hello im here to ruin your day w a pornstar au konig thot. honestly this was bc im still impatiently waiting for your konig pornstar thing and now i feel like im encroaching on your turf but also idc let this be the spark that lights the fire under your ass. (his hair is a sweet berry red (violet when damp and clinging to his forehead. any complaints my discord is closed, i'm out for lunch.)
Konig's content is rare, but viral. Every drop gets millions of views, and clips flood timelines within minutes. Reaction gifs. Looped soundbites. Edits set to filthy basslines and always, always the same fevered praise: his hands. His fucking hands.
He doesn't talk much (maybe it's the nerves, or maybe he's just too focused on the body beneath him to bother). But when he does, they're just soft 'Gute Mädchen's' breathed against the curve of a shoulder and the occasional overwhelmed groan that shakes the mic.
(He keeps the mask on, always. Never shows his whole face and honestly, he doesn't need to.)
Because it's his hands the audience comes for.
They swallow his co-star's waist when he pulls them back onto his cock. His hand— broad and sure— wraps around her throat like they're claiming territory. They bracket her ribs, holding her down while he fucks her in a pace so slow (not gentle, not soft) it makes your fingertips tingle.
And when it seems like she can't take it, when she arches, squirms, begs, he just holds down tighter. His grip is merciless, anchoring her to him, to take every inch of himself.
It's brutal. It's beautiful. And you know that tomorrow, it'll be you beneath those same hands. You brace yourself the only way you can— by watching from behind the screen of your phone, waiting for your turn.
Consider my ass on fire, pants aflame. Also I’m judging you for the red haired König agenda laced within this ask. What if I give him a buzz cut?! Then what! Huh?!
Real talk love ya and thank you for motivating me to start this.
“Price wants to see you, darlin’!”
Kyle’s hand squeezes your arm as he brushes past you on his way to set, casting a devastating smile back over his shoulder.
Easily the most powerful screen presence in the studio, you remember when Kyle was fresh in the scene, nervously bouncing on his heels before takes. Now he’s a bona fide professional, pulling in thousands of views per day; that gorgeous face and talent for putting people at ease have paid off.
It’s nice to see him bloom. But it reminds you slightly of how your own season is withering.
You’ve been doing this for a long time—too long, in fact, to see anything without the jaded outlook of someone who should have given it up after the first ache of weariness in their bones.
A sour taste is left in your mouth after one too many rounds with a co-star that jackhammers into you, obsessed with their own masculinity, a vacuous need to make sure all that work in the gym has paid off in shots of their bodies.
Your own following remains high, a guaranteed success for each new video with your name tagged to it. But your love of the industry is fading faster than a dying star.
The new talent, by and large, is boring, hyper-masculine, and conceited to the extent you’ve added several names to your filming blacklist. You’ve been meaning to ask Price if you can move into directing; perhaps today will be the opportunity you need to make that happen.
Price has managed you for years, ever since you both starred in your first hit together. When he opened his own studio, naturally you followed, the intensity of your on-screen dynamic melding into an entirely natural friendship with age.
You trust each other, your relationship built on a firm foundation of mutual respect. However, that doesn’t mean Price can’t attempt to take the piss at times.
“Jesus Christ, John! Again? Really? I told you I wasn’t dealing with any more rookies!”
John leans back in his chair, a thin plume of cigar smoke casting a haze over those steady, cerulean eyes. He raises both of his hands in a conciliatory gesture, like a blackjack dealer showing his hand is over.
“Sweetheart, I know, but you’ll like him! He’s got a lot of promise, just needs a bit of a guiding hand, tha’s all! Nice fella! Ya know I wouldn’t put you with no one I didn’t think was decent.”
“I’m not a fucking babysitter, John!” You snap furiously. “I’m not the safe pair of hands you wheel out when you’ve got a nervous colt to break!”
“Of course you’re not.” John soothes, in a voice he knows full well doesn’t match the steely look in his face. “But the bloke’s pulling in serious statistics on his amateur stuff, even! It would be a bloody good opportunity for the studio, an’ we’d all make bank. Think of the bigger picture—including your shareholding.”
A low blow for a bastard who knows you still have some mortgage to pay on your second home on the coast. You scowl at him, and he looks placidly right back, unconcerned by your temper tantrum as always.
