-shout, too damn happy.
You, the kid who stubbornly says no more than a single word when talking to any of prices friends, can't seem to shut up that night. You and ghost bond for hours exchanging gossip and bitching about others. He learns all about your professors and you learn about government secrets only to gossip about the people involved.
Your dad ends up taking that pretty lady home and forgetting about you, so you and ghost go back to his place to watch movies and pass out.
He's the closest thing you've had to a friend in years, which would be pathetic if it weren't for how nice it feels.
Now imagine sand tiger shark!reader who's always been afraid to smile around people, right?
Multiple rows of sharp, pointy teeth fill your mouth. The kind that has people grimacing and taking a step back. Usually you wear a mask in public, no one really questions it, but now you're with the 141 and they insist on group meals.
You try to keep to yourself, head ducked down and taking tiny bites of steak to avoid anyone noticing.
"Fuckin' hell, look at that–" only for ghost to grab your face across the table and tilt it up. Face completely expressionless while he shoves a thumb under your lips to expose your teeth "freaky shit, innit. Garrick, look–"
"Woah. Man." Kyle leans over ghosts shoulder and makes no move to save you from the humiliation. "That's fucking hot."
What.
You've never heard your teeth of all things described in any way as attractive.
"Mh, sharp, too." Ghost adds, other hand coming up to pry your mouth open fully. He tilts your head this way and that, manhandling. "Bet it feels damn good on skin."
Gaz snorts, reaches forward over ghost to prod at your teeth too "yeah, maybe to you, freak. Bet you'd love a blowie from that."
"You'd pay to see it." Ghost shoots back. You have no idea if that's a good or bad thing. Ghost looks you in the eye for a moment "think you could handle tha' without taking my dick off?"
Mostly it's impossible to think about anything besides your burning face and the fingers still in your mouth. Fuck, you've always enjoyed some manhandling, but the whole talking over you is really doing it. You can't help but imagine yourself between them, doing exactly what they want, maybe even biting if ghost asks—
"Bloody hell, can you two be normal for once? Leave the kid alone." Price grunts from down the table.
Oh shit. Yeah. Public space, middle of lunch.
Kyle sits back in his own chair with a grumble, and ghost takes his hand out of your mouth only to lick the gathered saliva off—
"Simon. I mean it."
"Sir." Ghost nods, smug as hell. He returns to his meal and leaves your face flushed down to your chest.
Seems like he's decided what he wants for dinner tonight.
No thoughts just reader who's been convinced it's supposed to hurt the first time, right?
A fact that has been drilled into your head since you were young, that having sex for the first time will always be painful. You heard it from your teacher, from your mother and friends. A part of life, they told you.
But you're terrified of it. So you put it off, never go beyond kissing with boyfriends despite how upset they get. Remembering how gaz told you his first time was excruciating. How he bled and bled.
Then you meet ghost.
Ghost, big and strong and so damn attractive. For the first time in your life, the desire to know him outweighs your fear of the agony.
"Okay. Let's get it over with, si." You tell him one night, breath hot against his neck. If you can get through the first, then you can enjoy everytime after that with him. "Make it quick."
Ghost grunts, shoves you back until you're sat on his lap. He frowns deeply "the fock does tha' mean? Do you not want it?"
Oh. You forgot to tell him.
"It's my first time," you say. Though simons face shifts into shock, he still seems just as confused as before, so you add "i don't handle pain well. So...get it over with quickly. It's okay if its you."
"Who the hell do you take me for?" Ghost huffs, pulls you into one of those slow kisses that makes your brain melt. "I'm doing this properly."
It's been what feels like hours, and still ghost hasn't pushed anything inside. Too busy rubbing the calloused pads of his fingers in tight circles until you clench and fall apart, back to his chest.
He spends so long pleasuring you that you nearly forget to feel scared when he warns "okay, lovie, just stay relaxed. I'll stop if you need it."
