return-of-the-queen

[return-of-the-queen]

Pearlcatcher -- Fern, Cottoncandy, Denim

Its funny. I just made a dragon for my husband and I, and the dragon I chose for myself was a Pearlcatcher!

bandwagon time. oops, you're a fr dragon now!

spin this wheel for your breed

spin this wheel 3 times for your colors (if you land on the space that says you're a double after already spinning once or twice for your colors, use the colors you already have as your x and y)

Bonus, try to scry your combo.

(I made a forum game of this post, if you want to play along there)

Here's what I got: pearlcatcher, brown/stonewash/tarnish

[return-of-the-queen]

Ghost AU: Dancer x Bouncer!Simon Riley | Author's note: smut! for some reason Simon is only hot to me in AU contexts; you're welcome btw

You hated Simon Riley from the moment you met him.

Stone-faced, hulking, rude as hell—he never smiled, never talked unless he had to, and always watched you from across the club like you were a goddamn criminal instead of one of the top dancers pulling in customers. His arms would stay crossed over his massive chest, black bouncer tee stretched tight, and his masked face just staring while you worked your magic.

The worst part? You knew he wanted you.

You could see it in the way his eyes would track your every move when you led some drunk asshole to a VIP booth. In the way his fists would flex when a customer got a little too handsy. He'd never admit it, though. Too proud. Too broody.

And he was an asshole, too. Always letting his 141 buddies—some group of Special Forces dickheads—get away with everything. They'd show up, loud and laughing, tossing money around, thinking they owned the place. You weren't even supposed to bring anyone into the private rooms without management’s approval, but if it was his friends? Simon didn’t say a damn word.

You swore he got off on making your nights harder.

That was until Johnny showed up.

Johnny was different. Sweet, funny, a little cocky but in a way that made you grin instead of grit your teeth. He actually talked to you like you were a person, not a piece of meat. When you flirted with him, it felt natural—not forced, not fake for the sake of tips.

One night after your shift, Johnny caught you smoking outside, all dolled up with nowhere to go. He offered to walk you home. Said it wasn't safe for a “pretty thing like you” out in the dark. You almost laughed him off, but his lopsided smile made you say yes.

And fuck, he was a good kisser.

One thing led to another—slow touches, pressed up against the door to your shitty apartment—and you realized maybe hooking up with a customer wasn’t the worst thing in the world. Maybe the rules were stupid. Maybe breaking them felt good.

But of course, Simon had to ruin it.

The next night, you caught him at the back of the club, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. Watching. Judging.

"You gettin' cozy with Soap now?" he muttered when you walked past, low and mocking.

You stopped dead in your heels, turning to glare at him. “Not that it’s any of your damn business, bouncer boy.”

His eyes flicked over you, slow and heavy. Like he was undressing you with just a glance. “Figured you’d have more standards.”

You laughed, sharp and mean. "Coming from the guy who babysits his drunk military buddies? Please."

For a second, it looked like he might actually say something real. Instead, he just stared you down, his jaw clenching under the black mask, something dangerous flashing in his gaze. The tension snapped tight between you—thick enough to choke on.

You hated him. He hated you.

The club was packed, a haze of smoke and cheap perfume clinging to the air. The bass thrummed through the floor, rattling up your spine as you moved, slow and sultry, weaving between the crowd. You spotted Johnny instantly—grinning that easy, boyish grin from the VIP booth, a whiskey glass in his hand, eyes glued to you.

He waved you over like you were old friends. You hesitated, glancing over your shoulder.

Simon was on the far side of the room, posted up near the bar. Arms crossed, black shirt tight across his chest, mask in place. Watching. Always fucking watching.

Good. Let him.

You smirked to yourself and sashayed your way over to Johnny, sliding into his lap like you owned him. His hands immediately found your hips, warm and heavy, but he didn’t push—you liked that about him. He was sweet. Playful. Not like the other guys who came through here.

You leaned down, whispering something filthy into Johnny’s ear just to be a brat, just to feel Simon’s eyes burning holes through your skin from across the room.

You felt it. The weight of Simon’s gaze. The way the room seemed to tilt toward him, even though he hadn't moved.

Yet.

Then Johnny’s hand slid a little lower, fingertips brushing the top of your thigh—right where your garters met bare skin—and that was it.

The next thing you knew, Simon was there, ripping you up off Johnny’s lap with a roughness that made you gasp. One hand wrapped firmly around your wrist, the other braced against your lower back, hauling you bodily away from the booth.

"Oi—!" Johnny started to protest, half-standing.

"Sit the fuck down, Soap," Simon growled—growled—without even looking at him. His voice was low, lethal, enough to make Johnny immediately freeze.

You struggled against Simon’s grip, half-hearted, more out of pride than real resistance. "The fuck is your problem, Riley?!"

He didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at you.

He dragged you down the hall toward the back rooms, shoving open the door to an empty storage closet and forcing you inside ahead of him.

The door slammed shut.

Silence.

Then Simon stepped closer—slow, controlled, a fucking storm brewing behind his mask.

"You think you’re clever, prancin’ around like that?" he rasped, voice pitched low and dangerous. "Sittin' in his lap, lettin' him touch you?"

You swallowed hard, heart hammering. “I wasn’t doing anything against the rules,” you snapped, but your voice shook.

He laughed. A dark, humorless sound.

"Fuck the rules."

Before you could blink, he crowded you up against the wall, one massive hand slamming next to your head, trapping you. His other hand gripped your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

“You’ve been fuckin’ teasing me for months,” he hissed. “Walkin’ ‘round here like you don’t know what you’re doin’ to me.”

You opened your mouth—whether to fight or surrender, you didn’t even know—but he didn’t give you the chance.

He kissed you.

Hard. Bruising. Teeth and tongue and heat, swallowing the sound you made, pinning you completely. His body caged yours, so much larger, so much hotter, pressing you deeper into the wall.

