aaravosss

[aaravosss]

splinter

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader tags/cw: smut (eventually). free use. fixed simon pov. forced proximity bordering on captivity. somno. voyeurism. all that said this is probably the most wholesome thing i've ever written lol

your car breaks down in a snowstorm. a crude stranger takes you in from the cold.

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5

or [read on ao3]

extras

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[aaravosss]

On Friendship.

[aaravosss]

GYM CRUSH SIMON

sfw + nsfw. unsafe sex. womb fucking. no condom.

you never planned on becoming a late-night gym rat. it just …happened. like most things in your life, it started with good intentions and spiraled into something you weren’t entirely in control of.

you’d made a new year’s resolution to get in shape— because health, discipline, all that crap— and, in a moment of overzealous optimism, you splurged on a gym membership. a pricey one, to add. the kind that made your bank account cry, which meant quitting wasn’t an option.

there was only one problem. you were busy. between classes, assignments, and the absolute joke that was your sleep schedule, the only time you could consistently work out was well past normal human hours.

at first, the idea of hitting the gym at midnight felt… weird. like stepping into a parallel universe where only insomniacs and questionable life choices existed. but then you considered the alternative— going during peak hours and getting judged for your piss-poor form, or worse, waiting in line for machines behind a dude who was live-streaming his workout.

midnight schedule it was.

it grew on you eventually. the routine became second nature. drag yourself in after class, half-asleep, toss your bag into a locker, and start on the treadmill to wake yourself up. a slow warm-up, music blasting through your headphones, then a mostly half-hearted attempt at strength training.

the people who showed up at this hour were predictable. a few other students— dead-eyed, running on caffeine fumes. a handful of older folks, the dedicated ones who treated the gym like a sacred temple.

and then there was him.

tall. broad. built like something out of a military recruitment ad.

the first time you noticed him, you’d nearly tripped on the treadmill. one second, you were zoning out, staring at the clock, and the next— there he was. buzz cut barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, arms thick with muscle, veins running down his forearms in stark lines. tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, black ink tracing the ridges of his skin.

(the combat boots were what threw you off. who the hell wore combat boots to the gym?)

he moved through his workout with terrifying

efficiency. no wasted movements, no unnecessary pauses. heavyweights. circuits. the kind of training that looked more like preparation for war than casual fitness. he never looked winded either. no gasping for breath, no pausing to rest, just relentless, controlled effort.

you developed a— not a crush— an appreciation for him. admiration. respect. that was it. not the way his hoodie stretched across his shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the barbell. not the way his jaw clenched in concentration. not the way his fingers wrapped around the weights with an ease that made you feel woefully inadequate.

“it’s a crush,” your friend announced one evening, stabbing a straw into his juice box.

you scoffed, flipping through your notes. “it’s not.”

“it is. i’m fit too, but i don’t see you staring at me like you wanna lick salt off my abs.”

you made a disgusted noise. “jesus, shut up.”

he grinned, tipping his juice box back dramatically. “i’m just saying. the fact that you haven’t even talked to him and yet know his entire workout routine is very-"

“i do not know his entire workout routine.”

your friend raised a brow.

you sighed. “…he does back and legs on tuesdays.”

his brow lifted higher.

“…and arms on thursdays.”

silence.

“right.”

“shut up.”

you’d considered talking to him. maybe asking for tips or making some awkward joke about his frankly ridiculous choice of gym footwear. but he didn’t exactly radiate approachable.

the man looked like he’d rather be waterboarded than engage in small talk.

and you? you weren’t some plucky rom-com protagonist who could charm the brooding loner into friendship with a dazzling smile and sheer force of personality. so, you kept your distance. which was fine. totally fine.

What the hell would you even say? “hey, nice pecs, can I bury my face between them?” he’d call the police on you.

so, you stayed quiet..

until the night you made the monumentally stupid decision to start lifting weights.

in your defense, it wasn’t entirely your idea. you were perfectly content with your usual treadmill-and-machines routine. but then your friend had to go and mock you.