“He needs a mentor, love. Someone to show him the ropes of workin’ in a studio like ours. One video? You can do tha’ for me, eh? Then we’ll get ya nose into some direction? Other side of camera for a change?!”
John sweet-talks you far too easily. You consider it, then sigh.
“Fine. One video. But I want options on what I direct.”
“It’s a deal.” John beams, stubbing out the cigar and leaving the smell of herbs to linger between you, while your eyes remain mutinously fixed on him. “Now, why don’t ya come and say hello? I’ll introduce the pair of you; he’s filming as we speak, can get a look at him.”
You follow him through the corridors, past make-up and down the stairs. People part to let John through, and he tucks your hand into the crook of his arm, squeezing your fingers in a pattern until you giggle.
It never gets old, your affection for him. How John reads you like a book. Several starlets wave shyly at you when you pass, sweet little things you’ve chatted to during breaks or sessions in the hairdressing chair. You’re slightly protective over them, and they know to come to you with any growing pains or worries.
Finally, you reach the smaller of the sets at the end of the building, and John opens the door quietly, tugging you inside.
It’s hot, humid. The blinding dazzle of lights illuminates a false bedroom before you. It takes your eyes a second to adjust, retinas burning in the haloed glow of it all.
Then you spot him, and any coherent thought becomes lost in the vision.
Godlike, he towers over the petite blonde squirming beneath him in silken sheets. Endlessly his hips piston, abs flexing with sweat-sheened vigour as he tucks her thigh neatly around his waist.
One huge hand lays flat across her stomach, taking up more flesh than should be allowed, a thumb relentlessly bullying her clit until she arches for him, bows as strings would to an accomplished musician.
He’s fucking her deep, guttural grunts echoing from his built chest. There’s no escape for her; cornered, you watch her begin to shatter around him, toes curling, her muscles flexing tight as a silent scream scrunches her brows shut. She cums, hard and without mercy. He doesn’t stop or slow, even while his partner shudders through it.
He isn’t rough. He doesn’t need to be. A natural rhythm and a body the camera will eat up. There’s a gravitas to him, something serious that translates well into each movement. Steady control, thought behind each action, hardly the excitable buck you were expecting.
A real orgasm is a rare thing at times. This rookie spins one out of her like sweet sugar, leaving his partner’s limbs lax and syrupy.
As soon as her body relaxes, he flips her easily, rolling her front ways so the audience gets a gorgeous view of her still fluttering cunt. The perfect shot cams over his shoulder, a long, thick cock plunging in and out, coated in creamy arousal while that huge handspan spreads her ass cheeks to allow for deeper penetration.
You watch his careful approach, his stare skimming the length of her back like he’s calculating something. Then he stoops, depositing a gleaming glob of spittle on her tight, puckered asshole, pressing a thumb in shortly after that makes his partner gush with arousal.
It coats his masculine thighs, though they don’t stop bouncing, stamina and strength concentrated on guiding her through another orgasm.
“Bloody hell.” You breathe softly. John nods in response, leaning towards you so the scent of peppermint and smoke grows heavy, his arm around your waist.
“Told ya. He’s good. Very good, in fact. In front of the camera he’s a fuckin’ natural.” John pauses, tucking his arm around your waist and dragging his own stare over the pair on the bed. “Should see the way he eats pussy—would give Soap a run for his money. Half-starved and twice as desperate.”
“Natural is right.” Transfixed, you watch his broad shoulders flex. He wouldn’t look out of place in a gladiatorial arena, muscles defined with ruthless power, intention laced in those heavy brows. You’d put money on him being as adept with a sword as he is with his cock.
The girl quakes, coming down from another genuine peak, getting to her knees shakily only to bury her face in the pillow as he bears down on her again.
Chest to back, a strong forearm supports her from below, allowing his partner to squirm deliciously on his cock. Her face is flushed, a high colour in her cheeks as she moans for him on repeat.
She’s so wet, each slap of his heavy balls on her pussy makes a slick sound of skin on skin. It sends a jolting shiver along your spine, his mastery of the situation, the firm authority he holds over her body, an instrument played to perfection in his hands.
A cock that size is a gift, but he doesn’t let it do all the work. The sight of its fleshy, pale pink tip turning redder with need makes your gut lurch. It seems to swell before your stare, the sheer physical presence of him indomitable.