His hands found your hips, gripping so tight you knew there’d be bruises. He dragged your hips against his, and fuck, he was already hard.

"This what you wanted, yeah?" he growled against your lips. "Wanted to get fucked by the bouncer, huh? Wanted me to show you who you really belong to?"

You whimpered before you could stop yourself, grinding against him, desperate for more.

He laughed again, but this time it was low, darkly pleased.

"You’re not leavin' this room 'til you can’t even think about another man touchin’ you," he promised, voice rough with want.

And somehow, you believed him.

You barely had time to catch your breath before Simon's hands were everywhere—yanking your top down, dragging the skirt of your costume up your thighs. His touch was rough, all frustrated hunger, no patience left.

"You like bein' a little tease, don't you?" he rasped against your throat, teeth scraping over your pulse point. "Paradin' yourself around for anyone with a few quid."

You gasped when he shoved your panties to the side, two fingers dragging through the slick heat between your thighs. He groaned, low and guttural, when he felt how wet you already were.

"Fuckin’ knew it," he growled. "Knew you wanted this."

You couldn’t speak—you could barely think. All you could do was arch against him, whimpering when he pressed those thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them just right.

"Look at you," he murmured against your ear. "Already so fuckin’ desperate. Bet Johnny didn't even get you this wet, did he?"

You shook your head frantically, your hands clawing at his shoulders, tugging at his shirt, needing more.

Simon chuckled darkly, dragging his fingers out of you only to undo his belt one-handed, pants shoved down just enough to free his cock. He was big—thick and heavy in his fist—and your mouth watered at the sight of him, even through the haze of lust.

"Turn around," he ordered, voice sharp.

You obeyed before you even realized it, facing the wall, hands braced against the cool concrete. You felt him behind you, lining up, the head of his cock dragging through your folds in lazy, teasing strokes that made your knees threaten to buckle.

"You sure about this?" he asked, voice a little lower, a little rougher. Beneath the dominance, there was still that careful thread of control—Simon Riley never took what wasn't given.

"Yes," you whispered. "Please, Simon—fuck—please."

That was all he needed.

He slammed into you in one brutal thrust, forcing a broken cry from your lips as you stretched around him, full to the point of pain-turned-pleasure. He didn't give you time to adjust—just gripped your hips tight enough to leave bruises and fucked you like he meant it.

Fast, hard, relentless.

The slap of skin against skin filled the tiny room, mixed with your desperate little gasps and his filthy muttered curses.

"So fuckin' tight," he growled, pounding into you. "So fuckin' perfect."

Your head dropped forward, forehead pressed to the wall, as he rutted into you like a man possessed. His hand snaked around your waist, fingers finding your clit and rubbing rough, fast circles that had you screaming his name within seconds.

"That's it," he panted. "Let 'em hear you. Let everyone out there know who’s fuckin' you now."

The coil inside you snapped—white-hot and violent—your orgasm crashing over you so hard your vision blacked out at the edges. Your whole body shook, clenching around him, dragging a guttural snarl from deep in Simon’s chest.

He cursed again, low and savage, before slamming deep one last time, hips grinding into yours as he spilled inside you, filling you up with thick, hot pulses that made you shudder all over again.

For a long moment, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the low hum of the club outside.

Simon stayed pressed to your back, his forehead resting against the side of your head, still inside you, panting like he'd just run a marathon.

Finally, he spoke—his voice rough and dangerous against your skin: "You're mine now, sweetheart."

And you were. You knew there was no coming back from this. No running. No pretending. Not with Simon Riley.

The second the high started to fade, you slumped against the wall, legs trembling, skin flushed and hypersensitive. Simon was still pressed against you, breathing heavy, his chest rising and falling against your back.

Slowly—almost gently—he pulled out, a soft hiss slipping through his teeth at the loss of your warmth. You whimpered, your body aching and used, but in the best possible way.

Simon didn’t say anything at first.

Just tucked himself back into his pants, fixed his belt one-handed, and then turned his attention fully back to you.

Without a word, he bent down, thick fingers hooking under your thighs, lifting you up like you weighed nothing. You squeaked in surprise, hands flying to his shoulders.

"Shhh," he murmured, voice still rough but quieter now. "Got you."

He sat you down carefully on an old storage crate, crouching in front of you. His gloved hand brushed your hair back from your face—surprisingly tender for someone who'd just wrecked you against a wall—and then he used his thumb to wipe a tear track off your cheek you hadn't even realized was there.

"You alright, love?" he asked, voice low but sincere.

You nodded, still a little dazed, a soft, fucked-out smile tugging at your lips. "Yeah... just... wow."

He huffed a small laugh, the tiniest crack in that usual stoic front.

Then his eyes darkened again.

"You don’t let anyone else touch you like that," he said firmly, voice dipping into something almost dangerous. "Not Soap. Not any fuckin' customer."

You blinked at him, heat rising to your cheeks.

"You made yourself real clear out there," you teased, but there was no real bite to it.

Simon leaned closer, until his masked mouth was hovering right at your ear.

"You’re mine now," he said again, like a vow, low and fierce. "Only mine."

You shivered, not from cold, but from the possessiveness dripping from every word.

He stood, towering over you again, and grabbed a discarded clean towel from a shelf. Without asking, he knelt between your legs, parting them easily, and started gently cleaning you up—careful, thorough, murmuring under his breath whenever you winced.

"Could've gone easier on you," he muttered, almost to himself. "Couldn't fuckin' help it. You drive me crazy, prancin’ around in those little outfits."

You bit your lip, trying to hide your smile.

Once he was satisfied you were alright, Simon stood again, grabbing your chin between his fingers and forcing you to look at him.

"You need somethin’, you come to me, yeah?" His eyes, the only part of his face visible behind the mask, burned into yours. "Don’t care what it is. Don’t care if I’m on shift, don’t care if it’s three in the fuckin’ mornin’. You come to me."

