Latest Posts by chaieanne - Page 2
the catch
summary: kenji sato really just wants you at his game. you propose a bet instead: you’re going to come to his game but if he loses, he treats you to dinner; if he wins, he can ask you for anything in return—and ken knows exactly what he wants.
⇢ pairing: ken sato x fem!reader ⇢ contains: fluff, friends to lovers au, pining ⇢ word count: 2.0k ⇢ note: idk if people still read for ken sato but i rewatched ultraman: rising & fell in love with him all over again. reposted from my old blog with the title changed.
“It would mean a lot to me if you came.”
Kenji Sato is known for being a lot of things—handsome, talented, the best thing that’s ever happened to the world of Japanese baseball—but being sincere is not one of them. He’s an insufferable, over-confident prat most of the time, as Coach Shimura would willingly attest, and he knows all of this, too. He can’t really help it; the media eats out of the palm of his hand when he showcases his suave, debonair side.
You, on the other hand, snort inelegantly at him, swat at his shoulder, and say, “I’m busy that evening, Kenji.”
The baseball player frowns, lips jutting out petulantly. “With what? You’re usually free on Friday evenings.”
“Yeah, I’m busy,” you inform him, clutching a stack of documents to your chest. A loose sheet of paper flies out of your hold, and Ken bends down and picks it up, holding it out for you. “I need to binge-watch the newest season of Bridgerton.”
“Hey!” Kenji draws his hand back, still holding the paper. “I thought we were gonna watch that together.”
He can’t believe you would betray him like this. Binge-watching stuff together is your thing, and it always has been ever since he moved back to Tokyo. Kenji Sato doesn’t have many friends, but you walked straight into his life just like Emi did—easily and simply, like the universe decreed it. It’s a perk, he thinks, to being the secretary of the manager of the Yomiuri Giants. On one hand, you frequent his practices so often that Kenji was used to seeing you scribble down notes, sitting by the bleachers.
On the other hand, however, you aren’t forced to attend all the Giants’ matches. You tend to use the time you get off to rest and relax and rejuvenate, coming back to Ken’s next practice session with bright eyes and a happy grin.
You roll your eyes at his antics, reaching out and trying to grab the document. The baseball player merely holds his arm above his head and sticks his tongue out at you when you can’t reach it.
“Kenji,” you warn. “Give that back right now.”
“Or what?”
“Or you’ll lose the exclusive invitations our team has for the fundraising gala being held by the KDF next week, and Mr. Nishimura will have your head.”
At the mention of his manager’s name, Kenji blanches. Mr. Nishimura is known for his work ethic—he’s composed, efficient, and level-headed. But he’s also strict and scary when something impairs his meticulously thought out plans. Ken can’t possibly fathom being on his bad side; it puts dealing with Emi’s acid reflux to shame.
But perhaps… he can take advantage of this.
“I’ll give it back,” he says, “but only on one condition.”
You raise an eyebrow but don’t say anything. Ken takes that as a sign to continue.
“You come to the game tomorrow.”
A brief flash of irritation crosses over your features. Kenji feels slightly guilty, but he doesn’t take back his words.
He likes you, so God help him, and keeping this confession contained within him is driving him over the edge.
“I’ll do you one better,” you challenge. Kenji is startled; he gulps at the conviction in your tone.
“I’ll come to your game tomorrow, but I have a condition too,” you say. “If you lose the game, you have to take me out to dinner.”
A slow grin spreads on Ken’s face. “Ah, but you see—I never lose.”
“Hasn’t Coach Shimura told you to cut down on that ego of yours?”
“Fine, fine. I accept.” Kenji shrugs. “But what do I get if I win?”
You consider it, brows furrowing and lips pressed together in that way you always do when you’re thinking hard about something. He waits patiently, bringing his hand back down and flicking a strand of hair out of his eyes.
Finally, you say, “You can ask me for any favour.”
“Any favour?”
“Yes, Ken.” You sigh with mock regret. “Anything.”
Kenji squints at the printed words on the paper he’s holding. “Say, does this event allow us to bring dates?”
You snatch the sheet from him, scowling. “That’s for me to know.”
“And for me to find out?”
“And for you to never find out.”
“Rude.”
The cheer of the spectators in the stadium is deafening, their excited shouts and loud claps making Kenji’s ears ring. It’s a full house tonight—Coach Shimura had informed them that all the tickets were sold out, and then grudgingly pointed at Ken and muttered, “All thanks to this fellow.” Perspiration drips off his forehead and down the sides of his face. His gloves fit his hands snugly, slightly worn out from constant use. It’s a bit humid; the dome protecting the stadium doesn’t allow natural air circulation.
Yet, despite all the noise and clamour surrounding him, all Kenji Sato can do is stare at you.
You’re leaning over the barricade, completely ignoring the relatively more comfortable seats you get in the VIP stand. Your gaze is trained on the ball, hollering obscenities when one of the Giants makes a mistake, and hooting gleefully when his team does well. Even from a distance, your enthusiasm is infectious.
That’s not the only reason Kenji Sato can’t stop looking at you. There’s another—something more devious on your part. He has to lick his lips and force himself to tear his eyes off you.
Out of all things dastardly and cunning in this world, you chose the worst kind of torture imaginable: The shirt you’re wearing, hanging loosely off your shoulders and tucked into your jeans is his jersey.
It’s an old jersey, one he wore back when he still lived in LA. With fraying edges and faded colours, it’s little more than a washed-out t-shirt. Still, it looks fucking gorgeous on you—but as exhilirating as it is, seeing you in his clothes, it’s making it so fucking hard for him to focus.
The ball whizzes just past his shoulder. He swings his bat a second too late and misses it.
Strike one.
Barely biting back a groan of frustration, Kenji ignores the taunting snicker of the opposing team’s catcher. He chances a glance at you.