“What do you reckon then?” John whispers, watching you glaze over. “Will ya give him a chance for me?”
He’s building up to a crescendo, the orchestra at his fingertips while you watch each move he makes. Pulling his partner flush to his body, he toys with her, cups her breasts and plants several mean nips against her collar bone.
The poor thing is exhausted but wearing a look of utter bliss etched into every feature. From here you can see his cock throbbing, balls tightening as he rolls into her, inevitable waves crashing over a shore.
At the last second, he pulls out, sending a spurt of thin, white semen over her lower back. Thoughtfully, he rubs it into her skin while the camera blinks overhead. Marking her. Claiming her in a spectacular display you know viewers will eat up.
“What’s his name?” You ask John vaguely, eyes still fixed on the Adonis before you.
StopNCII.org is operated by the Revenge Porn Helpline which is part of SWGfL, a charity that believes that everyone should benefit from technology, free from harm. Founded in 2000, SWGfL works with a number of partners and stakeholders around the world to protect everyone online
Here is a small Baldwin and Lucy comic and poem I wrote for my fan-fiction. It's called In Aeternum te Amabo (My love for you will last forever).
I had a lot of fun drawing this!
In Aeternum Te Amabo
Could you learn to love a man with skin so brightly burned
And fingers gloved and bandaged for a God he must have spurned
Whose touch will one day leave his reach
Whose eyes will no longer see
Tell me, Princess, is that the man with whom you want to be?
Could you learn to love a man whose days are so far and few?
Who carries heaven’s burden but cannot run to you?
Whose breath commanded armies
Whose mind had resolved wars
Princess, is that the future you’ve always wanted for?
Could you learn to mourn a king who owed his life to God?
Whose every waking moment was a harrowing facade
Could you bring him comfort?
Could you soothe his screams?
Or princess, are you just the ghost that torments his waking dreams?
When I lose each piece of me, and only have my mind
Princess, when I become numb, lame, deaf, and blind,
Will you be there at the end?
Will you be the one I find?
Or will you too abandon me and leave my love behind?
fighting with könig is brutal. he’s a brick wall, emotionally hollow, as you hit and smack at his chest. you’re crying, he’s standing stiff as a board. you wish he’d scream, fight back, something. anything was better than being stonewalled.
könig was clenching his jaw tight, staring past you. he couldn’t bare looking at the ache in your eyes, the tears staining your cheeks.
“god, fucking say something, könig!” you screamed, shoving him helplessly. “what am i supposed to do?! i can’t force you to be present! i can’t fix whatever’s broken in your sick head!”
könig didn’t even blink. fuck, he was bad at this. he knew how it looked—disinterested, disengaged, unbothered. he knew you were heartbroken, lonely, begging for his love back. for some reason, he couldn’t speak. he couldn’t argue.
you shook your head, glaring as your fight fizzled. you were exhausted. “goddamnit!” your fist connected with the wall—a very könig thing to do. “fuck!”
it made you sick.
“maybe you should drink some water?” könig finally muttered.
your eyes were wild when you spun to face him again. “are you fucking serious?” you snarled. “i’ve been begging you to speak for ten fucking minutes, and that’s all you have?!”
könig’s fists clenched, “yelling will hurt your voice, liebling.”
“you wanna know what hurts?! when your own fucking partner can’t look you in the eye because he knows he’s so emotionally unavailable that it’s ruining the fucking relationship!” you barked. “being so fucking self aware, and still doing nothing to be better!”
his nostrils flared, stepping closer. “you watch your mouth,” he grumbled.
“go ahead!” you sneered, voice cracking. “fucking hit me! scream, kick, fucking bash my head in! anything is better than what you’ve been doing!”
the hurt in your voice made könig’s lip twitch, his hand itching, but never moving. “which is..? nothing? i do nothing for you, is that it?” he grit. “what is this? this house, your bed, food on the table? where does it come from, ah?”
“oh, ‘my’ bed,” you scoffed, tugging your hair as you paced. “not even ‘our’ bed! fuck, you’re so disconnected!”
“i am working! everyday, damnit!” könig raised his voice for the first time. “do you know what i do for a living? do you think you could go out there and do what i do unscathed?”
