#konwrites

[konigsm]

assasin simon riley x fem! reader

You, who hired the deadliest assassin in the kingdom to kill your fiance.

You, who also slipped past the palace guards and vanishing before they could force another marriage upon you.

You, who stowed away on a ship in desperation, unaware it belonged to the very man you'd once paid in blood coin.

And now, miles from shore, he finds you crouched in the orlop deck, half-hidden behind barrels and shadow.

"What the fuck are you doing here You Highness"

"I’m just—"

His sword is immediately to your throat "Don’t come any closer."

You blink, hands half-raised. "I wasn’t going to—"

"I want you off my ship, Your Highness."

"Fine, I’ll—"

He says it louder stepping forward, "Now!"

And your voice rose too, "We’re miles away from land—sailing through shark infested waters!"

"Not my problem."

And your eyes narrow, "You’d let me die out here?"

He steps even closer. The blade’s cold edge kisses your throat.

"I was paid to kill your fiancé, not babysit his runaway bride."

And you lift your chin defiantly, "Then I'll pay you."

He laughs, a short, joyless sound, "You think this is about coin?"

"Everything's about coin to men like you."

"You're wanted in four kingdoms, Your Highness."

And you snap at him without missing a beat, "And you're wanted in ten. What now?"

That earns u a pause from him, then he slowly raises an eyebrow. Goddd, you have no self preservation skills.

And then he signs, rubbing his eyebrow together "I'm so tired of you."

"No, I'm tired of you."

"You'll even be more tired swimming back to shore, princess."

I'm having crazy pirate x bratty princess brainrot y'all 💔 never married but always arguing like bitter divorced couple in a competition lol

[manyacivilmonster]

i think one of the most poignant things about kon we don’t see anymore is how much his character was deeply tied with masculinity AND misogyny. when westfield implied that kon inherited the sex pest gene from him, it was a crucial moment bc a lot of ppl will say editorial simply didn’t know any better when writing kon’s tenuous grasp on boundaries and his issues with consent. i disagree. i think EVERYONE knew that kon was weirdly hypersexual but let him get away with it bc they couldn’t ground him bc nobody was his parent. it’s the same reason why no one really stepped up to teach him better when he was actively being groomed and manipulated by knockout, and being crept on by tana. the supporting cast, SUPERMAN EVEN, knew that kon’s dalliances with older women were not exactly a good thing, but nobody was gonna step up to say anything bc it wasn’t any of their business.

after hypertime and tana’s death, the way kon interacts with girls shifts towards a more traditional, hypermasculine order, especially with cassie who does NOT wanna be treated like that. kon knows now that he has bad habits, but he does not want to be perceived as a creep anymore. at the same time, in the quest of not being seen as a creep, he ends up embodying the other part of the problem that is paul westfield - deeply rooted misogyny veiled underneath traditional masculinity.

although peter david and joe kelly successfully translated this conundrum into their young justice and later superboy issues, geoff did NOT. geoff kept the misogyny, but he forgot the grooming, manipulation, and Kon’s own history as a victim of child sex abuse. his relationship with masculinity and misogyny doesn’t work, and comes off like the way that it did in dark crisis and stmot, without his history of being a dnalien, without realizing that westfield likely trained his developing brain to consume porn and skinmags so he could ‘be like his father.’ it’s the classic toxic masculine ideal of a shitty father handing his kid violent pornography when he’s seven, and not at all perturbed when that seven yr old ends up getting manipulated and groomed by a predator. it’s a distinct view into how fathers will absolutely ruin their sons, if it means getting the last laugh.

it’s also why i think the clex angle only really works from a superficial lens because kon didn’t actually develop during ttv03. he was softbooted to a point where even physically he was unrecognizable.

all in all to say, i think that’s all part of why konwriting still struggles so deeply. his story isn’t just about his quest to be like superman, but also an allegory about kids who OD by age twenty. it’s why even waid’s kon+kenan backup feels so cheap bc it’s like - well why is he doing this? why does he act like that? hasn’t he learned a thing since sacrificing his life? in order to write kon half as well as 1994-2002, we would first need to admit that his initial run was actually good. and it was.