Gentle, he pushes a finger in and– it stings. Just a bit. You take a few seconds to breath, and he doesn't force more in. There's no tearing or agony or crying. It's so different from everything everyone's told you that you nearly sob with relief.
You do end up sobbing, later, from pure ecstasy on ghosts fingers. He seems hellbent on proving it shouldn't hurt, and he's got all the time in the world to convince you.
John "christ, kid, you're half my age." Price who grins when a cute thing like you tries to flirt with him. He's constantly reminding you how young you are compared to him, how much more experience he has. Of course he loves how taboo and wrong it is when he takes you to bed, ruins men your age with every orgasm he pulls from you. Price wants to make sure you'll come crawling back to him.
Vs
Simon "christ, kid, you're half my age–" riley who is overwhelmed with shame when you tell him your age only after he's attempted to flirt with you. He really should have known, but it was dark and you're so alluring. He refuses to take you he out of principle but ends up wanking to the idea of you on top of him. The act alone keeps him up burning with shame and desire until it mixes and he comes looking for you again.
nikolai who insists his partner be shaved purely because that means they need body heat in the Russian winter and he can use that to get his partner to forgive him
fuuuck i love this a lot. i really love freaky controlling nik
cw controlling and manipulative nik
Perhaps it was strange to let your partner dress you. But Nikolai always knew exactly what to choose. When you would normally be deciding over a skirt or jeans, Nik had the whole thing planned out for you before you'd even started for the closet. Able to perfectly predict the weather, location, occasion. Hell, even your mood. Curating cute outfits for you that fit exactly where you two were going.
Honestly it was a relief to take those decisions off your shoulders. Just like the food you ate, the people you spoke to, how you entertained yourself during the day when he was at work.
Some of your friends had been concerned, he treated you like a doll. It had to be unhealthy. It was only a matter of time until he was hurting you.
But he never did. Never raised his voice, wouldn't dream of laying a finger on you. Practically worshipped the ground you stepped on. If he could keep you displayed on a shelf in his office, he would.
Nik's latest obsession had been your body hair. Brought home a selection of razors and shaving foams and pretty cleansers. Laying them all out for you and sweetly asking if he could shave you. How could you possibly say no.
He took his sweet time with it. Far more carefully than you had ever done for yourself. Blade gliding over your skin with such precision you wondered why you had ever bothered doing it. Just let Nikolai take care of it. Like everything else.
Perhaps you did get a little worked up. His warm hands all over you. Tugging gently as he removed every single hair. He didn't tease you. Simply slid his fingers into your freshly shaved cunt once he had finished and rinsed you off. Cooing praises as your orgasm peaked. A fuzzy warmth overtaking you.
Nik pulled you close, fingers trailing over your smooth skin. Teasing your clit until you were gasping with overstimulation before running them them back down your thighs.
He loved watching goosebumps raise on your smooth skin whenever the cold hit you. How you just had to cuddle close to him to stay warm. The man was a bloody furnace. And he was thrilled when you would press as much bare skin against him as possible to absorb the heat.
He got to snuggle with you under layers of blankets. Enjoying your silky smooth flesh. Warm hands cupping your cunt so you would shiver with pleasure instead of the harsh russian cold.
The second Captain John Price receives credible intelligence regarding his missing lieutenant, accompanied by photographic evidence of said lieutenant’s current condition, he pinches the bridge of his nose and holds it there for a long moment.
Then he releases a sigh so deep and profoundly exhausted that the paperwork on his desk flutters.
There are moments in a man’s life when he reflects upon the choices that brought him to his present circumstances. Price has had more of those moments than most, usually while being shot at, occasionally while filling out expense reports, and once while watching Soap attempt to determine whether a grenade could be used to open a particularly stubborn jar of pickles.
This, however, may be the first time he has seriously regretted not accepting that desk job his uncle offered him straight out of school.
Corporate office. Nine to five. Sensible shoes. Perhaps a retirement party where the greatest threat to his life would’ve been Sandra from Accounts becoming emotional after two glasses of prosecco.