“you’re paying for a full gym membership,” he said, flicking a fry at your forehead, “and you’re not even using the weight room?”

“i use it,” you protested.

“you walk through it.”

okay, fine. he had a point. which was how you ended up here, standing in front of a barbell, mentally preparing yourself to lift it like you were about to perform brain surgery.

you’d done your research— watched some youtube tutorials, read some articles. you knew the basics. foot placement. core engagement. not arching your back like a possessed demon.

you took a deep breath, squared your stance, wrapped your hands around the bar, and— nothing.

the bar didn’t budge.

you frowned, adjusted your grip. another deep breath. still nothing.

okay. you could do this. just, more force. maybe a little momentum. you planted your feet, sucked in a breath, and heaved—

"y’need a spotter?"

you startle so hard you nearly fall backward, breath catching as you whip around. close— he’s close, and jesus, he’s even bigger up close. broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes flicking between you and the barbell like he’s already making peace with witnessing an injury. his hoodie is pulled up like always, shadows cutting sharp over the edges of his jaw, but there’s something vaguely unimpressed about his expression. braced for disaster.

you swallow. "uh."

his brow lifts, expectant, as if this is some kind of trick question. "that a yes or a no?"

"i-" your brain short-circuits. every ounce of confidence you had a second ago shrivels up and dies. "i totally got this."

he exhales sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh. he shifts his weight, one foot bracing slightly forward. "sure you do.

your face heats. you turn back to the barbell, fingers tightening around the metal, and pull. it lifts— barely. your arms burn, hands already sweating, but you’re stubborn. you have it. almost.

"you’re about to smash your fucking face in," he mutters.

you falter— just for a second— but that’s all it takes. your grip slips, the weight tilting. shit, shit, shit!

he moves fast. faster than you expect. before you can even panic properly, his hands brace yours, steadying the bar with zero effort. he’s strong, fingers wrapping over yours for a brief moment before smoothly guiding the weight back onto the rack like it weighs nothing. you stumble back, arms trembling from the strain, but he doesn’t step away yet, just watches you catch your breath.

"right," he says after a beat, stepping back. "now that you’ve definitely got it, mind if i give you some actual pointers?"

you blink up at him, still processing the fact that you almost died, and this guy just saved your life like it was nothing. "you train people?"

"no. just rather not watch someone crush their skull in." which is… fair, you suppose.

you wipe your sweaty palms on your leggings, trying not to look as embarrassed as you feel. "okay. please. teach me."

you and simon— you learn his name by the third day!— slowly fall into a routine, much to his chagrin. he hadn’t expected offering to help you not splatter brain matter across the gym floor would lead to... this. a persistent presence. a shadow in his periphery.

he doesn’t know how it happened, how you managed to wedge yourself into the one place he thought was untouchable, but somehow, you did. and now, you’re there. always. not in an overbearing way. you don’t talk his ear off or force yourself on him. if anything, you’re surprisingly easy to be around. and worse— comfortable. which is fucking dangerous.

a routine starts forming. he hadn’t expected that offering to help you not crush your own skull under a barbell would lead to… this. hadn’t expected that you’d still be here, three days later, four, a week, waving at him when he walks in, bright-eyed and warm despite the ungodly hour. he tries to keep you at arm’s length, really, he does.

but you’re not loud. you don’t force yourself on him. you don’t pry or try to push past his walls— you just exist, alongside him, like it’s a natural thing in the world. you ask him questions, ease him into conversations so seamlessly that sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s talking until he’s already halfway into answering.

"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"

he glances at you, then down at his battered over-ear set, blinking like he’d forgotten they were even on. "sometimes."

you hum, stepping up to adjust your weights. "what kinda music?

he hesitates. "depends."

"on?"

"the day."

you narrow your eyes. "that’s not an answer."