[konigsm]

simon 'ghost' riley x f! reader

You said you'd never date a soldier-meant to deflect, not to lie. But Ghost heard it. And Ghost doesn't let things slide. Not when you're fucking him behind closed doors.

first scene based on that one tiktok from @/rxvengxrl been on my mind since foreverrrrr. rewrote this 3 times, I should be studying for finals 😣🙏. Enjoy this 1.7k mess.

It had started small—just another rare moment of downtime in the common room. Price nursed his tea in the corner, Ghost and Gaz were half-watching the footie, Gaz more focused on his phone. You and Soap were sprawled on the couch, swinging from one easy conversation to another.

He told you about his sisters, growing up in Glasgow, some nonsense about uniform regulations—and then later sometime he asked, “What d’you think about dating military men?”

You laughed. Easy. Dismissive. “Oh, no. I’d never.”

Not because it was true. But because it was safer that way. Safer than saying yes. Safer than inviting Soap’s curiosity. Ghost had been clear—keep it quiet, don’t give anyone a reason to start looking too closely.

But then you heard the shift. A faint rustle from the other side of the room.

You glanced—just for a moment—and caught his eyes. Ghost. Watching.

Only briefly. Then he turned away, smooth as ever, like it didn’t mean anything.

But your stomach dropped.

Were you… not supposed to say that?

°.•°`..°•`~.

Later that night, after dinner, there’s a knock at your door.

You already know who it is.Your stomach tightens—heavy, uncertain—and your fingers are still damp from the shower when you open it.

There he is. No gear, no mask. Just the black standard-issue tee stretched across broad shoulders, dark pants hanging loose at the hips. Short hair a little tousled. Face unreadable.

“Can I come in?” he asks, voice low.

You step aside without a word, letting him in.

He walks in like he always does—calm, quiet. You close the door behind him.

“Eat well?” he asks, tone almost casual.

It throws you off. Makes you hesitate. Because he never asks things like that. Not like that.

But he’s here. He’s calm. He looks fine. Maybe what you thought earlier was just you spiraling. Maybe the look in the common room wasn’t anything at all.

You nod. Try to maqtch his ease. “Yeah. I did.”

He just hums, like that’s all he needed to know. Settles into your bed.

You’re still standing by the door, hair a little damp against your skin. Ghost is on your bed, legs spread slightly, hands braced behind him, shoulders relaxed like he owns the space.

Then, without looking at you—like it’s just habit—he says, “Lock the door.”

Your hand moves before your brain catches up. The click of the lock sounds louder than it should.

A pause.

Then “Come here.”

You hesitate. Just for a second. Then step forward.

“Faster, love.”

It’s not sharp—more amused. But it punches right through your chest anyway. You move a little quicker, though the few feet between you feel like a stretch of no-man’s land.

You stand in front of him, heart thudding. He looks up at you with that unreadable expression, one brow arched just slightly.

Then, a low and deliberate “Sit down.”

You move to sit beside him on the bed, unsure, already lowering yourself when—

“Tsk.” A sharp littlpe sound of disapproval. He shifts, tilting his head just a bit. “On the ground, darling.”

Your breath catches. Just a beat. Then—p

You obey.

Knees brushing the floor. Looking up at him now.

And he looks down at you. Doesn’t say anything at first.

Just lifts a hand, rough fingers brushing along your cheek. The calluses catch on your skin, slow and deliberate. His touch is gentle in a way that makes it worse—like you don’t deserve the softness.

His thumb grazes one of the faint, healed scars near your jaw—leftovers from past missions. He sees them as something earned. Little victories.

You’re still looking up at him when his thumb shifts, presses against your bottom lip—just enough to part it. You stay still, breathing uneven.

Then he slips it in.

Slow. Purposwful. Thumb brushing against your tongue, tracing your gumline.

“Open,”

Your mouth parts a little more, and he presses down, pad of his thumb resting heavy on your tongue. A breath. A hum from him, low and knowing.