Instead, he is staring at a photograph of Lieutenant Simon Riley tied to a chair in what appears to be a dungeon.
Bare concrete walls, chains hanging from hooks, one exposed bulb casting ominous shadows. There is even what appears to be a table containing several neatly arranged implements of torture, although Price suspects at least two of them are novelty kitchen utensils.
Simon sits in the middle of it all wearing his skull mask, trousers, and an expression that cannot be seen but can nevertheless be felt radiating through the photograph.
Price studies the ropes binding his lieutenant’s wrists.
He blinks.
He studies them again.
The rope is looped around Simon’s arms perhaps twice, secured with what looks suspiciously like a shoelace knot, and hanging loose enough that a moderately determined toddler could escape it.
“Are we certain this is current?” Price asks.
The intelligence officer standing opposite his desk shifts his weight. “Timestamp puts it at fourteen hundred yesterday, sir.”
“And we’re certain it’s Riley?”
“Yes, sir.”
Price looks back at the photograph.
Simon’s boots are planted comfortably apart. His shoulders are relaxed. There are no visible injuries. Someone has placed a folded blanket beneath him so the metal chair won’t be uncomfortable.
There is also, Price notices with mounting despair, a bottle of water positioned beside his right foot with the water level already half gone.
“Right,” Price says.
The investigation continues and it should be difficult to determine how one of the world’s most highly trained special operations soldiers was abducted from his own home. Simon Riley is six foot something of professionally cultivated paranoia. He checks exits without thinking, sleeps lightly, and once identified a surveillance team because the same pigeon appeared outside three different cafes.
You, by comparison, possess all the operational subtlety of a marching band falling down a staircase.
Price discovers you have been following Simon for six weeks.
Not discreetly, no. You’ve followed him to the store, the gym, the shooting range, and several coffee shops. You’ve taken photographs from behind newspapers held upside down, worn a black trench coat during a heatwave, an once crouched behind a decorative hedge that did not make you as invisible as you probably led yourself to believe you were.
Security footage shows Simon looking directly into the camera on several occasions while you scurry behind him between hiding places.
Price sees all of this and lowers his face into his hands.
The next report arrives shortly before lunch.
“A syringe was recovered from Lieutenant Riley’s residence,” an officer tells him.
Price straightens slightly. Finally. Something resembling an actual crime.
“Forensics?”
“Lorazepam, sir.”
“What dosage?”
The officer consults the report. “Zero point five milligrams.”
Price stares at him.
The officer clears his throat. “Ativan.”
“I know what lorazepam is.”
“Yes, sir.”
Price looks at the report again, perhaps hoping an additional zero will materialize through force of will.
It doesn’t.
“Zero point five.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That dose wouldn’t knock out a pensioner after Sunday lunch.”
“No, sir.”
“Riley weighs nearly two forty.”
“Yes, sir.”
They stand in silence and Price’s eye begins to twitch.
The final piece of evidence is recovered from a traffic camera positioned across from Simon’s flat where Pricd can see you dragging Simon beneath the arms towards the back door.
Dragging is perhaps generous. You are straining, red faced and panting, moving him approximately three inches at a time while Simon allows his boots to scrape uselessly across the floor. His head lolls against his shoulder with theatrical unconsciousness.
In the process, his boot catches the base of a standing lamp, which begins to fall.
Simon, still allegedly unconscious, reaches out one hand, catches it, carefully rights it, and places it back beside the doorway.
“Unbelievable,” Price mutters.
You turn around at the sound and he drops his arm and resumes being unconscious before you see him.
You stare suspiciously and Simon remains perfectly still.
After several seconds, you shrug and return to your kidnapping.
Price pauses the footage, sits back, and runs both hands slowly down his face, dragging his palms over his beard until he resembles a man trying to physically remove himself from existence.
Behind him, one of the task force operators shifts impatiently. “Captain?”