You’re glaring at him, eyebrows knit together in a vicious frown and lips pressed together. He can imagine the kind of thoughts you’re having about him right now. He can practically hear your voice in his head, teasing him mercilessly for missing the ball. Ken gulps. You’re a formidable force of nature, and he does not want to get on your bad side.
Taking a deep breath, Kenji Sato reminds himself of the bet. His life depends on it.
Well, not really. Underneath the veneer of calm, composed, gentlemanly cockiness, Kenji Sato has always had a flair for the dramatics. He remembers what he’s going to ask you if he wins.
He absolutely must win. It’s a matter of life and death.
Strengthening his resolve, Kenji turns back to the pitcher and fixes him with a scowl so intent, it would make any bystander quake in their boots. He can’t wait for this match to end, can’t wait to see your brilliant smile at his victory. He also can’t wait to get back home to Emi and her mother, and his father, and tell them that he’s finally accomplished the one thing he’s been aching for ever since he met you.
When he hits the winning shot, it’s as though Kenji gets tunnel vision. He jogs across the field, giving high-fives to his teammates and shaking hands with the losing team. But he’s not concentrating much; all he can think of is you in his periphery.
He makes his way over to the VIP stand—and nearly keels over, right there, on the soft grass of the pitch.
Your smile is so blinding, it feels like something’s been lit up inside Kenji’s body.
He slows down, returning your smile. He takes off his helmet and drops it somewhere by his feet. Running a hand through his sweaty hair, he winks at you.
“So,” he says. “What do you think?”
Your grin doesn’t waver even as you insult him affectionately. “I think you’re gross and sweaty and need to take a shower, like, right now.”
“I bust my ass out there to win the stupid trophy and this is what I get as a reward?”
“Congratulations, Ken,” you say softly, sincerity evident in your voice. “You were amazing out there.”
Normally, Kenji would reply with some snarky, arrogant comment. But it’s you, so, instead, he says, “Thank you.”
“I guess I owe you something now, huh?”
He smirks, not unkindly. Elation fills his entire being.
This is it. This is what he played for today.
“I want you,” Kenji says slowly, “to go out on a date with me.”
He waits for your reaction. You gape at him as soon as the words leave his mouth. Your eyes are wide open and your mouth parts slightly. The thought that he’s made an irredeemable, irreversible mistake briefly flashes across his mind.
“Yes, oh my God!”
You fling your arms around his neck, pulling him close to you. The barricade digs into his sternum, but Kenji finds he doesn’t really care, lost in your tight embrace as he is. He wraps his arms around you as comfortably as he can and inhales your scent. Both of you stay that way for a moment, simply indulging in each other. The cheers from the crowds over his win turns into static background noise. All that exists is this: You, him, and the undeniable joy that comes from having your confession being accepted.
Kenji is loath to pull away from you, but the posture soon becomes uncomfortable, and he’s more concerned about you straining some muscle because of him.
He looks at your face, all sunshine and golden. You’re happy because of him, he thinks. He’s made you happy. What more could he possibly want?
“Can I kiss you now?” he asks, bringing his hands up to cup the sides of your face. “Even though I’m all gross and sweaty?”
You roll your eyes at him. “Like that’s gonna stop you.”
“You’re right,” Ken agrees, and then he kisses you.
It’s a burst of colours against his closed eyelids. He feels like a bunch of fireworks have gone off inside his chest, painting every part of him in warmth. Your lips are soft; you taste like breath mints and coffee, and Kenji wants more. He swallows all your gasps with his mouth, tilting his head and deepening the kiss. You clutch the front of his shirt with your hands, like you’re pulling him closer and closer, even though there is no distance to traverse.
It’s heaven.
For all the grudges that Kenji Sato holds against the KDF, he has to admit they can throw a pretty mean party.
He wonders, though, if he’s just in a good mood because your hand is wrapped around his arm.
“Have I ever told you,” you lean forward and whisper into his ear conspiratorially, “that you look incredibly delicious in a suit?”
Kenji chokes on air. You pat his back condescendingly while he splutters.
Once he recovers, he gives you a onceover (you pretend like he hasn’t been checking you out ever since you entered the venue) and tugs you towards him. “I bet you look even more delicious with that dress of yours off.”
You shiver. Kenji smirks. He’s won the battle for now. Looking around, he spots a familiar face in the crowd. “Ami!” he exclaims, waving at her.
“Hello, Kenji,” the journalist greets him, walking over to you both.
“Ami,” Kenji says, an infectious sort of excitement in his voice. He looks at you and then back at his friend, a soft smile on his lips. “I wanted you to be the first to know.”
She raises a shrewd eyebrow. “Is it something I can publish?”
“I don’t know, babe,” the baseball player says, turning to you. He doesn’t miss the knowing chuckle Ami directs at him. “Is it?”
“Yes,” you confirm, stepping forward with a hand outstretched. “It’s nice to meet you, Ami. I’m Kenji Sato’s girlfriend. Whatever this oaf tells you, don’t believe it. He thinks he won the bet, but it’s really me who won the catch of a lifetime.”
sukuna doing your grwm voiceover | f. reader, s/h prns., crack 'n fluff, estb. rl ؛ ଓ
the mic is a cheap little thing—one of those clip-ons with a long cord and a half-broken clip that you swore was “totally fine for tiktok.” it’s taped to the desk lamp now, swaying slightly as sukuna leans back in your pink gaming chair, arms crossed over his chest like it might keep the cringe away. the video is on mute.
thank god. he would’ve walked out if he had to listen to your chipper little intro and do this dumbass voice-over. but he stays—grumbling, snarling under his breath, but he stays.
“ugh. fine,” he mutters as he hits record, voice low and already irritated. “hi. ’m narratin' her dumbass makeup thing. let’s get this over with.”
the video starts with you holding up your moisturizer to the camera like it’s a sacred relic. sukuna squints at the label.