You nodded, swallowing thickly. "Okay."

"Good girl," he murmured.

The praise made your stomach flip wildly.

He helped you stand, smoothing your clothes down as best he could before tucking you close to his side, his big hand splayed protectively on your hip like a silent warning to the rest of the world.

When he finally opened the door to the club again, you caught sight of Johnny at the bar, nursing a drink and looking anywhere but at you.

Simon leaned down, mouth brushing your ear. "Don't worry about Soap," he said quietly, almost amused. "He knows better now."

And with that, Simon Riley—bouncer, enemy, now very clearly yours—led you through the crowd like he had every right to you.

And you had a feeling he was never letting you forget it.

[return-of-the-queen]

taking one (& another & another & another) for the team | soap x reader x ghost | inspired by: @softaestluv johnny's pent up blurb

It started as a joke. "I'm gonna die if I don't get my cock wet soon," Johnny whined, sprawled backward over the couch, legs spread, hand draped over his forehead like he was seconds away from his last breath. *"Swear I can feel it in my fucking molars, mate. I'm gonna explode."

At first, you and the others ignored him. Typical Soap — loud, dramatic, a walking sexual frustration PSA. But it didn't stop. If anything, it got worse: every mission debrief, every meal, every late-night sit around the barracks, Johnny lamented his poor, poor cock like it was a national tragedy.

When he started describing how tragic his wanks were — "My hand's too fuckin' rough, not the same, need something wet, something tight—" — you snapped. Loud enough for everyone in the room to hear: "Christ, Soap, I'll fuckin' take one for the team if it'll shut you up."

Johnny sat up like you'd just offered him oxygen.

Which is how you found yourself bent over the nearest flat surface, jeans yanked halfway down your thighs, Johnny pressed tight to your back, rutting into you like a man possessed.

"Fuck—fuckin' hell, love, yer savin' my life," he groaned, hips slamming into you like he was trying to crawl inside. "Warm 'n tight, fuck, could stay here forever."

You barely bit back a moan, hands braced hard enough to hurt. You weren't supposed to enjoy this, just do your duty to the squad’s sanity.

But then Johnny started whining again — not his usual loudmouth bitching, but these needy, half-choked sounds against the back of your neck.

"Need ya," he rasped, like he couldn't help himself. "Need yer cunt, fuck, not gonna be enough, need it again—'m not done—"

Even after he came — hot, messy, filling you to the brim — he didn't stop. Still rocking against you, still murmuring desperate filth into your skin, already hardening inside you again.

You realized then: You hadn't fixed the problem. You'd made it worse.

He barely pulled out before he was pushing right back in, thick and slick with his own cum, grinding into your overstretched walls like he could merge the two of you if he tried hard enough.

"Fuckin' perfect," Johnny slurred against your neck, teeth scraping along your skin. "Mine now, y'know that? Filled you up good—fuckin' claimed you—"

You tried to push him off, half-hearted at best — muscles trembling, brain fogged from how full you felt — but Johnny just wrapped an arm around your middle and held you there, hips rolling slow and filthy, fucking his own mess deeper inside.

"Nuh-uh, love," he muttered, pressing kisses to your shoulder, messy and possessive. "Said I'd lose my mind if I didn’t get to fuck you. Y’think one load's enough to fix this? After all that sufferin’?"

You whimpered, feeling his cock twitch again, fully hard despite just cumming. He chuckled low against your skin, voice dark and wrecked.

"Told ya I'd go mad. Now yer stuck with me, sweetheart."

He fucked you slow the second time — not like the frantic, desperate slamming from before, but a grinding, possessive rhythm, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you properly. Every time you clenched around him, he gasped, praising you in that ruined, filthy brogue.

"That's it, good girl," he breathed. "Take it all, take it like y'made for it. Fuckin' born to milk my cock, huh? Gonna pump you so full you won't remember what it feels like to be empty."

You felt him bulge even thicker inside you, grinding down into your cervix, every thrust stretching you wider, making you feel owned in a way that had nothing to do with orders or duty.

Johnny growled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. You barely registered it before he was moving — hands gripping your hips, manhandling you onto your back like you weighed nothing.

"Wanna see," he panted, almost delirious. "Wanna see how fuckin' ruined you are for me."

Your legs were shoved open before you could think to protest, ankles tossed over his shoulders. Johnny leaned back just enough to look — and groaned, obscene and ragged.

"Fuckin' hell, look at that," he hissed, watching his cum leaking out of you, your cunt red and puffy, still clenching greedily around nothing. His cock throbbed in his hand, still wet, still ready.

"So messy, love. Drippin' for me already. Y'know what that means, don’t ya?"

You shook your head weakly, breath stuttering in your chest. Johnny just grinned, all teeth and danger.

"Means I’ve gotta fill you up again. 'Til you can't take any more."

Without warning, he lined himself up and pushed — forcing his cock back inside your sore, sloppy cunt in one thick, slow thrust. You cried out, back arching, and Johnny moaned like you were his whole damn salvation.

He didn’t give you a chance to breathe. Started fucking you immediately — deep, grinding strokes that had your whole body jolting with each brutal snap of his hips.

"That's it, that's it," he gasped, head tipping back, sweat dripping down his temple. "Take it all, pretty thing. Gonna make sure yer stuck full of me. Walkin' round leakin' my cum for days."

Your brain barely worked anymore. Just open-mouthed whimpers, toes curling, walls spasming around him like you wanted it — wanted everything he was giving you and more.

Johnny's pace turned frantic again, slamming into you harder, the sound of skin against skin filthy and wet between you.

"Belong to me now," he growled, words punching out of him with each thrust. "No one else. Fuckin' mine."

You couldn’t even pretend to fight it. Couldn’t think past the way he filled you so perfectly, the overwhelming heat, the way his cock dragged along every sensitive spot inside you until you felt tears spring to your eyes.