Price says nothing.
“Do you want us to assemble a team?”
“No.”
There is a pause.
“No, sir?”
“No.”
“But Lieutenant Riley has been taken hostage.”
“Has he?”
The operator looks at the frozen image on the screen. Simon’s enormous, supposedly unconscious body is halfway inside a compact hatchback while you attempt to fold one of his legs through the door.
“He’s tied to a chair, sir.”
“He could break those ropes by sneezing.” He says while he picks up Simon’s personnel file.
He opens it, turns to the appropriate page, and begins filling out a leave request.
The operator watches him. “Sir?”
Price writes Simon Riley beneath the section marked PERSONNEL NAME.
“Captain, what are you doing?”
“Administrative work.”
“Shouldn’t we at least contact him?”
Price checks the box beside personal leave.
“He’s been missing for two days.”
Price writes seven beneath REQUESTED NUMBER OF DAYS, considers it, crosses it out, and replaces it with fourteen.
“Sir.”
Price signs the bottom of the form with a flourish made violent by fatigue.
The operator makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat.
Price places the completed document neatly on top of the photograph showing his lieutenant sitting comfortably in a dungeon with a blanket beneath his ass, a half finished bottle of water by his foot, and enough slack in his restraints to knit a second rope.
“No deployment,” Price says. “No rescue attempt. No one contacts him unless there’s an actual emergency.”
cw age gap (unspecified age but 18+, much younger than price)
John grunted softly as he slid inside you. Mind going blissfully blank as the tight heat of your cunt surrounded him. He only had a moment of peace before your whiny little gasps brought the guilt clawing back into his gut. Looking down at your face twisted in pleasure. Your perfect, soft face. So young. So sweet. Far too young and sweet for a man like him.
He shook his head to dispel the thoughts. It was stupid. You were an adult. Fully grown and more than capable of your own decisions. You just happened to be half his age. And who was going to blame him really. It was you who came up to him in the shitty bar. Practically begging for the man old enough to be your father to take you home and ravage you.
Then you whined again. Face pinched in slight pain as he built up a steady pace. Jesus chris you were tight. Were you a virgin perhaps? John's cock throbbed at the thought.
"John..." His name fell from your lips. Sickly sweet. Not innocent exactly, not with how you curled the word on your tongue like you would his cock. But naive. Pleading for this stranger to blow your mind like no boy your age could.
John leaned over you. Covering your mouth with his hand. Your breath hot against his palm.
"Shut up..."
He didn't need you reminding him what you were. Practically a kid. John had been the target of plenty of 'cradle snatcher' jokes in his time. But they were jokes. This was different. God he had tattoos older than you.
a humble request for porn simon who's just a fluffer for reader. he's not The Star...yet.
gabagool I love the idea that any porn studio would look at Simon Riley and not try to make him a star, all that muscle and height, the rumbling voice, thick fingers. thicker cock, mmph
but maybe before he bulked up, before he really learned how to use that deep basso chill, before he found his rhythm, maybe thats when he would sit on the bed with a bored looking starlet and make sure she was nice and wet.
and sure, maybe he wasn't sure exactly what method he was supposed to be using (he'd seen other bored fluffers using vibrators, and that seemed easy enough) but he knows what his job is, and he has never sent someone home from his flat unhappy.
so maybe he sits down beside you, and you give him a look like he's the strange one despite how easily you spread your legs for him, and he murmurs that he has to get you prepped, thick fingers sliding over your stomach to tease between your legs, pad of his middle finger stroking your clit in agonizingly slow draws, dipping to just tap at your entrance until your hips are squirming and hitchi g to try and push him inside as he collects some of the slick thats starting to drip from you.
circling your clit again as you bite your lip, raise a hand to cup your breast, which he takes as an invitation to duck his head and swirl his tongue over your unoccupied nipple. making you gasp and arch when he bites, when he follows you back onto the bed and uses the bite of pain to push a thick finger into your waiting cunt, licking the sting as he crooks his finger to press up, up, into your sweet spot before he's back to rubbing your clit.
teasing you, working you up until your shaking and whimpering, hips following the scissoring fingers he thrusts into your glistening pussy, one of his legs hooked over your thigh to keep your legs parted so that when he finally jabs into that sponge soft spot just right you squirt all over the camera that's decided Ghost is doing his job a little too well.
ghost who pulls away from your lax body, still shaking with the aftershocks of his edging and your orgasm, and gives the director a thumbs up to tell him you're ready, as if the studio isn't about to make him a star.