“this one’s got... snail slime or some shit. don’t ask me. she swears by it. uses exactly three pumps, like a goddamn ritual. see? one, two... three. mmhmm. told you.”
he clicks his tongue when the next product flashes onscreen. your sunscreen.
“this one’s white as hell when it goes on. looks like a clown for a sec. she always pats it in too fast—like she’s in a race. it dries down okay, i guess. not that i notice. or care.”
he very much notices. always does. he sits on the bed pretending to scroll while you do this routine every morning. he's watched it with the intensity of a warrior memorizing enemy patterns.
now comes the concealer. the applicator dabs under your eyes with practiced precision.
“yeah. this part. five dots under each eye. exactly five. you miss one, she wipes the whole thing off like the world’s ending. don’t know why she bothers—looks good without all this crap anyway.”
he pauses.
“…not that i say that out loud.”
the beauty blender makes its entrance and sukuna actually groans.
“this sponge. she squeezes it before every use like it’s stress relief. and then she taps. forever. for e-ver. just... tap tap tap like an annoying little woodpecker.”
he mimics the sound with his fingers on the desk—tap, tap, tap—lazily, almost fondly.
your bronzer palette appears, slightly cracked in the corner. he narrows his eyes.
“this thing’s been through hell. she won’t throw it away. i offered to buy her a new one and she called me ‘sweet’ like i wasn’t trying to end this makeup horror show. anyway, she goes light-handed here. no muddy cheeks. she’s precise. annoying, but precise.”
his gaze flicks to the lipstick you picked—a soft, bitten pink.
“her favorite,” he says a little too quickly, a little too softly. then he clears his throat like the sentiment offended him. “whatever. next.”
the video ends with you posing for the camera, smiling. sukuna stares for a second too long. you’d edited a heart transition, too—sparkly pink.
“gross,” he mutters.
he clicks the mic off and pushes back from the desk like it burned him. “we done? finally?”
you post it anyway. mostly because the internet doesn’t deserve to be spared this kind of comedy gold. and overnight, the comments blow up. thirsting. begging.
"i'd pay to listen to him read an audiobook." "who is he and where can i sign up for the cult??" "he sounds like he could ruin my life and i'd say thanks afterwards."
sukuna glares at the screen the next morning, cracking his knuckles like he’s ready to teleport into the comments section and throw hands.
“who the hell is sexyslut69 and why do they want me to whisper them affirmations?” he growls. “block ‘em. block all of ‘em.”
you laugh. he doesn’t. but when you offer to film another one, he grumbles a “tch” and sits back down in your chair.
“fine. but next time, you're using the expensive mic. and none of that heart bullshit at the end. i'm not doing that sparkly shit again.”
pause.
“…and do not let them think i’m for sale, you hear me? i’m yours. yours.”
size kink with Simon
Size kink with Simon was less about sex and more about presence. About contrast.
Didn’t matter if you were skinny or curvy, tall or short— Simon without a shadow of a doubt would still tower over you, broad shoulders blocking out light, hands that could engulf your waist like nothing. He’d still look like an ogre compared to you, thick, hulking, entirely too much.
And that’s just the way he liked it.
Liked knowing he could pick you up with no effort at all, toss you over his shoulder or lift you straight off your feet just to carry you to the couch. Liked sneaking up behind you in the kitchen, wrapping his arms around your middle, squeezing you close until your feet barely brushed the floor. Liked dropping onto the sofa with you tucked into his lap, arms locked around you as he pressed lazy kisses to your temple, your cheek, your jaw, anywhere his mouth could reach.
Liked when you complained about him stealing sips from your drink or bites off your plate, accusing him of ruining the ratio with that massive mouth of his. “A sip for you is like a gulp for me,” you’d pout, and he’d just chuckle, proud of it. One bite for him was three for you, and he’d do it again just to watch you roll your eyes and nudge him like it did any good.
Liked getting into your car after you’d driven it, tugging the seat back so his legs could even fit. Liked sitting in his own car after you’d used it and realizing it was still adjusted for you. Seat pulled up tight, rearview tilted down, and not fixing it right away, just sitting there, taking a breath. Liked sniffing the air and catching the faintest hint of your perfume lingering in the fabric of the seatbelt.
Liked seeing you pad around the house in nothing but his shirt and a pair of underwear. Liked that you had to tie the drawstrings on his sweats so tight just to keep them up on your hips. Liked how ridiculous and perfect you looked swimming in his clothes, always too small for him but too big for you.
It made him feel huge. Made you feel his.
And really, that’s all it came down to.
You two are such fuckin' drama queens. Even when you and Simon are angry with each other (or, rather, you're angry with Simon and he's... rolling his eyes like the drama queen that he is), you still want and need your daily dose of love and affection, 'cause how else will you two function?
So yes, even when you've pissed each other off, where the hell do you two think you're going without having a good morning kiss? Where did it all go wrong?
And when Simon's been exiled to the couch for the 38484975th time, you're right there with him because what the fuck do you mean he has to go to sleep without you in his arms? Who will you glare at affectionately when he hogs the covers?
Hell, angry cuddles are the best cuddles because why else would Simon lovingly hate the way you bury your face in his neck when you're the big spoon because he's highkey lowkey ticklish in that area?
Just fuckin' dramatic, I swear.
BUCKY BARNES + legs (requested by anonymous for 10k follower celebration)
Simon never heard his father say sorry, or please, or thank-you, or I love you.
In their house, when his mama would put down hot, heavy casseroles, her skin damp with sweat, eyes darting for some sweet words, his father never said one word of thanks, let alone 'some'. Only waved his thick, impatient hand.
His father never took the plates to the sink. Never noticed when she stayed up at night to sort the screws by size and purpose—organizing the chaos he left behind just to find one damn hammer.