He buried himself to the hilt one final time, grinding down against you, hips jerking as he spilled deep again, thick and endless. You could feel it — the heat, the stretch, the way he pulsed inside you like he was branding you from the inside out.

Johnny didn’t pull out. Just collapsed over you, mouth hot and messy against your jaw, still twitching inside your wrecked cunt.

"Fuck," he whispered hoarsely. "Still not enough. Need you again, love. Gonna fill you 'til you’re round with me, swear it."

Johnny stayed buried in you for a long moment, hips grinding lazy, slow circles, as if trying to force every last drop even deeper. You could feel it leaking out around his cock — hot, sticky, obscene — and you whimpered, overstimulated and wrecked.

Johnny noticed immediately. Growled against your throat, feral.

"Leakin'," he muttered, almost offended. "Can't have that. Gotta keep it all in, love. Need you drippin’ full for me."

He finally, finally pulled out — and the flood of cum that gushed out made you sob, weak and broken. But Johnny didn’t give you a second to recover. He dropped between your legs, shoving two thick fingers inside you without warning, curling them deep and obscene, scooping the mess back up.

"No wastin' it," he rasped, fucking his cum right back into your cunt with slow, filthy thrusts. "Take it all, greedy girl. You fuckin' need it."

Your legs kicked weakly at the overstimulation, but Johnny just grinned — wild and unhinged — before spreading you wider, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit while he stuffed you full with his fingers.

"Gonna breed you proper," he whispered hoarsely. "Fill you so deep you’ll be round with me. Belly all heavy, stuffed full of my fuckin' load—"

You sobbed, hips rolling despite yourself, body desperate for more even as your mind shattered into static. You should have known it’d be like this — Johnny didn’t do anything by halves.

He leaned down, mouth dragging messy, possessive kisses along your trembling stomach like he could will it to swell.

"Mine," he murmured. "All fuckin' mine."

And that’s exactly when you heard the door creak open. You barely had the strength to lift your head, vision blurry — but you saw a tall shadow in the doorway.

Ghost.

He stood there, silent, unreadable behind his mask — just watching. Johnny didn't stop. Didn’t even slow down. He curled his fingers inside you again, making you cry out, making more of the mess spill down your thighs.

Ghost's head tilted slightly, almost curious.

"Problem?" Johnny barked over his shoulder, voice wrecked but cocky as hell. Like he wanted Ghost to see — to know.

Ghost said nothing. Just crossed his arms slowly over his broad chest.

Johnny smirked and turned his attention back to you, dragging his fingers out with a wet squelch just to stuff them right back in — slow and possessive.

"That's right," he said lowly, clearly for Ghost’s benefit now. "Had to take care of it myself. Filled her up so good she's fuckin' leaking. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?"

You whimpered in response — too broken, too full, too wrecked to argue.

Ghost watched you for a long, heavy moment — chest rising and falling — before he spoke, voice flat and unreadable: "You better clean up after yourself, Soap."

Then, calmly — without another word — Ghost shut the door behind him with a click.

Johnny barked out a wild, breathless laugh against your stomach. "Come to help, mate?" he panted, fingers still lazily dragging through the wrecked mess of your cunt. "Think she needs it. Poor thing's so fuckin' stuffed already, can't hold it all."

Ghost didn’t answer. Didn't need to.

He stalked closer, heavy boots thudding against the floor, until he was standing right at the edge of the bed — looming over your trembling body. You watched through blurred eyes as he popped the button on his cargo pants, dragging the zipper down slowly, deliberately.

Johnny shifted you slightly, spreading your legs even wider, thumbs digging bruises into your hips to keep you open — presenting you like a ruined offering.

"C'mon, Ghost," Johnny muttered, voice rough and wild. "Don't leave the girl waitin'. Look how pretty she is—drippin' fuckin' ready."

Still silent, Ghost wrapped a hand around the base of his cock — thick, flushed, already leaking — and lined himself up.

He didn’t ease in. Just pressed the fat head against your already-used, dripping hole and pushed.

You screamed, body arching off the bed, overwhelmed instantly by the stretch, the pressure, the unbearable fullness of taking another man inside you without even a second to adjust.

Ghost let out a low, broken sound, not quite a grunt, not quite a moan, and buried himself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

"There we fuckin' go," Johnny whispered against your ear, laughing breathlessly. "Take him, love. Take us both."

You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

Ghost fucked you without mercy — slow, devastating thrusts that forced Johnny’s mess and his own spit to spill down your thighs in filthy, wet streams. He said nothing — just breathing harshly through the fabric of his mask, hands brutal on your hips, using you like a living, breathing fucktoy.

Johnny kept whispering filth into your ear — encouragements, praises, commands — while Ghost destroyed you from the inside out.

"That's it, good girl," Johnny crooned, petting your hair while Ghost slammed into you. "Take it like you were fuckin' made for it."

You felt your mind fracturing — pure overstimulation, pure broken pleasure — as Ghost fucked you harder, grinding deep, his cock stretching you to the point of tears.

And then Johnny shifted again — ducking low between your legs to lick around where you were stuffed full, his tongue dragging over your overstretched rim every time Ghost pulled out just a fraction.

"Fuckin' hell," Johnny gasped, almost reverent. "Look at that, Ghost. Cunt's swallowin' you like she needs it."

Ghost let out another low, broken sound — and picked up the pace. The bed creaked violently under you, your body jolting with every brutal, punishing thrust.

You could feel it building — some dark, overwhelming climax you couldn’t fight — tightening low in your stomach, burning up your spine.

Ghost suddenly reached down and gripped your throat — not tight, just heavy, possessive — and that was it.

You shattered. Clamping down around him so hard Ghost actually groaned, thrusts going sloppy, brutal. And then you felt it — hot, thick, spilling deep inside you, Ghost’s cock pulsing violently, joining Johnny’s mess inside your ruined cunt.