“Baby’s getting brave, yeah?”

You blink. Make a muffled little noise—questioning. Confused.

“Hm?” he says, thumb still in your mouth. “The common room, love. What was all that about?”

Your eyes go wide.

So it was about the common room.

Fuck.

His thumb rubs slow against your tongue, teasing more than anything. You don’t mean to react—but you do. Reflexive. Natural.

You suck, just a little.

His eyes darken. Not with surprise—he knew you’d do that. A flicker of a smirk. Barely there. “You’d never date a soldier, huh? That what you said, love?”

Your heart stutters. You shake your head, just slightly—like maybe that’ll undo it somehow.

But he doesn’t pull away.

He just watches you.

Waiting.

“You were gonna say more,” he says, voice soft but edged with steel. “They’re so what?”

His thumb slips out, slow and wet, dragging across your lip, wiping against your cheek, as he pulls back.

He tilts his head. Still calm. Still watching.

“Fucked up?” he murmurs. “Disposable? Not your type, eh?”

Then he moves. Subtle but sure. One booted foot lifts—presses between your thighs. Not hard. Just there. Crowding into your space.

“Say it again.”

“Simon—” you start, breath catching.

“No.”

“Say it again. Tell me you wouldn’t. Look me in the eyes this time.”

You try.

Your mouth opens, but the words don’t come. They’ve dissolved—ash on your tongue. Because you can’t say it.

His hand comes up, fingers curling around your throat—not squeezing, not hurting. Just enough pressure to ground you. To make sure you feel it.

His thumb settles over your pulse, dragging a slow circle. You know he can feel how fast your heart is beating

“Thought so,” he mutters.

Then he moves.

Bends low—not fast, not rushed—and his grip on your throat tightens just a touch, enough to pull you upward as he meets you halfway.

The kiss is firm. Heavy. A little messy. The angle’s off and it hurts—just slightly—pulling at your neck, your spine.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. Just enough to look at you.

He grabs your arm, pulls you up off your knees with ease, and turns you—pressing your back against the bed. The mattress dips beneath you, your breath catching as he leans over, eyes dark, mouth still slick from your kiss.

“C’mon then,” he murmurs, fingers sliding under your shirt, slow and deliberate, “show me how you really feel about soldiers.”

You moan—quiet and breathy—without meaning to. And his eyes flash at that.

Shirt’s up and over before you can even think. He tosses it somewhere behind him.

His follows, and the moment it hits the floor, his dog tags swing down—glinting in the low light, dangling above your face.

You don’t even hesitate.

You lean up and bite it. Teeth against the cool metal, tugging gently.

He huffs a laugh—half smirk, half growl. “Ah, yeah?” he mutters, voice rough with want.

And then his hands are at your waistband, tugging down your pants like it’s his right. Like you’re his. Which, maybe, is half true.

His fingers find your cunt easily, slick and wanting, and he hums like he already knew what he’d find.

“Don’t date soldiers, huh?” he murmurs, fingers slipping between your folds, slow and deliberate. “But you let me do this to you?”

You gasp—sharp, desperate—as he slides two fingers in without warning. The stretch burns in the best way, and your hips buck before you can stop yourself.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Mouth says no. Body’s fuckin’ beggin’, love.”

Your reply’s a choked moan, head falling back against the bed, hands fisting in the sheets

But then he’s over you, lined up and steady, and when he finally pushes in—thick and deep—your back arches with a sob.

“Let me hear it again,” he growls, hips pressing flush to yours. “Go on. Say it.”

You try—but it’s all noise, no words, your mouth open and panting, brain slipping somewhere hazy and hot.

“Say it when I’m inside you.”

He shifts just slightly, angling his hips—and it hits dead-on.

“Fuck—!” you scream, the sound torn raw from your throat as he pounds into that spot over and over, unrelenting.

It’s too much. It’s everything.

Your body’s trembling, your vision blurring, and all you can do is hold on as he fucks you.