His father never said ‘please can you—’ only grunted with that bitter mouth, glared with those unkind eyes when he needed something.
Simon never heard him say I love you. And he couldn’t believe his eyes the day his father plucked out his baby brother from his mama's arm, and didn’t spare one glance for his Ma. She didn't deserved that, did she? Her weak frail body, cracked murmuring lips — she should be celebrated with adoration, comfort, love.
Love, and an infinite of it.
His father never sat beside her just to drink tea. Never told her about his day. Never asked about hers — what she did, or liked, or wanted. Never reached out his thumb, however calloused it was, to wipe away the sprout on her chin. That he was grateful she's next to him, that he loved her.
So when life happened, and Simon was left to pick up his pieces and place them in a way he wanted to be—he thought whomever he will be, anything, but his father.
Anything but him.
And then life happened again but this time it arranged itself in beautiful ways. Because you came with it this time. You and all your silly lovely ways, you who kissed your knee before resting your chin, you who cheered up catching up with fridge' light switching off, you so beautiful, so kind, made up of sundust. His sunshine — lighting up his world.
And God, he was so, so grateful. Every moment, every day !
“I love you,” he’d say the moment he wakes up next to you. Pressing his love on your lips, on your shoulder, on your neck.
“I love you,” when you spill milk in the morning daze and stare at it like it might disappear.
“I love you,” when he wipes your chin and kisses your forehead.
“I love you,” when he takes your hand in his and rubs it between his palm, why ? Because he'll spend his whole life keeping your hands warm than anything else.
“I love you.” because he loves, loves, and loves you so much that it hurts, so much that it heals, so much that it's everything sweet ever happened to him.
“I love you.” for all the ways his father failed, and Simon too, as a son, as a brother — failed to save his mama and lil' brother. I love you, because in loving you he is allowing himself to be loved.
Masterlist
most think that simon comes home from missions or deployment and just smothers himself in his wife's plush titties and fucks your sweet cunt like a mad man - a desperate dog for completion after so much time apart.
and while that did happen, usually he was dead on his feet when he arrived home. his bag thrown onto the couch, his hands moved without thought to get his boots off - left by the door to be cleaned in the morning. then he trudged upstairs to your shared bedroom. you were close behind asking if he needed anything: food, water, a change of clothes, a bath. he just grunted in response, his eyes heavy. the dark circles were noticeable, even with his mask still on.
he at least was smart enough to get out of his well worn (smelly) military clothes before he face-planted into your bed. the mask taken off and throw somewhere in the room to hopefully be found later. his body curled into himself and he just relaxed for the first time in what felt like years.
you tried to ask him if he needed anything: the heat pad for his back, a face cloth to wipe the eye grease off, a pair of sweatpants, the biscuits that you went out to buy just for him.
he barely lifted his head off his pillow as he looked at you. he said bluntly, but in a gentle tone, "just get into bed with me, dove." he scratched the stubble on his chin, "come to bed and read me one of those cheesy books ya love so much."
everything could wait: a meal, a bath, sex, it could all wait. simon in that moment just needed one thing: to feel you in his arms once more <3
a/n: i can't wait to get my baby back!
Simon likes what you likes
Tomorrow I promise to get some requests in my inbox done 🤞
Whenever Simon was asked what his favorite color was, or favorite movie, favorite song, favorite anything, really he always had the same answer.
“Don’t have one.”
Johnny would roll his eyes. Kyle would snort and call him a grump. Price wouldn’t bother asking. But Simon never thought too hard about it. He didn’t see the point. Liking things—really liking them—meant caring. And caring opened doors to places he preferred staying locked.
That was before you.
Before you, with your endless lists of favorites. Your hobbies, your collections, the way you lit up when talking about a movie you loved or a book you couldn’t put down. You could talk for hours. And you often did— sometimes with him half-listening, half-lost in the rhythm of your voice more than the actual words.
And somehow, over time, your favorites became his.
That one film you swore he had to watch? He rolled his eyes, grumbled through the first half— then watched it again when you weren’t home. It was the way you recited your favorite scenes by heart that eventually made it his favorite, too.
The book you kept on your nightstand? He picked it up one lazy afternoon, expecting to read a few pages just to pass the time. He finished it in a day.
Still, every time you asked him about his own favorites, he’d just shrug.
“I like what you like.”
You’d frown. Just a little. A soft downturn of your lips that made something in his chest ache.
So one day, he sat down and thought about it. Really thought.
What did he like? What was his thing?
Guns. Killing. Tracking a moving target from a hundred yards out and watching it drop.
Right. Cool.
So he took you to a shooting range. Taught you how to hold the weapon properly. How to breathe through the shot. How to steady your hands and trust your instincts. He might’ve gotten a little carried away with the details— describing things in a way that probably sounded more violent than romantic. But you liked it. You smiled through the recoil.
You liked doing what you thought he liked.
But the truth?
He would’ve rather been at one of your pottery classes. Covered in clay, watching you laugh when he ruined another mug. He’d rather be curled up on the couch, rewatching your favorite film for the third time. He’d rather do anything, everything, if it meant doing it with you.
Because Simon didn’t care about the things.
He cared about you.
He liked your smile. The way you dressed. The way you smelled— so much that he started using your body wash without even thinking about it.
“Why do ya smell like cupcakes, Lt?” Johnny had asked once, squinting at him, nose wrinkled.
Simon didn’t even blink.
“Your bloody nose probably doesn’t work properly after all the times you’ve been punched in the face.”
He never told him the real reason. Didn’t have to.
He’d already made up his mind.
It was never about the movie, the book, or the smell of your shampoo clinging to his skin. It was about you. About keeping a piece of you close, even in the smallest, stupidest ways. Simon didn’t need a list of favorites.