"sure it is."

you mutter something under your breath about how “everyone in this gym is allergic to giving a straight answer,” but drop it— he notices that about you. you ask, but you never push. never press. you’re content with whatever he gives, and somehow that makes him want to give you more.

it’s little things at first. small details. he learns that you hate most protein juices but drink it anyway, that you run cold so you always wear a hoodie even when you’re sweating through it, that you hate country music and give him a long, horrified look when you learn that he doesn’t. ("not all of it," he defends, rolling his eyes. "some of it’s alright." you just shake your head at him like he’s beyond saving.)

you learn things too. that his tattoos are actually a full sleeve ("when’d you get these?" "over time." "wow, thanks, that clears so much up."), that he has an endless supply of grey hoodies and sweatpants that he refuses to explain.

"you ever heard of color?" you ask, plucking at his sleeve, and he swats your hand away. "practical," he grunts. "s’not a fuckin’ fashion show."

and then— of course— you fixate on the boots. the combat boots. “okay, but why?” you prod, nudging the toe of his boot with yours. “you know you can wear actual gym shoes, right?”

he gives you a flat look, expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. “they’re my only pair.”

you freeze. your face twists, and there’s this flicker of genuine horror in your eyes that throws him completely off guard. “simon... are you... homeless?” your voice drops to a whisper, hesitant, like you’re afraid to even ask. his brain short-circuits. he smacks you lightly over the head, more shocked than anything.

"what the fuck- no, i'm not homeless, jesus."

you rub the spot with a pout, still eyeing him like you're not completely convinced. “well, i don’t know,” you mumble.

“you wear the same thing every day, never see you with a bag or a wallet or-”

“drop it.”

“-you don’t even buy pre-workout, simon, who does that-”

“drop it.”

some days, he comes into the gym in a mood. the kind where his head is full of static, his skin prickling with the restless need to exhaust himself into oblivion. those are the days he doesn’t want to talk. doesn’t want to be seen. and you— you notice. you don’t come up to him, don’t pester him or try to joke around like normal. instead, you just stand off to the side, watching him with this soft, wide-eyed expression like some kind of kicked puppy.

it’s unbearable.

like an itch under his skin that won’t go away. it eats at him, gnaws at the edges of his concentration, and before he can help it, he’s groaning and gesturing you over with a sharp flick of his fingers. “for fuck’s sake, just get over here already.”

you grin like you’ve won something, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you jog over, and he regrets it immediately.

you bring him coffee sometimes. at first, he doesn’t know how to react. he just stares at it when you shove the cup into his hands, blinking down at the little scribbled name on the side like it’s some kind of foreign object. he doesn’t even like sugary coffee, but he drinks it anyway.

the next day, guilt eats at him, so he shoves a protein shake into your hands, unwilling to meet your eyes. "s’only fair."

you squint at it, shake the bottle, listening to the liquid inside slosh around. “what’s in it?”

he scoffs. "fuckin’ cyanide."

you take an exaggerated sniff before grinning. “smells like peanut butter.”

his eye twitches. “just drink it.”

and then, somehow, that becomes a thing, too. a habit. every other day, one of you brings the other something— coffee, protein shakes, the occasional energy drink when you can tell he’s running on fumes.

one night, the gym is nearly empty. just the hum of air conditioning, the occasional clink of metal, the low buzz of some forgotten playlist over the speakers. the late hour has driven most people out, leaving only you and simon.

you’re exhausted, arms shaking, muscles burning with that deep, satisfying ache, but you’re pushing for one more rep. just one.

simon stands behind you, watching through the mirror. arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward. tracking every movement, every shift in your stance, the way your hands tighten around the bar.

"you're on fumes," he mutters, but steps closer anyway, close enough that the heat of him presses against your back.

you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists. “i got it.”

he exhales sharp through his nose, scoff and sigh rolled into one, but he doesn’t argue. just moves in, bracketing your sides, his presence steadying.