“i don’t know anything, because you don’t fucking talk to me!” you yelled right back, arms out in desperation. “i can’t even remember the last time we just sat down and talked! you work, you eat, you sleep! god, i’ve never been so alone sleeping next to someone!”
könig cornered you, “you are walking a thin line, maus.”
your chin lifted, eyeing him angrily. he’d never seen you so fiery. “just do it already. get it over with so i can leave.”
his eyes narrowed, head tilted. instead of egging you on, of making things worse, he walked past you, down the hall, slamming the bathroom door shut. he heard your scream from the living room, hands raking through his hair.
A/N: Thanks for all the love on previous chapter guys. This one sets their story in motion. I hope you all like this. Comments, reblogs and likes are more than appreciated 🩷
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After your first and last encounter with the lieutenant, you were convinced he hated you. Later, the other trainees confirmed it was rare if he *didn’t* hate anyone. The man radiated hostility. The kind that made you straighten your spine just by entering the same room. Like he’d cave your skull in for breathing wrong.
The power cut hit the base without warning. A scheduled security drill - for future operations. Outside, rain lashed the windows hard enough to make them shudder in their frames.
You were halfway through arranging mattresses when raised voices tore through the storm.
Shouting.
Engines.
Boots slamming wet concrete.
141 was back.
You sprinted outside just in time to see combat medics pouring in, dragging wounded soldiers toward the medic bay. Blood everywhere -dark, soaking through kit. Men limping, swearing, teeth clenched so tight their jaws trembled.
"He’s in the jeep" he said, jerking his head. "Ghost. He’s bad. Don’t piss about."
Before you could answer, bodies surged past you. Someone shoved you aside as gurneys were rushed in. That was your place - carry, assist, get the hell out of the way. No.hands.on.medicine.
Still, your eyes followed him.
They hauled Ghost inside.
Christ.
He was barely moving. Pale beneath the skull mask, blood leaking through his vest, pooling beneath him. Severe blood loss, your brain catalogued it instantly. But the entry wound -
A hand clamped around your arm.
"Inside. Now."
The nurse didn’t wait.
You stood beside Jake, jotting notes as the doctors worked fast and viciously efficient. Orders barked. Metal clanged. The air stank of antiseptic and iron.
By evening, your hands ached. Your legs felt hollow. You were halfway through cold noodles when footsteps thundered back toward you.
"Oi!!! you. He wants you."
The head nurse shoved a needle pack into your chest, scowling.
"He’s being a right bastard. Refusin’ everyone."
Apparently Ghost had been snarling at anyone who came close.
"Not you. Get off."
"Don’t touch me."
"Send someone who knows what they’re doin’."
Then, sharp and final:
"The short daft one. The trainee."
You stepped into the room and stopped.
Ghost was propped up on the bed, stripped of most of his gear. Bloodied. Furious. His voice was low and lethal as he snapped at the nurse adjusting the IV.
"Get your hands off me before I break ‘em," he growled, thick Mancunian cutting through the room. "I said wait."
The nurse scoffed. "You’re not in charge here -"
His head snapped up.
"Try me. These hands are pansexual"
Then-
He saw you. Everything stopped.
His jaw clenched. His shoulders went rigid. Whatever fight had been clawing its way out of him slammed back behind steel doors. Gods he wanted to fix his uniform and tidy up right this moment. He looks down adjusting his mask to sit properly.
"…Right" he muttered, quieter. Controlled. "You can go."
The nurse blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I said go."
She hesitated, then shot you a look and left.
You swallowed and moved closer.
"I’m going to stitch your wound, sir" you said, voice steady. "I need you still."
He didn’t bite back. Didn’t snap.
"Get on with it" he said gruffly, eyes fixed on the wall behind you. Acting indifferent as if he didn't beg for you seconds before.
You worked carefully. The gash across his abdomen was deep, angry. When the needle went in, his breath hitched - but he didn’t make a sound.
Not a hiss.
Not a curse.
"You need to tell me if it hurts" you said softly.
A beat.
"…I’m fine rookie."
A lie. You both knew it.
As you leaned in to wrap the bandage, his hands flexed at his sides, knuckles white. Like he was holding himself together by force alone.
"Careful. Are you carving yer name on me" he muttered - not sharp. Not threatening. Just strained.
"Sorry sir."