"Oh Nik... you shouldn't have..." John gasped. Fingertips pressed to his lips as he took in the carefully set up display. Rose petals beneath his feet, candles flickering on the night stand.
"Is valentines day, Miliy... is the least I can do."
Nikolai moved closer, strong arms wrapping around John's waist. Tugging him against his chest and pressing a warm kiss to his cheek.
"Thank you... really." John muttered. Unable to tear his eyes way even as he tilted his head to return the kiss.
You stared at them wide eyed. Trembling in fear. You, the cute barista John had been talking about for at least a week now. Who always got his order wrong, no matter how many times you did it. But you served it with such a genuine smile that John let it slide every time. Bound and gagged on their bed. Limbs twisted and tied beneath you. Careful, practiced knots so that you couldn't move an inch. Knees spread to show your bare cunt to the two men, who were now messily making out at the end of the bed.
If you weren't so terrified it might have been hot. All they had to do was ask you to join them. You would have said yes.
You got any more worms for Woke!Reader and Unwoke!Ghost?
They make me very happy to read.
Also I love your work and I Love to spam like you!
Stewed on this in the shower and heres what I came up with.
Watching drag race with Ghost. It's of course, the most irritating experience of your life. You beg him to sit down with you for just one episode, you have to sit through his dull footie games so its only fair.
He doesn't shut up for the entire episode.
"So's that one a bloke?"
"Yes."
Only to ask again two seconds later.
"An' that one?"
"Actually no. She's trans so she's is a woman."
Cannot for the life of him wrap his head around swapping the pronouns. He's fine with calling the trans girls by the correct pronouns, but when you switch between he and her for when they're in and out of drag he gets so confused. So he just continues to say 'that one' unless it's his favourite queen and he actually remembers the name. When you mention that one queens is actually trans masc he loses it. Not angry, just confused.
Ghost doesn't particularly care about the challenge, especially if it's a comedy one. He cannot be bothered sitting through all the shady cuts and awkward silences while the queens struggle through whatever improv prompt they've been given. He quite likes the sewing challenges, gets excessively annoyed when a queen admits they don't know how to sew.
"Th'fucks the point of doing all that if you can't even do it yerself?"
Gets really into the lipsyncs. Disagrees with pretty much all of Ru's decisions.
"But she just did flips 'n shit. Anyone can do that."
"Ghost. Not anyone can do that. It is impressive."
Purposefully starts using the same slang as the queens on the show. Gleefully going up to Price, his grin evident in his voice.
"Lookin' cunt, cap."
Chuckling that smug laugh of his as he gets a slap to the back of the head while you're trying to tug John away from him. Desperately explaining what it means.
Johnny and Kyle tease Ghost about watching the show. They of course watch it with you too, but Ghost is such a 'mans man'. And he's always mocked you three for watching 'that gay shit'. Johnny especially loves to mess with him.
"Ye gonna start dressin' up too, Lt? We gonna meet Ghosterina any time soon?"
Only to receive the most terrifying glare he'd ever seen for the man.
"Shut it, MacTavish. Wouldn't be called some dumb shite like 'Ghosterina' anyway. I'd be 'Sybil Unrest'. And if you 'ave a single word to say about it... just know I'm willing to cut a bitch."
After the first time you don't beg him to join you again. But he always does anyway. Tucking himself between you and Kyle on the couch. Grumbling about what the fruits were doing this week, but still cheering when his favourite queen wins.