He's got one hand braced on the bed beside your head, holding himself steady as he drives into you, each thrust making the frame creak under the weight of him. His other hand moves up-gentle, almost reverent-pushing sweaty strands of hair out of your face so he can see you.

Really see you.

"That's it, love," he murmurs, voice thick with heat. "Scream for me."

Another thrust. Harder. Deeper.

"Let everyone fuckin' hear ya."

You sob, high-pitched and wrecked.

"Let them know whose cock you're takin'.

You'd like that, wouldn't ya?”

You nod-whimper-and he gives you another sharp thrust for it, making your whole body jerk.

Your climax crashes over you like a wave, sharp and devastating, your cry echoing off the walls. You clench around him, tight and shaking, and he groans—loud, deep in his chest—before burying himself to the hilt.

His hips stutter. One. Two. And then he’s gone with a growl, spilling inside you, pressing so deep it’s like he’s trying to leave part of himself behind.

For a long second, it’s just panting. Heat. Sweat. The smell of sex thick in the air.

Then he collapses forward with a grunt, his full weight settling on you like a goddamn boulder.

You squirm under him, breathless, still trembling. “Agh—fuck,” you groan, voice hoarse. “You’re heavy, y’know that?”

He huffs a laugh against your shoulder, not moving an inch. “You’re warm.”

“Simon.”

“Shh,” he murmurs, kissing your skin lazily, like he didn’t just ruin you completely. “Just a minute."

And even though you're still trying to catch your breath, you let him.

Because it’s Simon.

A minute he asks, you'll give him 5. (yes a 5, not a forever because you'll suffocate and die after 5 minutes)

Could u guys tell I get my bad humour from my Wattpad days (i can't seem to evolve)

[konigsm]

ghost x soap || price x gaz

Price calls Simon at night, discovers a naked seargent (and vice-versa). Slightly inspired by that one fanart but idk how to tag yet haha...😔

It’s 2:17 am in the morning when Simon’s phone lights up.

He groans, buried beneath a fortress of thick blankets, only his eyes and the bridge of his nose exposed. The soft glow of his bedside lamp is the only illumination in the room. He blinks at the screen. Incoming Video Call: John Price.

For a moment, he considers letting it ring out. But Price wouldn’t call at this hour unless it was important—or unless he wanted to ruin Simon’s life for fun. Both were equally likely.

He swipes to answer, grumbling. The camera shakes a little as he props the phone against a half-empty water glass on his nightstand.

"This better be important," Simon mutters, voice gravelly with sleep.

"It is," Price says, and of course he’s wide awake. "Logistics foul-up. The KSK’s shipment got rerouted and HQ’s asking for an overnight fix and—

Simon groans again, pushing himself up slightly, blanket still wrapped tightly around him like a burrito. He squints at his screen. Price is sat at his desk, files spread everywhere, his lights on too bright for Simon's eyes.

Simon isn’t even halfway through processing the intel when,—

"Si, what's going on?"

The voice is muffled, somewhere off-screen.

Simon doesn’t react.

Because a second later, John "Soap" MacTavish shuffles into frame behind him—bare chested, hair wild, one arms propped up to look at what the noise and light was about.

A beat.

"...Was that MacTavish?" Price asks, entirely too calm.

Simon doesn’t blink, "No."

"Simon," Johnny whispers, off-screen now but very audible. "I think you’re on a call. Are you—? Oh. Oh shite."

He tries to dive out of view but it's far too late. Price has seen everything. But he’s not the only one.

Because just as the moment descends into awkward silence, another voice pipes up—

"John? What’s going on—?"

Gaz.

Gaz, who is very clearly in Price’s room. Also shirtless. Also blinking into the camera like a confused puppy.

He stops mid-step when he sees the screen.

And sees Johnny.

And sees Simon.

"JOHNNY?" he yells. "What the fuck are you doing in Lt.'s bed?! NAKED?!"

Johnny, already halfway into Simon’s oversized hoodie, stares at Gaz. And then—bursts into laughter.