He had one. Just one. And it was you. Always you.
matching with simon on a dating app and seeing him quite literally fumble a baddie cuz he has a chat personality of a stale bread that you almost didn’t want to meet up with him but c’mon look at him. so anyway, who needs a chat personality when he’s like that in person?
(he’s big and beautiful and filling. curling his fingers just right; pressing the flat of his tongue on your slit; fucking deep. slow. each thrust a punching one that makes your eyes roll back. his kisses searing. he is an electrifying force, and you are drunk off him—
but also the dry humour, the way each sarcastic joke lands perfectly with that rumbled voice that drawls out his words. the sincerity in whatever he says. then, the snort, the puffed chuckle, that bellowed guffaw.
thank god you chanced the meet-up.)
break time.
Ghost: I've caught this stupid disease because of Y/N Price: For the last time, Simon, feelings are not an illness
I love them more than anything in the world
Current March Mood
Rigel ☆ Immortal ∞ I crave delicate necks, haunted words, and crimson of life †
[ In my dream I was eating your heart ]
Simon 'ghost' Riley Masterlist
Serial killer!Simon x fem!reader [ 18+] violence, gore themes, sexual themes, possesive!ghost, blood.
Simon gets a call from sleepy!gf while he's at work.
Simon comes home to you, with bruised knuckles and a heavy smug grin.
Simon loves you but he has his own secrets, like the man in the basement.
Miserable! Simon Riley meets sweet! Missus
Clingy! Simon Riley wants your attention
Shy! Simon Riley meets pretty! missus.
Period rambling: Simon being best bf
Take a look at my gf trend with Simon [ 18+]
Simon who takes care of himself for you
Biker! Simon x wife!reader having riding lessons [ 18+ ]
Simon doesn't give a fuck but for you, he's a mother hen
Simon Riley and how I met your mother [ 18+]
Simon discovers Mrs.Riley's choking kink [18+]
Mrs. Riley is such a tease in her red dress, Simon teaches a lesson [ 18+ ]
Simon who can't say no to you
Simon being Sweetheart and Mrs. Riley being drunk in love( crack drabble <3 )
Brother's best friend! Simon x f! reader [ 18+] one para → pinked
Simon who doesn't want a relationship but for you he might try
Simon who says no attachment... until you're sick [ Suggestive themes so 18+ ??? ]
Grim Reaper! Simon Riley x f! Reader
Drabble 1: Simon wants attention
Drabble 2: Who's the clingy one ?
Stay with me [ 18+ ] [implied safeword uses ]
Sleeping beauty [ 18 + ] Somnophilia
Bet it does [ 18+] [ Overstimulation]
Period rambling again: soft! Simon
Simon who lives alone, reader who wouldn't leave him alone ://
Omega!reader makes a nest
Driving Simon crazy by saying his name[18+]
First kiss with Simon ft. Asshole ex
Shower sex with Simon[18+]
Simon who wants only you [ suggested themes ]
Sarcastic Simon x nurse!reader
Good night thought: best moment of his life
Giving Simon handjob [ 18+]
Simon who blushes
Oblivious! Simon and oblivious! Reader
Retired! Simon and neighbour! Reader
Non English! Reader and Simon (✿)
Reversed trope: possessive reader
Simon with acne
Simon is not his father
Simon's mate crashes in ft. Soap [ghoap x u ]
Reader sending a text to Simon :)
Simon keeping up with your silly
Reader teases Simon for fun but he's not up for games
Simon brings a bird back home to take care of her
Drunk Simon says soft words to you
Simon talks to you when he's stressed<3
Back to Navi
If you like my work, please reblog my masterlist<3
© All rights reserved to @skyrigel, I do not grant any permissions to translate, copy or plagiarise my work on other sites. Please write your own.
i became a bsd girlie while none of u were looking
Soap: What did you do on break, Lt?
Ghost: Rode my bike and slept in an alleyway behind a bar.
Gaz: Checks out... (leaves the room)
Ghost: ...
Ghost: Want to know what I really did?
Soap: (immediately interested)
Soap: Yeah!
Ghost: (pulls out his phone)
Ghost: (shows picture of him having someone cuddled up next to him, both under a blanket, two switches in hand, both on the Stardew Valley logo screen)
Soap: (his smile falls immediately)
Soap: Wh—
Ghost: I played Stardew Valley with the missus.
Soap: The mi—?!
Ghost: Planted crops, went to the mines...
Ghost: (swipes through more pictures of them playing)
Soap: (stunned silence)
Ghost: Upgraded the house for the missus, made some town friends... (screenshots of more gameplay)
Soap: Wait—
Ghost: Even fishing. (shows a picture of him catching a legendary fish)
Ghost: The missus doesn't like fishing. (clicks his tongue) Caught them all though. (nods to himself)
Ghost: (smirks) Want to know why I'm telling you this?
Soap: (still stunned, but nods)
Ghost: Because nobody will believe you.
Ghost: (starts deleting all pictures in front of Soap)
Soap: (pained gasp)
Soap: Ye monster.
photos of simon you took:
photos of simon that johnny/kyle send you:
photos simon send you:
(the guys in the photo are johnny and kyle)
Physical Contact Masterpost
Hand-Holding Dialogue
Hand-Holding
Touching
Hugs
Hugging Dialogue
Touch Starved Prompts
Touches Ask Games
Super soft intimacy
Casual Affections
Seeking out physical affection
Romantic, non-sexual intimacy prompts
Kisses
First Kisses
First Kiss Prompts
Accidental Kisses
Places for kissing
Angsty Kisses
If you like my blog and want to support me, you can buy me a coffee or become a member! And check out my Instagram! 🥰
Part 01 - Severance | Frostbite Series | The Winter Soldier
Pairing: The Winter Soldier x Original Female Character (1st Person)
Word count: 2,488
Summary: Elena is violently abducted from her hospital, blindfolded, and flown to a secret HYDRA base deep in the Carpathian Mountains. She quickly learns why she was taken—her expertise is needed to “repair” something they refuse to call human. When she finally sees the Winter Soldier, brutalized and broken beyond recognition, she is horrified. But worse than his wounds are the implications—HYDRA doesn’t just use him as a weapon. They use him for everything.