"alright," he murmurs, watching as you adjust your grip.

you brace yourself, pull, and the weight barely moves. your arms burn immediately, tendons screaming under the strain. your grip shifts, fingers trembling, slipping—

his hands are there. firm and certain, sliding just beneath yours, adjusting your hold without taking over. his chest nearly against your back, his breath warm against the top of your head.

"fix that grip, sweetheart."

you do, fingers locking down harder, shoulders bracing. he doesn’t let go, not fully, his palms ghosting over your forearms, steadying you just enough.

"lock it out," he says, quiet but insistent. his hands shift, one flattening against your stomach, the other hovering at your ribs, like he can feel where the tension is pulling wrong, where you need to engage. "push through. i’ve got you."

your breath stutters, something curling low in your stomach, and you force everything into that last pull, dragging the bar up, arms shaking, until you finally lock it out.

his fingers press in, just briefly, a quick squeeze at your ribs. "good."

you hold it for a second before guiding the weight back down, slow and controlled. the second it racks, your body gives, arms dead, shoulders screaming.

you stumble, just a little, and his hands are already there, catching at your waist. warm. solid. fingers pressing in just enough to steady you. they linger, just a second too long.

and then— "good girl."

barely above a murmur, just breath and heat against your skin, but it slams through you all the same.

your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.

you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.

and he’s right there. solid. massive. crowding you. broad chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to the fabric stretched over muscle. too close, heat rolling off him, sinking into your skin, and making your stomach twist. up close, he’s all sharp lines and thick muscle, biceps flexing slightly as he rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head down to look at you.

"don’t-" your voice breaks. you swallow hard. "don’t do that."

simon’s brow lifts, lazy. "don’t do what, sweetheart?"

your fingers twitch at your sides. you gesture vaguely, heat curling up your spine. "that. the- the praise."

his mouth quirks, amusement flickering at the edges. "what, telling you you’re doing good?"

"yes."

he makes a sound low in his throat. "why? thought you liked it."

you try to start a defense, but he steps closer, and fuck, there’s nowhere to go.

"you did so good," he murmurs. his hand lifts, brushing over the curve of your waist. "pushed yourself real hard. took every single rep like a good girl."

your breath catches and oh, does he catch on to that.

"you like hearing that, don’t you?" his fingers curl, pressing into your hip. "knowing i’m right there, watching you, making sure you finish strong."

low, warm, approving—

"bet that’s why you pushed so hard," he continues, like he’s musing to himself. "just to hear me say it. just to make me proud."

simon’s eyes flicker to the vein in your neck. his other hand lifts, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, slow, almost tender.

"say it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "let me take care of you.”

“please.”

the rest of the gym is a blur. you don’t even register leaving, don’t remember how you end up outside, only that simon’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, dragging you through the parking lot with a single-minded purpose. the concrete expanse is empty except for simon’s truck parked just underneath a street lamp.

simon hauls you into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him. the truck rocks with the force of it, windows already fogging, the stale scent of leather and the last remnants of his cologne in the air. the streetlights outside cast a dim glow that cuts through the darkness in thin streaks, glinting off the sweat at his temples.

his hands are on you before you can think. rough, impatient. he grabs your hips, yanks you into his lap, drags you down until you crash against him. the heat of him burns through every layer between you.

his hips roll up.

you jolt, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping tight as the thick shape of him grinds against your clit. even through the fabric, you feel everything— the ridges, the weight, the solid pressure slotting perfectly against you.

he does it again.

your breath catches, legs tensing where they straddle his thighs. you try to move, to adjust, but his hands flex, fingers digging in, keeping you pinned where he wants you.

"shh," simon hushes, arm against your skin, grip tightening as he forces you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you. "let me feel you."

his hips drag against you and you react before your brain can catch up, instinct driving you forward, grinding down, chasing the pressure.

his breath stutters, shoulders tensing as he watches you move. the friction grows slicker, hotter, the damp fabric sticking between you.

you glance down— and then you see it. his sweats, darkened, soaked where you grind against him, your arousal leaking through, making a mess of him.