"Didn't complain. Just don't rush" he mumbles still looking at the wall behind you.
"I won’t" you promised.
The overhead lights caught the rain still clinging to your hair. Water dripped onto the floor. He noticed.
"You’re soaked" he said quietly as blood loss finally takes toll on him.
"It’s nothing."
His jaw tightened. His warm brown eyes tracing your face as lightning flashes revealing every speck of your eye. The ceiling lights forming a halo around your head as you loom over him wrapping the bandage. An angel, he thought, thanks to delirium.
"Shouldn’t have you out there" he muttered, more to himself than you. Then, harsher - like he was correcting the softness:
"Focus."
You finished the wrap. Stepped back.
Only then did he look at you properly.
"You know you smell like Manchester after rain..a proper storm" he whispers voice low, reluctant. His head falls back on the pillow as he looks around hazily now.
You didn't hear him as you clean bloodied hands in the basin. Before you could ask him to repeat-
The door opened.
"Well, I’ll be damned" Price said, stepping in. "You’ve gone quiet."
He draped a jacket around your shoulders. "Don't want our medics falling ill too."
"Two weeks, Riley. You’re not goin’ anywhere."
Ghost nodded once.
"Good."
Price frowned. "Huh. You want to stay?"
Ghost’s gaze followed you as you left the room.
"…Aye. Good"
Across the base, it spread in hushed voices.
Ghost wasn’t asking for discharge.
Ghost wasn’t fighting the medics anymore.
But if anyone else walked into that room? They got snapped at.
And every night, without fail, one question cut through the corridor - low, rough, unmistakably his:
Three times Simon denied your help, and one time he came to you all on his own.
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem! reader
Tags | nurse! reader, Simon is mean, enemies to lovers vibes, eventual smut, eventual romance, military inaccuracies.
ch. 1 | ao3 | masterlist
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Your pink clipboard stands out in the white room, it’s the only thing in color. You don’t even like pink; it’s cheap plastic adorned with a small white dot, color chipped away from the number of times you’ve tapped your finger on it. Everything else in the room was too stale, the walls and counters completely bare beside the jar of lollipops you leave out for patients.
You’re at it now, not even focusing on the quiet click of your nail, a motion you never quite catch yourself doing. Getting your nails done, that’s one thing you miss before you entered this field, now even your nails look plain against the artificial pink of your clipboard.
Maybe you should get a new clipboard, clear this time, so you can’t see exactly where your anxiety scraped away the color. Maybe you should get a manicure, even if it is nude.
The report you’re supposed to fill out is still blank.
Title name— Simon Riley.
You’ve pinched your lip raw between your teeth staring at it, peeling dry skin too far back until it physically hurts and you have to suck the flesh to subdue the sting. His name tends to incite that reaction, frustration bubbling in your chest and forcing you to release it through anxious fingers and aggressive teeth.
You’ve managed to handle the task force thus far, completed most of their files with ease. You’ve had your fair share of hardheaded, arrogant patients, but Simon Riley is a man you can’t seem to capture.
Even your notes are bare.
Captain John Price— Downplays his injuries. Pretends he’s not in pain for the sake of his men. Attempts to decline rest time because he claims he has too much work to do, but enjoys being on leave.
Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick— The easiest by far. The perfect patient. Listens to directions. Always shows up for his check-ups. Never disagrees with your orders. Always takes a lollipop on his way out.
John ‘Soap’ MacTavish— A bit flirtatious. Can hardly understand what he says because of his thick Scottish accent. See him several times a week because he seems to be attracted to danger. Eager to get back in the field, he never allows himself time to fully heal.
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley— Refuses treatment.
That’s the issue.
You watched him limp off the helicopter this morning, pushing all his weight onto his right leg as he brushed past you without a word like you aren’t his nurse and he isn’t supposed to check in with you.
“Lieutenant!” You had called, speed-walking behind him because if you don’t catch him immediately off the heli then you won’t see him at all.
No response came but the stomping of his heavy boots.
“Lieutenant,” You pointed out, “You’re limping.”
He grunted.
“Is it your ankle?” You asked, continuing when he didn’t speak. “Does it hurt?”
He halted, turning to look at you, hiding the wince he made behind his skull mask. A moment that made you think you had finally won him over for the first time in months.