Disclaimer: This series is extremely dark, touching on graphic violence, psychological torment, and human suffering in all its forms. If you choose to read, proceed with caution.
Warnings: strictly 18+, Abduction & Forced Confinement, Physical & Psychological Torture, Implied SA & Exploitation, Violence & Threats, Strong Language
A/N: i am BEYOND excited to share the first chapter with you guys! even though this is dark stuff, i'm having fun with the writing process so far. i really hope you will enjoy it too :) happy reading!!
❄️ Frostbite Chapters: Part 01 - Severance - you are currently here Part 02 - Incision Part 03 - Containment Part 04 - Recognition Part 05 - Trigger Part 06 - Submission Part 07 - Disobedience
📍Masterlist
It was supposed to be a regular Wednesday. I was in the scrub room, hands sterile, mentally running through the procedure I was about to perform; delicate spinal reconstruction for a young man injured in a car crash. Standard case, nothing I haven’t done before.
Until the door slammed open.
Before I could turn, something yanked me back with a force so brutal it knocked the air out of my lungs. A hand clamped over my mouth, another locked around my waist, crushing me against an unyielding chest. Cold air rushed over my skin as I was dragged backward like prey.
The scalpel tray crashed, echoing back a sharp sting against the tiled floor. I thrashed as my instinct was taking over, but I was no match for the iron grip that was holding me in place.
"If you fight, we’ll make it worse."
My heart stopped in its movement. I jerked my head to the side, only to see masked men in black tactical gear, covered from head to toe, impossible to identify. The realization slammed through me like ice.
It wasn't a robbery. Not of an object, at least.
I'm being kidnapped.
My body surged with adrenaline, muscles tensing, legs kicking as I tried to scream, but the hand over my mouth clamped down harder, suffocating the sound before it even left my throat.
That is when something cold and sharp pressed against my neck.
"Quiet, Doctor."
A sting. Then, nothing.
Now, I wake up to complete darkness. They blindfolded me. My head is pounding, my mouth dry as sandpaper, and my wrists ache from the zip ties digging into my skin. I try to move, but my body is sluggish. They drugged me. There’s a sickly smell in the air, something like oil, metal, and rotting. The floor beneath me vibrates faintly while I spot the unmistakable, muffed sound of engines roaring.
A plane.
I’m on a goddamn plane.
The realization shocks the grogginess right out of me. There's no fucking way. I yank at my restraints, testing their hold, but it’s useless. I can barely lift my hands. My breath is coming in too fast, and I can feel a panic attack forming in my chest, but I take a deep breath.
Stay calm, Lena. Think. If they wanted to kill you, they would've by now. They need you for something.
Just as I manage to regulate myself, I hear footsteps approaching from the front of the aircraft. A chair then scrapes against the metal floor.
"You’re awake, Dr. Mirea."
The accent is thick, Russian or something close. He's calm, almost polite, which makes the situation comical to me. I can’t see him from the blindfold that is strapped tightly around my head, but I can hear the smirk in his voice.
"Where am I?" I ask, the sound coming out all raspy and dry.
"Does it matter?"
"Since I’m the one you kidnapped, I’d say it does." I force the fear out of my voice. I won’t let them hear me break.
I hear papers rustle in his hands before he sighs, like I’m his 10-year-old child throwing a tantrum.
"Professor Doctor Elena Cătălina Mirea. Thirty-two years old. Romanian immigrant, naturalized citizen of the United States. Harvard Medical School for M.D. and Ph.D. Double board-certified in trauma and neurosurgery. Specializing in combat injuries, reconstructive procedures, and neural damage. Published in at least seven international medical journals. Former consultant for the Pentagon’s advanced rehabilitation program. Shall I go on?"
My stomach twists to the size of a tennis ball. I always knew I had a reputation, but to hear it spoken back to me in a situation like this, in his voice, makes my blood run cold.
"Impressive credentials," he muses, flipping through the file. "The kind that would make a person very difficult to replace."
I scoff. "If you needed a surgeon, there are easier ways to book an appointment."
He laughs, and I swear he sounds amused. "Not for this project."
I lick my cracked lips, trying to swallow the fear clawing at my throat. "Why am I here?"
He doesn't answer for a couple of seconds. I can hear him shifting in his seat, the sound of saliva popping in his mouth as he grins. The motherfucker must be enjoying this.
"It’s no use pretending you don’t understand what’s happening. You were chosen for a reason."
I grind my teeth. "If this is about money—"
A sharp laugh cuts me off. "This isn’t about money, Professor. This is about purpose." He pauses, then continues in a tone laced with thinly veiled amusement. "You will be saving an asset of great value. An asset that has been damaged and requires repairs."
An asset? Repairs?
"You’re mistaken," I say, forcing steel into my voice. "I’m not an engineer."
"Oh, Professor." A gloved hand pats my knee in a deeply condescending way. "You’ll learn soon enough… There’s no difference."
I stiffen.
"You’re needed to repair it," he continues. "Our most valuable weapon. It sustained extensive damage during a recent mission. Tissue damage, internal injuries. And there are… complications."
I don’t know what horrifies me more—the way he speaks, or the fact that I still don’t understand what the hell he’s talking about.
"What exactly is ‘it’?" I bite out.
He pauses. Then, as if indulging a particularly stupid child, he clarifies.
"The Winter Soldier."
Excrutiating cold creeps down my spine.
I’ve heard that name before briefly, in fearful whispers among government officials and intelligence circles. A ghost story, an assassin that doesn’t exist. Well, at least that's what I've always thought.