You lay there twitching, barely conscious, as Ghost finally pulled out — slow, heavy — and watched as his cum immediately leaked out after him.

Johnny's hand was already there — catching it, stuffing it back inside you with lazy, satisfied fingers.

Ghost pulled his gloves back on silently, redressing with mechanical efficiency. Said nothing. Before he left, he pressed one gloved hand to your trembling thigh — firm, approving — and then disappeared out the door without a word.

Johnny leaned down over you, brushing your hair back from your sweaty forehead.

"Told ya, sweetheart," he whispered with a wicked grin. "Was gonna fill you proper."

And from the ache in your gut and the obscene mess between your thighs —you knew he wasn’t lying.

Morning hit like a slow, heavy sledgehammer.

You barely even remembered falling asleep — just flashes: Johnny fucking his cum deeper into you with lazy, loving thrusts while you sobbed into the sheets; Ghost’s heavy hand gripping your thigh one last time before disappearing without a word.

Now your entire body ached. Your thighs were sore, trembling even at the slightest twitch. Your pussy was a wreck — raw, swollen, still leaking a slow, lazy drip of milky white that soaked into the crumpled sheets beneath you.

You tried to shift — to roll onto your side — and whimpered immediately. Everything hurt. You could feel the mess drying on your skin, inside your cunt, coating your thighs.

And Johnny, of course, was already awake.

He lay stretched out beside you, arms tucked behind his head, a smug, satisfied smirk spread wide across his face.

"Mornin’, sunshine," he drawled, voice rough from use, eyes crinkling at the corners with amusement. "Sleep well?"

You glared at him weakly, too exhausted to even muster words. Johnny just grinned wider.

"Y’look wrecked," he said cheerfully, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from your sweaty forehead. "Proper job, that."

You tried to move again — a pathetic, sluggish attempt — and Johnny laughed, full-bodied and warm.

"Aw, poor thing. Can’t even fuckin' walk, huh?"

His hand drifted down — over your collarbone, the bruises he’d left, the fingerprints, the possessive marks — until he palmed your lower belly, pressing down just slightly.

You gasped, muscles clenching reflexively around the lingering mess inside you.

Johnny's grin turned wolfish.

"Still full, are ya?" he murmured. "Good girl. Holdin’ it all for us."

He sat up slowly, bare chest gleaming with a faint sheen of sweat, and pulled back the sheets.

You whimpered as cool air brushed your ruined, sore cunt — thighs automatically trying to close, to hide yourself.

Johnny tsked softly, spreading you open with two rough hands like you were something precious to be displayed.

He hummed low in his throat — a sound of satisfaction.

"Ghost’ll be pleased," he muttered, almost to himself.

You blinked sluggishly at him, confused.

Johnny chuckled and gestured toward the nightstand. There — sitting neatly next to a bottle of water — was a simple piece of paper. No name. No explanation. Just three short words, written in Ghost’s heavy, blocky scrawl: “Hold it in.”

Your heart hammered painfully in your chest.

Johnny laughed again — delighted, wrecked — and leaned down to press a filthy, claiming kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh.

"Guess we’re not done after all, love," he whispered against your skin. "Orders are orders."

And from the wicked glint in his eye, you knew you weren’t getting a break anytime soon.

[return-of-the-queen]

I just finished binging the podcast We're Alive, and the fact that there's practically no fanfiction for it anywhere is an absolute tragedy. There are so many good characters. It is almost enough to make me start writing again just so there's something out there. I mean, seriously.

No one wants to create a better love interest for Michael than PEGS!? 🤮

No one is exploring the depths of a relationship with Angel, everyone's favorite fuck up?

BRICKS? Can I get some love for big man Bricks? Please. What a fucking sweetheart.

No one is so much as ruminating on the adventures of Mr. Whiskers after the collapse of the Tower? 😔 Shame.

[return-of-the-queen]

newbornDad! Simon Riley

Simon! Who insists on carrying the baby carrier through the threshold of the house when you get home from the hospital

Simon! who spent nine months training Riley to be gentle with the baby

Simon! Who carries the baby around showing them the house with little whispers, 'annnn this is your brothers room, he's had your grandads right now but don't worry sweetpea, you'll meet him soon'

Simon! Who strongly believes the baby needs skin to skin, so...are you complaining about him walking around shirtless with a baby held to chest, not at all

Simon! Who is so worried when Ollie holds the baby for the first time because yeah Ollie is six years old at that point but anxiety??

Simon! Who hates that he has to go on a mission, even if for two weeks because they are sooo so vital and he doesn't want to leave you alone and-

Simon! Who tells Oliver to take care of his little sibling and to look after you

Simon! Who hates his job sometimes

[return-of-the-queen]

✎. he’s nice. well, that’s what everyone’s been telling you.

tags. fem!reader, mild dubcon, possessive and obsessive behavior, simon is an excon, non-linear narrative for future chapters [18+ only]

part one | part two

He’s always been a little obsessed with pretty things, even as a child.

It only makes sense that the habit would follow him into adulthood.

He sees you once while he’s walking by the bus stop. A timid thing wrapped up in an oversized sweater and parka coat, not looking up from the little book in your lap until the bus stops before you and takes you away.

The next time he sees you, he makes sure to come a few minutes earlier, lighting a cigarette and keeping his distance while he watches you read the same book from the day before. Simon knows it’s you, the girl from the letters, even if it’s a big city. It has to be—his pretty, lonely, silly girl.

He thinks about walking up to you just to make sure, but he doesn’t really need to. The address on the envelope brought him here, and you’re the only one he’s seen wearing a university sweater in this neighborhood.

But when he hesitates too long, a boy starts talking to you, and he watches you smile at somebody else.