"fuck-"

he exhales sharply, hands shifting, one palm smoothing down your thigh before gripping, pulling you into him.

"that’s it." he’s almost slurring his words now, his hips rolling up to meet yours. "so fuckin’ wet..."

your nails bite into his arms, your body working without thought, hips rolling, pressing down harder. the truck shifts with every movement, the worn leather seat creaking beneath you.

"fuck, baby." his lips brush your jaw. "so messy. feel that?"

you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.

his patience snaps.

one moment you’re grinding down against him, chasing the delicious friction, and the next you're scrambling for purchase as he lifts you.

simon shoves his sweats down, and his cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach. it's thick. throbbing. the flushed tip leaking pre, smearing along the ridges of his abs, catching in the dim of the streetlights.

he’s big. not just in length— though fuck, he’s long enough to make your stomach clench— but thick, too. veins run along the shaft, disappearing beneath the flushed, ruddy skin. the head is a deep, aching red, fat and swollen, leaking so much it dribbles down, streaking along his cock, mixing with the slick mess you’ve already made on him.

the weight of him makes his cock hang low even as it twitches, pulsing with the rush of blood. it looks almost angry, the veins along the base throbbing, his whole cock flexing with each slow pump of his fist as he strokes himself, spreading the mess of precum along his length.

simon watches your expression shift, pleased. "knew you’d like that.”

he's teasing but you barely hear it. your eyes stay locked on him, pulse hammering as you take in the sheer size, the stretch you’re about to take—

he shifts his grip, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other around his cock. your hips twitch, instinct making you reach for him, trying to press forward, but he holds you back, squeezes to get your attention.

"look at that..” simon presses the head of his cock against your stomach, dragging it up, smearing wet along your skin. "gonna take all this, yeah? let me stretch that little cunt open?"

"yes- yes, please-"

"fuck." his breath shudders, his hold on you tightening. "greedy thing."

he yanks you forward, spreads your legs wider, fits himself between your thighs, grinds his cock through your slit.

the first press makes you jolt, your whole body twitching, a choked sound slipping from your throat. he groans, gripping your waist, shoving you down, rubbing your swollen clit against the head, dragging himself through your slick over and over again.

"desperate," he muses, almost cruel. "thought you could take me just like that?"

you try to answer, try to say something, but your brain doesn't work, body too busy chasing relief, hips jerking, cunt aching, a mess of whimpers spilling from your lips.

his cock is heavy against your stomach, his tip leaving a damp streak along your skin as he drags it upward. the grip he has on your waist is firm, fingers pressing deep into your flesh, keeping you still, making sure you see exactly how much of him is about to disappear inside you.

“look at that,” he murmurs, lilted by something dark and pleased. “gonna fit all this inside, yeah? stretch that little cunt open real nice for me?”

your breath shudders in your throat. the weight of him, the sheer size, sends a pulse of heat through you, thighs trembling where he holds them apart. he presses his cock higher, smearing himself over your navel, dragging slow just to watch the way your stomach flexes beneath him.

simon's fingers tighten at your hips, anchoring you in place. his eyes flick up, locking onto yours. “still want it?”

you can’t nod fast enough, hands fisting in the hard muscle of his shoulders, your pulse drumming against your ribs. “yes-”

he huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. then he moves, his hands shifting to your waistband. simon doesn’t take his time, doesn’t tease— just yanks your shorts down in one rough motion, shoving them past your thighs, tossing them aside like they’re nothing.

your panties are soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to your skin, darker where arousal has seeped into it. his gaze drops, and he groans, fingers flexing against your thighs.

his eyes practically shine as he reaches down, hooking two fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric to the side instead of taking it off completely. “how long have you been sittin’ here all wet for me, huh?”

then, without warning, he lifts his cock and slaps it against your cunt. the obscene sound echoes between you.

you jolt, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. the weight of him presses down, drags over your swollen folds, smearing your slick along the length of him, leaving him just as messy as you.