"You’re talking about a person."
He clicks his tongue. "It was a person. It is now a machine—one that needs to be maintained, serviced, and controlled."
I shake my head, rage bubbling in my chest despite my fear. "I’m a doctor. I save lives. I don’t reprogram murderers."
"You don’t have to," he says, and though I can’t see him, I can hear the smirk in his voice. "You just have to make sure it doesn’t fall apart before we do."
The plane jolts slightly, and my stomach lurches. I didn't spend fifteen years of my life dedicated to practicing medicine to patch up cold-blooded assassins. I refused so many offers from high-ups asking for the same thing, just to be put on a plane at gunpoint to do the exact thing I swore I will never do. I press my lips together, forcing my mind to stay focused.
There has to be a way out of this.
The man beside me shifts, his voice dropping to something almost bored.
"Make no mistake, Professor. You will do what we ask. If you refuse… well." A deliberate pause, stretching just long enough for my skin to crawl. "We’re quite experienced in making people… cooperative."
A chill scrapes down my spine, but I don’t let it show. I know exactly what he means, of course I do. I've been around men like him before, so I force my breathing steady. I keep my face blank and I decide to stay silent.
For now, silence is survival, and if they think I’ll go down easy, they haven’t done their research properly.
The base I'm dragged into is nestled deep in the mountains, buried beneath ice and stone where no one dares to look. Cold doesn’t even begin to describe it; the air bites like sharp razor blades slicing through my skin; my hospital scrubs are practically useless against it.
My feet barely touch the ground before the air is sucked out of me. My body convulses, shaking so violently that my teeth clatter. Every inhale burns my throat like I’m breathing in the very ice from the surface. I begin to think I'm not even going to make it inside, when someone shoves a bundle of clothing into my arms; a thick, insulated jacket, thermal gloves, sturdy boots. I don’t hesitate—I tug everything on, my fingers already stiff with frost.
The guards nod at one another, exchanging looks of quiet acknowledgment. I’m not shackled, no one is grabbing me, forcing me to my feet. In their eyes, I am an asset, a necessary tool.
Good. I will try to use this to my advantage.
I feel my body reaching a somewhat healthy temperature as I am being taken more and more underground. The deeper we go, the more guards appear in the corners, next to the doors—they are everywhere. I can't even begin to comprehend what kind of horrors they must be guarding—at least until the door at the end of the corridor groans open, and the world tilts.
I have seen the worst of human suffering. Open chests, shattered skulls, intestines spilling onto the floor. I have peeled burned flesh from bone, held dying hands, seen life leave bodies in ways too violent to be poetic. I have witnessed agony, stitched it together, carved it out, buried it in the hollow spaces of my mind.
And yet.
And yet.
When they drag him in, something inside me shatters.
At first, my eyes can’t process what I’m looking at. A figure barely standing, hunched, trembling, a mass of exposed flesh and metal swaying between two guards who have to hold him up by brute force. He stumbles, his boots scraping against the floor. He's barely conscious. His head lolls forward, making all his damp hair cling to his gaunt, bruised face.
He breathes—or tries to. A wet, ragged gasp leaves his mouth, as if each inhale is a battle he’s losing.
Fucking hell.
He’s dying on his feet.
Mortifying cold sinks into my gut, as sharp as the wind outside. I ignore how my own hands shake and my throat tightens, and before I know it, I’m already assessing and diagnosing.
His skin is pallid, almost gray, lips cracked and tinged with blue—hypothermia. The deep bruising across his ribs, the uneven hitch of his breath—at least one fractured rib, likely more. The way his left leg drags slightly—hip injury? Nerve damage? His metal arm twitches and jerks at his side—malfunction, misfiring signals, nerve trauma in the shoulder.
He lifts his head slightly, which is when I'm met with his eyes. They're unfocused, but not empty—no. They hold horrors so severe it makes my stomach turn.
"Oh, don’t look so shocked, Professor," one of the men drawls. "It’s not like it feels anything."
Laughter ripples through the room. It makes me want to throw up.
The soldier sways, and no one moves to help him. Hell, they laugh at him like he is some kind of spectacle in a circus. My hands twich at my sides as I'm starting to realize what I've got myself dragged into.
This isn’t just suffering. This is torture. Systematic, calculated destruction.
This is what happens when a body is kept alive not for the sake of living, but for the sake of being used and owned. When the person is carved out, reduced to something that breathes but does not live. I've seen it with assault survivors, people who's been trafficked, but what I'm looking at could never compare to that.
My breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps as my throat tightens, my vision flat out rejecting the inhumane torture I'm witnessing. I don’t even realize I’m moving until a rough hand grabs my upper arm, yanking me back.
I had stepped toward him.
God—I had stepped toward him.
I don’t remember deciding to do so, it is just some instinct that had taken over; something so deeply ingrained in me as a doctor, as a human, that for a moment, I forgot where I was. I forgot who I was dealing with.
He sways again, his whole body trembling with overexhaustion and agonizing pain. The weight of his own existence is too much for him to bear, and still, no one is helping him.
I swallow, blinking rapidly, forcing the burn behind my eyes to stay put.
Fucking hell, I will not cry. Not in front of them.
A sharp laugh suddenly cuts through the room, yanking me back to my unforgiving reality.
"Oh, look at that," one of them sneers. "Got yourself a little fan, Soldat."
Another chuckles. "Careful, Professor. It bites sometimes," he grins and leans closer to me. "But if you like it so much, it can also be trained to keep its mouth busy in… other ways."
I wrench my arm free from the guard’s grip, my jaw locking as they all burst out laughing. A sickening wave of horror crashes over me and I feel it like a punch to the gut. Good fucking God. My stomach churns so violently I have to swallow against the bile rising in my throat.
They’re still laughing like fucking idiots.