Simon runs his thumb over his bottom lip and takes a deep breath to fill his chest with the soothing feeling of menthol and the burning taste of nicotine, trying to relax his white-knuckle grip on his steering wheel. 

You’ll learn, he thinks, when the bus drives off, and the boy doesn’t follow you on. He’s a patient man—it’s possibly one of his finer qualities.

He lets his car idle as he climbs out before crushing his cigarette bud underneath his shoe, straightening his black tie, and crossing the street. The boy sees him and freezes, but Simon can only laugh, wiping blood off his cheek several seconds later.

You’ll learn.

He’s nice.

Well, that’s what everyone’s been telling you. But nice, you've learned, can mean any number of things: a nice laugh, a nice house, a nice job, et cetera.

But how he holds himself—tall, broad, and dangerous—hardly screams nice.

It’s funny because you don’t remember seeing him around the office before—the company, including IT, occupies only four floors in the building. 

Someone tells you he’s a friend of a friend. This initially sounds odd until Rose, the office gossip, says he’s someone rich who helps fund the company's social events. Hence, the crisp suit and the wide berth of space you’d give someone who wields their smile like a weapon. 

You quickly look away twice when you find that smile aimed at you, heat traveling up to your hairline at an alarming rate.

It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s not your type. 

“Enjoying the party?” 

You nearly jump out of your skin at the deep voice so close to your ear. Careful not to spill your drink, you turn your head to find him smiling down at you with a sharp curl of his mouth.

Then he’s in front of you, eyes dark and crinkling in the corners.

“Uh, yeah. It’s not bad, though,” you squeak nervously when you realize you haven’t answered him. “It’s different from what I’m used to.”

He raises an amused brow. “Oh? And what might that be?”

He’s intimidating up close, and you take a small sip of your drink to ease your nerves. “Well, no kegs or trashy music playing, and boys with egos bigger than the room.”

The man lets out a low chuckle as he considers your honest reply, and you swear you see something ripple across his features, but when you blink, it’s gone. “I suppose that differs from top-shelf liquor and live bands, huh? Which is better?”

You shrug. “Well, it depends on who you ask.” 

“I’m asking you.”

“Honest answer?” 

He nods. 

“Neither. I don’t really care for parties.”

“Then it’s quite unfortunate that you found yourself at one tonight.” He seems privately amused, in on a joke you have no part of. Then he says, “You want to get out of here?”

“I probably shouldn’t follow a stranger home,” you tell him bashfully.

“That’s very responsible of you. Then how about I get you a drink? There’s a hotel across the street, and the bar’s not shit.”

You bite your lip, and his big, warm hand is on the small of your back before you say anything. It must’ve been written all over your face like he knew you would say yes.

He’s ever the gentleman, unlike most boys your age. Though, perhaps that’s the difference. He isn’t a boy—nothing about him can hardly be described as such. This fact becomes a bit overwhelming and more evident once he has you on your back, thighs nearly up to your ears, and held in place by a firm, intricately tattooed forearm.

His smile—almost too sharp to be nice—makes your chest do this silly thing when he says, “Let’s play a game.” 

You whisper into the night air. “What kind of game?”

“It’s simple. You tell me yes or no.”

Your brows furrow, unsure of the rules of the game. “But—”

The slap against your cunt isn’t harsh, but it’s the suddenness of it, how no one has ever thought to touch you like that, is what makes you squeak and tremble underneath him—the rings on his fingers sharpening the sting—trying to scurry up the bed, but hindered by his iron grip.

“Yes or no?”

“Y-yes.”

“There’s a girl,” and then his fingertips drop down to where you're slippery-wet and sensitive, moving in hard, tight circles until you're clenching down on a curse between your teeth. "Messy little cunt."

It's too much, you think when he plugs two fingers (feeling like three of your own) into your pussy. The muscles in his shoulders roll as he shoves his fingers in and out, batting your hands away when you try to get him to slow down. Too much, too—

“It’s not. I want you to cum like this,” he says, teasing, nudging your clit with his thumb and swirling it in tight spit-slick circles; you have no choice but to chase that bright light feeling until you cum, sticky and sweaty. 

Just like he promised you would, your orgasm is a shivery thing, molten heat, incandescent, settling in your veins until it pours out of you like liquid wax against the scratchy hotel sheets, but he doesn’t stop. Instead, his fingers curl up and press into where you’re soft and tender.

He smiles. “This is fun, isn’t it, love?”

“I can’t,” you whimper, not exactly answering him. “No more, please.”

His eyes, already pupil-fat, go dark at hearing you beg, nostrils flaring. Please, the key for the small amount of mercy he grants you as he replaces his fingers with his mouth, pressing a chaste kiss to your clit and lightly sucking it into his mouth. His lips are just there, and then they’re gone.

“Say it again.”

Your response is a wet little hiccup at the back of your throat. “W-what?”

“Beg me.”

“Please.”

“Again,” he says one more time.

“Please, please, please…”

It’s all you can think to say, strung between that dreamy space and reality, that you don’t even notice him flipping you onto your tummy with ease, not until the light in the room is blotted out as he leans over you. He wraps a hand into the scruff of your neck and presses your face into the bed, the other tucked under your hips to keep them at the right angle—held down with nowhere to go.

He leaves biting open-mouthed kisses across your shoulders and the back of your neck—Simon—he manages to tell you his name from one little bruise to the next. Somewhere between the buzz in your ears, you hear him telling you that he wants you to moan it for him, nice and loud.

The haze clears a little, however, at the metal clink of a belt and the sound of a zipper coming undone before you feel his cock prodding you open—raw, without a condom.

“There you go. Lay there, and just—just give me what I fucking want,” Simon rasps as if you could actually move with his hands pinning you in place. 

There are many things you should feel: scared of his words, trapped by the rings digging into tender flesh, by his thighs forcefully pushing yours apart. The red flags look more like flashing lights at this point.