“No.”
“You should let me look at it, sir.” You insisted, brows furrowed together because of his obvious pain, almost pleading at that point.
“Did perfectly fine without you,” He responded, turning away again, “Don’t need you now.”
“You’re going to need me if you don’t take proper care of that.” You said, sighing under your breath as he began to wobble away anyway.
“At least wrap it!” You had shouted after him, “And keep your weight off it!”
Title name— Simon Riley.
Another blank report with his name on it. The same ones you’re supposed to complete each time he returns home, regardless of injury. Instead, you’ve got a stack of blank reports with the same name and a headache you’re soon going to face from Laswell.
gosh, he was beautiful. simons eyes sparkled in the sun as he fed your baby some watermelon.
time on the beach was your favorite. simon would pack all kinds of snacks and make sure the baby had all the necessities.
he became soft when it was just you three. it was like the hard, cold lieutenant wasnt even there.
but as you watched him feed your baby watermelon, new feelings arose in your chest. you had felt them before, when you first noticed simon.
the skip of your heart and the flutter of butterflies in your stomach.
you had a crush on simon. the biggest one.
the way he treated your baby with such softness and love. his voice changed into a higher, softer tone when talking to the baby. his eyes softened and his rough hands laid gentle touches on the baby.
you stared at him for what seemed like forever. he was the most softest human being at that moment. but then he caught you.
his eyes flicked to yours. you hadnt even noticed, too far gone in your thoughts with a lovesick smile on your lips.
"what?" he asked, sititng up straight while your baby patted his cheek softly. you finally escaped your thoughts, shaking your head. "nothing."
simon chuckled. "it cant be nothing if you're looking at me like that."
"like how?"
he turned his body towards you, his knee pressing against yours.
"like you have a crush on me. i thought we were passed that stage."
you laughed softly. "can't i have a little crush?"
simon shook his head. "on your husband?"
you nodded. "my husband is feeding my baby watermelon in the most endearing way possible. how could i not have a crush on you?"
simon couldn't help but crack a smile. "if that's the case then i have something to tell you."
you’re sprawled on your back, legs wrapped around simon’s waist, moaning like you’re in a goddamn soap opera. he’s slow tonight — grinding deep, eyes fixed on your flushed face, watching every little twitch of your brows like it’s his favorite show.
“feels so good,” you mumble, dreamy and soft. your hands are limp above your head like you’ve given up on existing. “wait… is this still missionary?”
he pauses.
blinks down at you.
“what?”
“like. technically. is this missionary? or is this—like—a variation?”
you squint at him, dead serious, like you just asked him to solve a math problem.
“cuz i think if your knees are up like that it changes the—”
“shut up.”
he says it fast, teeth gritted. “jesus christ, shut up.”
but he’s laughing. kind of. it’s all breath and growling and trying not to smile as he drops his head into your neck, biting down just a little too hard.
“ow,” you squeak, clinging to him like he’s your only life support.
“s-sorry! i was just wondering! i get curious!”
“you get bloody stupid, is what you get,” he grumbles, voice thick with that rough mancunian lilt. “askin’ me about positions while i’m balls deep. what’s next, quiz night?”
you giggle — all bright and breathy like a cartoon — and run your fingers through his sweaty hair.
“oh my god wait, do you think this counts as a workout?”
he stops moving.
again.
just stares down at you like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
“…you takin’ the piss?”
“no, i’m serious!” you wiggle beneath him. “my legs feel all burny. like pilates. and you’re sweating. so it’s basically cardio, right?”
simon leans in, mouth by your ear now, dragging his hips so slow and deep it makes your toes curl.
“it ain’t bloody pilates, sweetheart,” he growls. “but if you keep talkin’ like that, i’ll bend you like it is.”
you whimper. immediately shut up.
sort of.
“you’re soooo mean,” you pout, clinging to his arms. “i was just sayin’! and i forgot what i was gonna say next anyway but still!”
“no surprise there,” he mutters.
“—but i know it was really important.”
he groans.
loud.
like he’s in pain.
“fuckin’ hell. i swear your brain leaks out every time i fuck you.”
you beam at him.
“probably does.”
and he just kisses you, hard and messy, dragging your hips back into his lap.
“dumb little thing,” he whispers against your lips. “lucky you’re cute.”