"Me?! You’re in the Captain’s bed! Naked! Look at your face—you’ve got a bloody pillow line!"

Gaz’s hand shoots up to his cheek, betrayed by the faintest crease. "This isn’t—! That’s not—!"

Price sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I regret every decision that led us here," he mutters.

Simon’s eyes are closed now. He is meditating. Disassociating. Possibly considering disappearing into the walls.

"I'm hanging up," he says.

"Yeah," Price agrees. "Same."

When the call drops, Johnny rolls onto the bed closer to him, wheezing with laughter, hoodie half on. "You think they're shaggin' too?"

Simon doesn’t answer. Just pulls the blanket back over his head.

Somewhere, in another room, Gaz is shouting about "context" while Price lights a cigarette with the expression of a man who’s seen too much.

[konigsm]

ghost x soap

The "I'm so hungry I could eat 'your ex'" trend but with simon and soap !! (Also the ex is just some random british name) [500 words]

They had gotten back from the mission a night ago. Soap laid sprawled across Simon’s thighs, head pillowed against one muscled leg, his own legs stretched across the couch.

Simon sat with his back against the wall, one hand on his phone, the other resting idly in Soap’s hair.

“I’m so hungry,” Soap muttered, eyes half-lidded.

Simon didn’t even glance down. “We just ate, Johnny.”

“Still,” he said, “I’m so hungry I could eat James Thomas Brown.”

Simon’s thumb froze mid-scroll, he tipped his head and fixed Soap with a look.

“What?”

Soap blinked up at him. “I said I’m so hungry I could eat James Thomas Brown.”

Simon set the phone down with deliberate calm, spine straightening as he shifted.

“What are you talking about?” Simon asked, eyes narrowing.

“I said—”

“I heard you,” Simon cut in, “Where did you hear that name?”

Soap shrugged, “I dunno. It’s just a saying.”

Simon raised a brow, biting a smile, “Oh, is it now?”

“Yeah.” Soap nodded, not backing down. “Real common. Everyone says it.”

Simon let out a breath, almost a laugh, His hand moved, fingers brushing through Soap’s hair again, softer this time, thumb tracing the curve of the old scar at his temple.

“You’re saying you’re so hungry… you’d eat my ex-boyfriend.”

Soap just shrugged, all nonchalant, still sprawled across Simon’s lap like a smug little bastard.

“Aye. James Thomas Brown. Rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?”

Simon stared down at him, baffled and borderline offended. “It doesn’t,” he said flatly. “At all. Sounds like a tax lawyer from Salford.”

“Oh, so you know what he does now?”

Simon blinked. “What?”

“You keep up with him?” Soap pressed, lifting his head a little, like he was genuinely scandalised. “You keep tabs on James Thomas Brown?”

Simon let out a breath of disbelief, “Where’s all this coming from?”

Soap’s brow arched. “I dunno. You tell me. Why do you know what he does?”

Simon gave him a look. That look. The one that said are you seriously doing this right now. Johnny stared right back, unblinking.

“I didn’t peg you for the jealous type,” Simon said finally, amused now, voice low and lazy with the beginnings of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Soap shrugged.

“You jealous?” Simon murmured, voice low, fingers still threading lazily through Johnny’s hair.

“Of James Thomas Brown?”

“Mhm.”

Soap snorted, eyes still closed, the ghost of a smirk on his lips. “No, I’m not jealous. I’m just hungry.”

Simon huffed a laugh under his breath. “You don’t need to be,” he said, voice softer now. “I dated him in… what, tenth grade? I don’t even remember half of it. Except that he loved collecting fridge magnets.”

Soap opened one eye, slow and suspicious. “And why do you remember that? Are you cheating on me emotionally?”

Simon groaned and leaned back against the wall like he was reassessing every major decision he’d ever made. “You’re a menace,” he said.

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately.”

Silence settled between them comfortably.

“You are hungry though, aren’t you,” he said quietly.

“Starvin’.”

Simon sighed through his nose and shifted, nudging Johnny off his lap with careful hands, gentle but firm.