I glance at the soldier, like I need to prove to myself that this is some cruel joke, that this isn’t what it sounds like. But he doesn’t react, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t anything. He just barely exists, silent and still as a corpse, his head slightly bowed, his gaze locked somewhere far, far away.
A tremor runs through my hands as my heart beats so loud in my ears, I'm convinced my brain is trying to shut out the stress. My vision tunnels and not from fear, but from something sharper, and I know right away that it's rage. Not even rage—it's all-consuming fury.
I bite my tongue until it nearly bleeds, because what the absolute fuck am I supposed to do? Scream at them? Attack them? They’d drop me in an instant, put a bullet in my skull and find someone else; someone worse. Then he would just stay here trapped and used, in God fucking knows what sick ways.
I feel my breath shake as I force myself to move, to do something before they notice the way my hands tremble. I straighten my back, lock my jaw, and turn to the soldier once more. He's looking at me like I'm glowing.
"How much time do I have?"
The guard chuckles, shaking his head. "Efficient. I like that." He glances at the other men before looking back at me. "How long does it take to patch up the weapon, Professor?"
I clench my jaw, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. My gaze flickers back to the soldier—his body locked in place, his face a mask of empty obedience, but his pain is evident.
"I need a full assessment," I say, my voice clipped. "But from what I can see?" I exhale sharply, shaking my head. "This isn’t a patch job. This is a rebuild."
The smirk falls from his face. "Be more specific."
I lift my chin. "Four weeks. Maybe more."
His expression darkens, clearly unimpressed. "You have three."
A muscle jumps in my jaw.
"Then you better pray he survives."
Special Bonus:
earlier:
now:
Captain America: Brave New World
Wife at First Sight
A mini series of drabbles where Simon decides you’re his wife the moment he laid eyes on you
Part one (~800 words)
Part two (~300 words)
Part three (~900 words)
Part four (~600 words)
Part five (2k words)
Part six (2k words)
Part seven 18+ MDNI (2k words)
Main masterlist
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who from the moment he laid eyes on you, has only ever referred to you as his wife
You, this sweet little thing, running through the halls on base one day when you turn a corner and nearly run headfirst into the Lieutenant, who’s walking alongside Soap
“Oh! Sorry about that, sir.” You told him, never slowing down in your hurried pace as you snuck around his large frame and continued down towards whatever you were evidently late for
The only reason his gaze had followed your retreating form, was that unlike everyone else, you had met his eyes when you spoke, even smiled warmly up at him
That one smile and he was done for
“Who was tha’?” The sergeant had questioned, seeing Ghost’s attention still fixated on you.
“Think that was my wife.”
“Yer what?!”
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who makes it a point to let everyone know that you are in fact his wife
Well, everyone apart from you apparently
He would certainly never abuse his position as a Lieutenant, but some new recruit had the audacity to whistle at you as you walked by? Well 100 laps around the base don’t exactly run themselves
Another soldier saved you a seat next to him in a briefing? He can enjoy scrubbing toilet seats for the next week in that case
Someone actually had the bollocks to ask you for your phone number? Perfect, he needed a volunteer for demonstrating hand to hand combat to the recruits, medics on standby of course
By the time he properly introduces himself to you for the first time, it’s understood by everyone else around that you are, for all intents and purposes, Mrs Riley
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who listens to you tell him your name in a voice that resembles music to his ears, hardly bothering to remember your last name, seeing as it’ll be changing soon enough anyway
“You can call me anythin’ you want, love.” His deep, gravelly voice had sent shivers down your spine, cheeky smirk widening beneath his mask. “So long as you call me, that is.”
By the end of your first date, (you were sitting alone in the dining hall and he wordlessly joined you what do you mean this isn’t a date) he’s wondering if you’ll insist on a ceremony or if he can sweep you away to the nearest courthouse and make this official, slipping a ring onto you finger and himself into you
You had laughed when he put his number into your phone and named himself ‘Husband’, certain that the man was only messing with you, some kind of hazing that you apparently weren’t aware Lieutenants played on the new communications hire, but it was only fair seeing as he’d saved your contact under ‘Wife’
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who is over the moon every time you play along, even if he knows you believe you’re only playing
“Ach, thanks Lt. Just what I needed.” Soap said, seeing Ghost’s approaching form enter the common room, holding a steaming cup of tea in each hand
“S’for my wife. Get your own.” The older man gruffly replied, sliding the mug onto the side table next to where you’re curled up on the couch, reading a book
“Aw, thank you honey.” You giggled, smiling up as him with an expression he thinks would taste even sweeter than honey if he were to run his tongue across your upturned lips
“Happy wife, happy life, sergeant.” Ghost shrugged, ignoring the other man’s pout, landing next to you and reaching an arm behind you across the back of the couch
“God, maybe I really should keep you.” You’d laughed, reaching a leg out to dig your socked toes into his muscled thigh, teasing him
Grasping your foot into his large, strong hands, he began massaging it, uncaring that you were only two of the many people in the common room, not when you looked at him like that, smiling together as though you truly were nothing more than a married couple
Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, who surprised you one day, insisting he needed your help with something crucial off base, and drove you to a local shopping outlet to look at none other than dresses
“Is there some sort of party happening?” You’d questioned, confused out of your mind
“Suppose you could consider it a party.” He’d answered, leading you through the many racks of dresses, you noticed were all, very conveniently, white
“Now while you’re lookin’ through dress sizes,” he’d added, taking your left hand in both of his. “You know your ring size? Got my own shoppin’ to do ‘round here.”
Series masterlist
𝐝𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐚𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜-𝐒𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐑𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲 ༒
𝐀𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 | 𝐬𝐢𝐦𝐨𝐧 ’𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭’ 𝐫𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
the sambucky scene from Captain America: Brave New World
"I've got a feeling that now my hair's changed, you're going to start braiding it next."
The Asset.