simon's breath hitches, jaw going tight for a moment before he grins. “feel that?” he rocks his hips, slow and deliberate, the ridge of his head catching against your clit with every motion. “soaked for me. filthy girl.”

he keeps at it, rutting through your folds, dragging his cock against you in long, teasing glides. every lazy roll of his hips spreads more wetness between you, slick growing messier, needier, your arousal coating every inch of him.

his voice drops lower, almost awed. “you always this wet?”

you shake your head. you're not even sure why you're this wet. it’s obscene, every slow slide of him making a sticky, wet sound, the kind that makes your face burn with embarrassment.

his grip on your thighs tightens. he presses against you harder, lets his cock drag through the mess, smearing it everywhere, making it worse.

“just for me then?” he asks, watching the way his cock glistens, slick with everything you’ve given him. “i kind of like that.”

he lines himself up, pressing the thick, leaking tip against your aching entrance. he lets it catch there for a second, teasing, before dragging it up one last time, rubbing against your clit, watching you twitch beneath him.

then he settles back down, pressing again, the heavy weight of him poised to sink inside.

his eyes flick back to yours. “gonna let me in now, yeah?”

the first push is a mistake. he realizes it the second you tense up, sucking in a sharp breath, thighs trembling where they’re spread over his lap. his cock barely breaches you— just the tip, barely an inch— and your body locks up, refusing to take more.

simon grits his teeth, hands firm on your waist, trying to ease you down, but you’re too tight, squeezing around him like you’re trying to push him out. the head of his cock throbs where it’s barely inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you too much, too fast.

he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and tries again. rocks his hips, nudging deeper, letting you feel the weight of him pressing in. but you whimper, body trembling, nails biting into his skin. your walls clench down hard, resisting, and—

he stops. groans, and drops his head back against the seat.

"jesus christ." his palm drags over his face. "knew you were tight, but- fuck. you’re not gonna take me like this."

your face burns. your throat aches. frustration coils hot in your chest. "i’m sorry-"

"oh, sweetheart." simon's hands slide up your back, rough palms smoothing over your skin before he leans back, head tilting, eyes flicking over you. half amused, half exasperated. "you apologizing for having a cunt this tight?"

you sniffle, shifting in his lap, arousal sticky between your thighs. "but i wanted to-"

"you will." his voice is steady, calm, but his grip on your hips tightens. "just gotta take my time, yeah? don’t want you cryin’ when i finally get this cock in you."

you sniff again, blinking up at him, vision blurred, lips parted. "too late."

he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "fuckin’ hell."

then his hands are moving again, trailing lower, fingers slipping between your slick folds, pressing in slow.

you jolt at the touch, a sharp, wrecked little sound catching in your throat. simon groans, watching the way you twitch in his lap.

"fuck, baby. so sensitive. all worked up and nowhere to put it, huh?"

you nod, heat crawling up your neck, hips jerking as he rubs slow, lazy circles over your clit. his fingers are thick, rough, dragging through the mess between your thighs, teasing, pressing just enough to make your breath stutter.

"s’not fair," you mumble.

"life’s not fair, sweetheart." his fingers press in again, pushing deeper. one first, stretching you open, curling inside. then another. then a third. his other hand stays on your thigh, keeping you spread, holding you open so he can watch the way you take him.

"gotta get you nice and open." his voice low and warm. "don’t want you breakin’ on me just yet."

you whimper, rocking into his hand, clenching down around his fingers. your clit throbs under his thumb, swollen and aching, every slow grind of his palm sending another shudder through you.

"shh. just let me do this for you, yeah?"

you do. trembling, gasping, grinding down, taking everything he gives until you’re loose, slick, ready.

when he pulls his fingers out, you whine, walls fluttering around nothing.

then his cock is back, pressing against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing for only a moment before he pushes in—

you take him.

the stretch is unbearable. every inch forces you open, slow and deliberate, the thick drag of him pressing deeper than anything ever has. your breath stutters, body shaking, thighs trembling where they rest over his.