Instead, you feel wanted—your walls tighten around his cock, fluttering, pulling him deeper inside, letting him turn you inside out. A small smile buried into the pillow.

[return-of-the-queen]

Simon Riley x f!Reader

Simon’s the type of guy to have your contact name in his phone as just “wife” — like an actual caveman.

No emojis, no capitals, no nothing. Just “wife.”

The first time the 141 happen to see it, they nearly laugh themselves into a stupor. It’s quite the image, imagining skull-faced Simon Riley plodding around the house, snarling the words “woman” and “wife” with all the testosterone and wolfish pride of some brutish working man.

But to Simon, it’s much simpler than that.

“Self-explanatory,” he’d explain, offended that they’d think of him so lowly, “She’s my wife. Mine. Ain’t nobody else’s. Anybody who’s got a problem wit’ me callin’ her the title I gave her can right well piss off.”

Though, that’s not to say the 141 are exactly wrong. In fact, you kind of like how pushy and red-blooded Simon can get sometimes…especially in between the sheets.

“C’mon, girl,” he grunts, slapping the fat of your ass hard enough to leave a red hand print on your skin, “Want me to be yours? Want this cock to be yours, huh?”

“Yes,” you mewl, grabbing bruising handfuls of the sheets.

“Then fucking prove it to me,” He growls, “C’mon, make yourself cum on my cock—fuckin’ prove that I’m yours,” he yanks you up with a hand in your hair, a snarl between his lips, “Faster, love, c’mon—I ain’t got all fuckin’ day.”

[return-of-the-queen]

simon ghost riley is sometimes a little blunt (warning: smut)

You adore him for who he is, but it still unnerves you with just how blunt he can be at times.

It usually happens privately with just you:

“In about 5 minutes, I’m gonna eat you out.” He says as you are in the middle of The Goblet of Fire on the couch. You almost choked on your popcorn.

Or you’re doing laundry in the morning. “We need pineapple juice next time we’re out, want you to enjoy swallowing next time you’re suckin me off.” Jaw dropped.

He does it in front of the team too- and sometimes it’s even worse:

You accidentally dropped your lip balm onto the bar floor while fishing it out of your purse and bend to pick it up.

“Haven’t seen that angle in a while, dove. It’s been too long since we done doggy.”

It’s a never-ending series of eyebrow raises when Simon decides to open up his mouth and you’re around, needless to say. You brunt all of the embarrassment and the deep blushes, Simon couldn’t give a shit. He didn’t even clock it when John, Johnny and Kyle would all give him shocked looks. Man just owns it. Completely unbothered.

“Youre wearin the skirt you wear when you wanna get fucked. That your goal?”

“Simon!” You hiss, you can feel the red hot heat rush to your face.

But he just stares back at you, waiting for your response. You can hardly believe how composed he is when his Captain is right there glaring at him.

“So?”

“I need another beer.” John excuses himself, he can’t even look you in the eyes right now. Kyle joins him shortly after making a run for it, but you’re left with a quiet Johnny patiently waiting for you to respond. Eager, almost. Joy.

“You can’t just say things like that in public, especially not in front of your friends!” You lecture, pulling down your skirt in the process.

“Why? If you wanted to fuck, you could’ve just said so, love. Give me 2 to down this pint and I’ll meet you in the toilets, yeah?”

“Simon!” You smack his thigh.

“Can I watch?” Johnny asks excitedly.

“No!-“ “Fine.”

Johnny’s face lights up while yours gives Simon a death stare.

“Do you want it or not?” You roll your eyes and throw your purse over your shoulder.

“You two are ridiculous.” And they watch you walk away.

Simon only shrugs, pounding back his beer before coming after you. Doesn’t make a difference to him if he fucks you here and now or at home and later.

“… so is that a no?” Johnny asks with puppy eyes.

[return-of-the-queen]

Dunno if I'll ever finish this piece past the sketch phase, but I needed some softness.

Reine Corlis (OC) and Maul share a tender moment. Is it a meditation? A confession? A goodbye?...

Crime is hard, have a cuddle.

[return-of-the-queen]

“Just the tip.” with Loser!König. (🌽 link)

König claims you're being cruel when you refuse to let him take you however he wants. But, you're not oblivious. You know that if you were to give König the opportunity and freedom to treat you however he pleases, he'd brutalise your cunt.

König's silver eyes flicker from yours to your slick, glistening pussy. He runs his calloused fingertips back and forth over your wet heat, spreading your folds to admire every inch of your skin. He takes in a deep, sharp breath at the sight ahead of him, the scent of your arousal, and the way your aroused hole drools and leaks with euphoria. The tip of König's large cock oozes out thick and pearly creaminess, while your sweet cunt drips with pleasure and lust. König begins to rock his broad hips and push his boner against your tight hole, grinding his length back and forth while taking in your scent. His speech is slurred and incoherent, becoming drunk off of the sensation of your pulsing pussy against his shaft.

“Godverdammt, Maus. Bitte, lass mich dich komplett haben..” (Damn it, mouse. Please, let me have you all..”

König grumbles out as he rolls his bulbous length back and forth against your sensitive clit, stimulating you to hear those loud, pleased moans and cries for more. He rolls his eyes to the back of his head and continues to buck his sturdy hips into you, groaning out deliriously as he fantasies about folding you in half and fucking you ruthlessly and relentlessly. You can feel each vein rub against your folds, coating you in his thick creaminess that drips from the head of his cock. He smears his white arousal along your pussy and digs his teeth into your skin, his large hand forcefully spreading your thighs as he quickens his pace.

He humps you, like a mutt in heat. His meaty cock swells with arousal before he begins to lose himself. Each stroke and thrust sends him closer to the edge, before he's uncontrollably coming all over your slick cunt, creating a sticky mess between your thighs that he'll clean up later, using his mouth.