“Come on, then,” he said, already standing. “If you start gnawing on my exes I’ll have to put you down.”

Soap rolled onto his back with a groan. “Romantic.”

“I try.”

[manyacivilmonster]

u might think im joking, but 9/11 changed kon fundamentally and editorially. whereas the men in charge simply did not understand waid's vision about bart, they did understand kon, and actively chose to disregard kon's history in order to mold him into a grimdark clown with daddy issues palatable to the teenies watching WB11/CW at the time (me included). bart, at least, was disliked enough that u can ignore everything geoffian and didioist and be fine bc sterling gates and bendis worked hard to shed him of the geoffian/didioist narrative, but kon's forever stuck being known as the guy whose story doesn't make sense bc they simply didn't care enough about his origins to make it make sense. there's a reason why teen titans 2003-2011 sucks so many musty balls. there's a reason why superboy 1994 feels so dramatically different than other superboy content post-graduation day. there's a reason why it's easier for people to say tim's the one for kon cuz judd winick wanted a laugh, when the pre-2003 narrative positioned bart as his queer awakening, with joe kelly pulling out his canon dead girlfriend to highlight his grief and longing. we don't get good kon stories anymore cuz editorial doesn't even wanna admit tana moon exists. sad! there will never be any justice for konwriting if we cannot give kon his history back! his old friends! his past loves! his origin story as a DNAlien. dubby and roxy. childhood exploitation in the entertainment biz. him being a victim of CSA without realizing he was a victim of CSA. people looking the other way when he was at his lowest. geoff, when i GET you-

[manyacivilmonster]

he literally loved her so much, and she left him, berated him, DIED, and they don't even wanna acknowledge her existence anymore..... konwriting will never be back at peak levels until they start admitting he was a TRAGIC figure, and not some way for white people in dc corporate to channel their heterosexual masculine ideals post 9/11. he was a struggler bc of the people who abused him despite him loving them SO much. not bc he has luthor's dna. he could have dog dna and that shit would not matter half as much as how much critical damage tana did to his psyche.

[manyacivilmonster]

i know lotta comic characters have love interests that come and go, but like, that is NOT what happened with tana and kon. that was his girl, despite everything, and she died bc of him. there’s a reason why kon is such a mess of a character these days and why not even post-resurrection koncassie could persist after all the wb 11/CW-esque drama llama. geoff and didio retconned his damn origin story to retrofit him for an era about daddy issues and living on a farm post-9/11 but thru comic book lens aka conner kent. dying just made him dead, and coming back just left him to float around like a dud bc we never actually saw him reckon with the horrors done to him throughout superboy 1994. until those horrors and his friends from the ravers are canon again, we’re stuck in this perpetual loop of terribly boring konwriting.

[manyacivilmonster]

i think the reason why it’s so hard for me to take konwriting seriously these days is bc the writers and editors themselves don’t seem to take any of the original konwriting seriously. which always begs the question - why are you writing him when u obviously don’t like where he comes from and what he represents? his original character model wasn’t supposed to titillate shippers OR superman loyalists. he was, both in theory and in practice, a derivative of superman like steel. he’s for the audience of ppl who were growing up neglected, exploited, and prone to trouble bc they didn’t have discipline or structure in their lives. he was a way for readers to see how abusive relationships could form when teenagers trusted adults who didn’t have their best intentions at heart. he was way for ppl to see what the 80’s obsession with booze, babes, and partying could do to a kid with little to no boundaries. he’s hypersexual and hypersexualized. he’s creepy with girls. he is creeped on by adults. he settles for terrible adults in his nexus bc he doesn’t wanna be alone, and bc foster care for clones like him is a lab. he’s what happens when you have no one who actually knows how to take care of you, even if they love you. he’s the guy you knew growing up who fucked college girls while in high school, who then OD’d by the time he was twenty-five. he’s a stark AND depressing representation of teenage superheroing in the era right before 9/11. the books between 1993 and 2002 CONSTANTLY highlight that. but for some reason, both editors and writers elect to ignore every little thing that make him unique.