"fuck, sweetheart," he groans, voice tight, hands gripping your hips, keeping you still, keeping you from pulling away. "you feel that? squeezing me so fuckin’ tight."

you do. every ridge, every vein, the slow, impossible push of him splitting you open, inch by inch, pressing deep— then he stops.

breath stuttering, you blink at him, dazed, confused, still so empty. "w-why-"

"baby," his voice is almost pained. "m’pressing right up against your cervix. can’t go any deeper."

but it’s not enough. you whimper, hips twitching, shifting to take more, to sink lower. "but i still feel empty, si.."

his jaw clenches, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep you still, stopping you from punching a fucking hole through your guts. "jesus, sweetheart. you don’t know what you’re askin."

"please," you breathe, eyes glassy, desperate. "si, please, want all of you-"

he groans, head dropping back against the seat, restraint hanging by a thread. "fuck."

then his grip tightens, and before you can say another word, he forces you down the rest of the way.

"oh-oh my god-" your whole body shakes, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as the thick head of his cock breaches your cervix, slipping into your womb, stuffing you full.

simon grunts, the squeeze of you making his vision blur for a second. "jesus fuckin’ christ."

the moment he bottoms out, your walls clamp down, fluttering, pulsing around him— the pleasure snaps without warning, white-hot, rolling through you all at once.

"fuck- fuck, baby." he curses, the squeeze of your cunt almost painful. his half-lidded eyes are trained on where the two of you connect, the way you gush around him, soaking his cock. "just from takin’ me all the way? filthy fuckin’ thing-"

he huffs a rough laugh, fingers flexing against your hips, appreciating the extra slick easing the way. "makes it easier, at least," he mutters, then starts to move.

it’s slow at first— just enough to let you feel it, to make you ache through the thick drag of him pulling back, just enough to let you whimper at the sheer pressure of his cock pressing against every swollen, overstimulated inch of your cunt.

but you’re already gone.

your lashes flutter, your lips part around soft, wrecked little sounds, your hips twitching even though he’s holding you down, even though you’re already stuffed so fucking full.

"look at you," he murmurs, dragging a palm up your belly, pressing down right where he’s so deep, groaning when he feels the outline of himself inside you. "fuckin’ cock-drunk already, sweetheart?"

you sob, thighs squeezing around his waist, hands grasping at him, trying to find something to hold onto as your hips jerk, rolling forward mindlessly, instinct driving you to take more, take everything.

he groans, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see all of it.

"can’t even talk, can you? too fuckin’ dumb to think straight."

"s-simon-"

"what, love? too far gone already?"

his smirk is wicked, his grip tight as he presses his hips up, spearing you open all over again.

you scream, body jerking, back arching, thighs trembling around him. "ohh- oh fuck-"

"there we go." his voice is full of praise, full of something dark and indulgent. "there’s my good girl."

he sets a slow rhythm, dragging his cock out until only the thick head is inside you before slamming all the way back in, spearing you open, making sure you feel it, making sure you take every inch.

"bloody hell," he mutterd, feeling the way your walls squeeze him, the way you shudder, the way you drip around him, slick gushing, soaking his cock, ruining his seats.

"listen to that, sweetheart," he groans, shifting his grip, spreading his knees just a little wider to pin you in place. "fuckin’ mess you’re makin."

he glances down, eyes nearly rolling at the sight— your cunt stretched wide around him, slick dripping down to his balls, pooling beneath you.

"christ, love." he has to gasp for breath. "fuckin’ leaking all over me- ruinin’ my fuckin’ truck-"

"s-simon-" you lose your train of thought, babbling incomprehensible strings of words.

"can't think?" simon's grin sharpens. "good. don’t need you thinkin."

then he fucks you properly.

[aaravosss]

Atecco ika'y pinagpala ng talento sapagkat ang iyong mga sulat ay nakakahumaling

hello kababayan 👋🏽 thank you so much. i'm mostly just talented at wanting to be stuffed by cock

[aaravosss]

cat

[aaravosss]

“Now, bear in mind,” *I pause, allowing time for you to visualize the bear*

[aaravosss]

"uhm like this? or…?"