[return-of-the-queen]

thinking about nerdy!könig who can't get enough of the hot bimbo who finally gave him a chance. all dressed in pink and sparkles, he can't get enough of you. a pretty little dumb thing who needs tutoring. naturally, he jumped at the chance to get close to you. little did he know, you could teach him a few things too..

his hands nervously on your hips, glasses fogged due to how close your face was too his. rough but shaky hands running up and down your thighs, discreetly sliding his fingers under your skirt, trying to memorize the feeling of your skin on his fingertips.

quiet babbling slipping from his lips as you lazily bounce up and down on his cock, jumping in and out of german, the feeling of being inside you making him absolutely pussydrunk. "baby, bitte, bitte..please," his whimpers fill your ears...

-

i'm officially back baby (i need to be sedated asap)

[return-of-the-queen]

i do not remember these battalions being in the show….?

[return-of-the-queen]

The Arrangement {Star Wars: Maul/Savage/Feral} Summary & Ao3 Link

This is a collection of the tales and adventures of the Nightsister Kaja as she travels the galaxy with brothers Maul, Savage, and Feral. Their shared desire for her – and her for them – leads to the formation of a polyamorous (and usually civil) relationship. Peace, however, is rarely in the cards as their passions and desires for power and revenge are wells that never run dry. Come for the smut and bloodlust, stay for the intimacy and angst.

*AU & OOC (neither too dramatic)

Ao3 Fic Link HERE

Kaja Playlist HERE

Trigger Warnings Include: Explicit sexual content, dubious consent, canon typical violence, mentions of menstruation, mentions of pregnancy

**This was originally posted to tumblr in 2019-2022, so if anything seems familiar, don't be alarmed. It was me.

[return-of-the-queen]

Rise of the Viper Queen {Star Wars: The Clone Wars} Summary & Ao3 Link

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away…

The Viper Squadron, a special operations unit headed by the Jedi General Qesya Vas’ni, is the most formidable in the Grand Army of the Republic. It was developed as a last-resort for troopers on their way to being decommissioned for insubordination. General Vas’ni and her six troopers become known for not only their high success rate on missions, but also their brutality in combat and suspiciously close relationship. Their exploits and on-the-border rule-breaking are often the talk of Kamino and hotly debate in the Jedi Council, but their ability to take on the most difficult missions without suffering casualties makes them invaluable and impossible to prosecute.

This is a story of misfits and rebels as found family, functional chaos with a healthy dose of arson (and probably a few personality disorders), and comfort and compassion despite all the angst and tragedy. Experience a budding romance between a Chaotic Good jedi general and her highly unamused (and emotionally unavailable) commander through every grueling step, riddled with tension and self-sabotage. Enjoy a hurricane-like friendship between the general and three of her troopers, where the ecstasy of combat frequently bleed into the revelry of a night out, much to the chagrin of the more sane members of the squad.

Ao3 Fic Link HERE

Trigger Warnings Include: Canon typical violence

** This is an idea and characters that I've been working on since 2019. While I've done far too little writing for it, I do have a very extensive canon that reaches all the way into the current Star Wars timeline. Realistically, I will probably never get around to writing everything I have planned, so if you're curious about anything, please don't hesitate to "bother me" with questions. I would love to fill you in.

If any of this seems familiar, I did have some of this content (as well as headcanons and whatnot) posted on tumblr from 2019-2020. 

[return-of-the-queen]

The Queen's Directory

Fic Summaries with Ao3 Links

Star-Crossing (The Mandalorian)

The Arrangement (Star Wars / Maul/Savage/Feral)

Spectral Colors (MHA/Endeavor)

Rise of the Viper Queen (Star Wars: The Clone Wars)

Character Profiles and Playlists

Kaja's Playlist (The Arrangement/Star Wars) *links to Spotify & Ao3

[return-of-the-queen]

Spectral Colors (MHA -- Endeavor Imagine) Summary & Link

Iseri Kiyomi, hero name Shimmer, finds herself scouted by none other than the Endeavor agency immediately after graduation from UA. The Flame Hero saw great potential in her virtually indestructible Diamonds quirk and the positive reputation she was already building for herself in the hero community. As Shimmer rises through the ranks and becomes a valuable member of the agency, she finds herself becoming the constant patrol partner of the big man himself. She makes up for his lack of social finesse with her bright and eager personality, drawing positive publicity to both of them. And that's without taking into account the stunning lightshow created by their combined quirks and astonishing synchronicity. The public already couldn't get enough of their aesthetic and unusual dynamic. When their playfully rumored romantic involvement becomes more reality than fiction they find themselves scrambling to avoid scandal.

Ao3 Link to fic HERE

Trigger Warnings Include: Explicit sexual content, Canon typical violence (PLEASE SEE AO3 TAGS FOR MORE)

[return-of-the-queen]

Star-Crossing (The Mandalorian) Summary & Link

Din Djarin accepts a bounty to return a runaway wife to her wealthy husband, never suspecting such a mundane assignment would turn his world upside down. Seeing the abuse she suffers upon her return makes him feel guilty, so when she infiltrates his ship and holds him at gunpoint later that day, he doesn't put up much of a fight. The original agreement was only to take her off-world, but a curious bond quickly forms between the two. Akeeli complicates the Mandalorian's isolated and militant lifestyle by caring for his well-being, seeking to protect and comfort him, and determination to convince him he deserves better. Her stubborn, compassionate influence makes a meteor-like impact, especially when another bounty isn't quite what Din expected and he suddenly finds himself prioritizing something other than himself.

Ao3 Link to Fic HERE

Trigger Warnings Include: sexual assault, canon typical violence, blood and gore, explicit sexual content

**This fic was originally uploaded to tumblr in 2019 as season one of The Mandalorian was airing. My original tumbr account has been deleted and I have since reuploaded this fic on Ao3. So, here it is! I hope everyone enjoys it as much as they did the first time <3