Thinking about ghost who never realized what dom-drop is despite always being a dom...
Truthfully, ghost doesn't know anything about kink. What he knows he learned in shitty divebars or in the back alleys with strangers that felt like every wrong decision. Spent his time rutting into people he met hours before, hands around throats or blades to skin between growled insults.
He learned he had to take care of them afterwards, that part came naturally. Ghost never had anyone take care of him.
He knew, deep down, that he was the sick thing. For wanting to hurt people, for getting off on it. Of course no one asked if he was okay, he was the one who hurt them when they asked, not the other way around.
Then you come along and you're different from the others.
You talk to ghost days in advance, ask him what he's comfortable with and purse your lips when he rattles off a list of everything he's done. When you take ghost to bed, it's different. It's good.
Intense is the only way he can describe it. Intense and intimate and real, your skin beneath his hands and your blood pooling into a fresh bruise. It's precision and connection and euphoria with you beneath his hands.
When it's over, ghost is already drawing away.
He knows what comes next. The anger, the shame. The disgust with himself for every enjoying such a thing, for allowing him to believe you wanted it too.
"Hey, hey, si–" soft hands break him out of it, forcing ghost to look at you. Your cheek will surely bruise tomorrow, but your voice is tender when you say "thank you. You did good."
"Wh— what—?" Ghost furrows his brow, stomach rolling.
"Thank you. You did right by me. I loved it." You press a kiss to his nose, then wince when you stand up "help me run the bath, yeah? I think it's big enough for us both."
Later, when ghost is snuggled against you in bed still warm from the shower, he'll think oh. This is it, huh?
This is that warm good feeling everyone online talks about. That feeling of belonging and love. Ghost kisses the back of your neck, and for once he doesn't question if he deserves to touch you after everything he did.
Simon "Ghost" Riley is not the kind of man to get your name tattooed on his skin.
He is the kind of man to get a red line tattooed, though.
"And what's this one?" You point to a circle-shaped serpent eating its own tail. "What does it mean?"
Simon closes his eyes for a moment, relishing on the feeling of having your hands on him. Your fingertips trace the black ink on his bicep, touch soft, touch too soft for him. Too tender. He shivers.
"Ouroboros," he grunts out, voice thick, as though that should clarify everything. The arm he has wrapped around your middle is pushed away as you sit up on the bed and glare down at him. He holds your glare for a moment, not because he’s returning it, but because your eyes are so beautiful and expressive that he bet he could tell what you're feeling just by the looks you give him.
Right now, you’re feeling mildly annoyed; he's confident in that.
His arm snakes around you, lightly pulling you back to lay beside him again, squeezing your waist as an apology. You relent, allowing him to pull you, resting your head just under his chin. "Means cycle," he murmurs against your hair. "Means..." he sighs heavily, not really into this whole pillow talk thing you’re doing, but indulging you still. Anything for you. "Means eternal cycle. Bein' stuck in it. Never breakin' free; eatin' you away."
That's the meaning he'd attributed to it, when he got that tattoo. Corny in hindsight, but true, nonetheless. Accurately reflects his life; born to a druggie father who'd beat him up, and his brother, and his mother. Grew up to be an angry teen and even angrier adult, so full of rage it scared him. Burdened to a shitty life as a butcher, and stubbornly rejecting it and choosing his own destiny by joining the military didn't help much. More suffering there, more violence, more blood. Different, but at its core, the same. Certainly didn’t stop things from crashing down right in front of him; didn’t stop his brother from following his father's footsteps and shooting junk up his veins. Didn’t stop his family from being killed. Over and over and over again; past, present and future, always been like that for him, full of grief and anger and violence, no matter how hard he tried to break free.
Until you. Until he met you.
You went quiet for a while in his arms, a frown on your face, looking pensive. Simon takes it all in while he can; he takes in the weight of your body against his, the smell of your hair, of your skin, of sex. The feeling of your body rising and falling with your breathing against his ribs, of your warmth, of the little hairs on your forearm that stand up as he traces an aimless finger there. Then you shoot up again, disrupting his quiet relaxation once more.
"Well," you start, turning away from him and rummaging inside one of the drawers on the bedside table. He feels your absence like he’s got a collapsed lung and someone has ripped away the oxygen mask from his face. "You're just perpetuating it, then. With that tattoo."
Simon lifts a skeptical brow. "Meanin'?"
"Meaning," you triumphantly hold up for him a red sharpie, "you're doing it wrong. If you want to break free, you gotta kill the snake."
He watches, immobile, as you uncap the pen and draw a single, thick line across the serpent's neck, like you’re effectively cutting its head off. The red ink contrasts nicely with the black, almost making it look real. Final.
"There," you smile amusedly, though behind your eyes Simon can see the seriousness there. The sternness of you, like you have his shoulders pinned with an iron grip, nails digging into his skin so he can’t tear himself away, an angry frown on your face, teeth bared. Like you’re shaking him, shaking the suffering off him, shaking all of the blood off, the death, the rage, the sadness and the violence. Forcefully cleansing him of the guilt that sticks to his skin like tar. "You've been freed."
Simple as that. Like he has no choice but to accept it. Accept your kindness, your understanding, your mercy. Let it make him into a better man; into a better person. Let you help him to forgive himself.
He'd spent almost a week bent awkwardly over the shower so the water wouldn't wash away your red line.
"If you don't got this exact shade of red ink," Simon had warned the tattoo artist, a scrawny bloke shaking from head to toe, "I'm –" gonna make you do it with your own blood, is what Simon was about to say, but stopped himself before the words had built up. Cutting the snake's head off, or whatever. "I'm leavin'."
Somehow, someway, loser!König manages to not only get a match on Bumble, but also a date. He takes you out to dinner, fumbling and awkward and earnest the whole time (and even manages to limit himself to only four brief glances at your chest), awed by how beautiful and smart and funny you are. You let him walk you home and then hug him goodbye, and he's hard the entire drive back to his flat, convinced he can still feel the soft press of your breasts against his broad chest. He can't sleep, he's so excited and he sends you a string of messages about how wonderful you are, how much fun he had, and how hopeful he is to see you again. But when morning comes and you haven't responded, he starts to worry--did he do something wrong? Did he fail to impress you? Did you see the way he struggled to keep his gaze on your face? What if you never want to see him again?
He sends a preemptive message apologizing for anything he could have done to upset you, then three more reiterating how much he wants to take you out on another date and treat you right. Then he worries that that's too much, so sends a final message trying to play it a little cooler, to act like he's not actively spiraling.
Three hours later, you text him "hiiiii I just woke up! Had so much fun last night, def want to go out again 🥰" and suddenly, it feels like he can breathe for the first time all morning. He scrambles to write a reply, but it comes out incomprehensible, his relief and excitement and fat thumbs leading to a message full of typos. He deletes the whole thing and tries again, forcing himself to go slow as he agonizes over what to say. You were nice enough to ignore his breakdown, and you said you want to see him again--surely, you mean it? If he'd turned you off at all last night or with his dozens of texts since, you'd just block him and be done with it?
As he's trying to figure out what to say, you send another text: "and ur so sweet! 🩷 U didn't do anything wrong, dw lol". His hands stop shaking, the tension leaves his wide shoulders. He blows out a breath that makes his mask flutter outwards. Right, okay. Everything is okay. He just needs to be a little more normal about you--you've only gone on the one date. He shouldn't be this into you already, and yet, he can't stop thinking about you. About your sweet smile, your pretty eyes, your soft skin, your even softer breasts... he wants you so bad, and he's terrified he's going to scare you off.
He's so desperate, he may just even ask Horangi for advice.
♡ tired tonia ♡ @iktomi-toni - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