He nod his head approvingly, "Good girl" his words laced with teasing and a hint of amusement "just like that, i love the way your skirt brush up against my leg"

"is your knee feeling it?"

His eyes dancing with a hint of playful mischief. "Oh, I'm feeling it alright."

[aaravosss]

this is actually legitness

[aaravosss]

you stumble into the bathroom without thinking and come across a wet and naked simon in the shower.

you’d been following simon’s scent—warm, earthy, mixed with cigarettes and something darkly sweet—without even thinking, your instincts pulled you toward him like a magnet. the bathroom door was cracked open, steam curling out in lazy tendrils, and before you could stop yourself, you peeked inside.

and there he was.

naked under the spray, water cascading down his huge frame, over the thick cords of muscle on his arms, the broad planes of his chest. his skin was glistening and littered with scars. your breath hitched, ears twitching forward despite yourself.

but then your gaze dropped lower.

your ears pinned back, eyes widening. you’d never seen a man like this before—not fully, not real. the lab had kept you isolated, ignorant, but your body knew, reacting before your mind could catch up.

he was big. everywhere. thick thighs, a stomach ridged with muscle, and between his legs—

your mouth went dry.

his cock hung heavy, half-hard already, the water making his skin glisten. you could see the veins, the way it twitched slightly under the spray. something hot and unfamiliar coiled low in your belly, your own body betraying you as warmth pooled between your legs. your pulse thrummed there, aching, and you pressed your thighs together instinctively.

then he shifted, turning slightly, and you saw everything—the heavy swell of his balls, the dark hair at the base, the way his thighs flexed as he reached for the soap.

your body locked up, heat flooding your cheeks, your ears burning. but the worst part was the way the sensitive little spot between your legs deliciously throbbed in time with your racing heartbeat.

you could smell him from here—musky, masculine, something primal that made your instincts scream. your thighs pressed together, but it only made the ache worse. you wanted—needed—him.

you should’ve left. you knew you should’ve left.

but then he tilted his head back under the water, his hand sliding down his stomach, and—

he stilled sensing your presence.

his head snapped toward you, eyes locking onto yours through the steam. for a heartbeat, neither of you moved.

“fuck.”

he grabbed a towel, but it was too late. you’d already seen. already felt the way your body reacted to him. your tail puffed up, your ears flattening as you scrambled back, heart pounding. but even as you ran, your body burned, your core clenching around nothing, your mind full of nothing but him.

you didn’t get far.

a large, wet hand wrapped around your wrist, tugging you back. simon’s breath was ragged, his grip firm but not painful. “look at me, kitten.”

you did.

his pupils were blown wide, his jaw tight. his thumb brushed over your pulse point, slow, deliberate. “what were you doin’ peekin’ where you shouldn’t, huh?”

you had no answer. only the throbbing between your legs and the way your body needed in a way you didn’t understand.

find more of this adorable duo here!

[aaravosss]

marla: "threesome when?"

[aaravosss]

my bad didn't mean 2 attach myself 2 u like an abandoned dog

[aaravosss]

[aaravosss]

it’s so fucked up that my neck isn’t being kissed and my tits aren’t being groped right now

[aaravosss]

EMPEROR'S DANCER SIMON

sfw + nsfw. gender neutral reader. sex pollen. mentions of rape and murder. angst.

you hadn’t known it was tradition. you’d just assumed the old men who had ruled before you had strange, indulgent ways of unwinding after a long day. you had braced yourself for extravagance, sure— but nothing could have prepared you for this.

after your first month, you’d planned to slip away to the hot springs, stretch out the stiff muscles you've spent hunched over the mountains of unfinished paperwork your predecessor had so graciously abandoned. steam, solitude, and silence— just a few stolen hours to reclaim your sanity before the cycle of governance began anew.

but barely had you sunk into the warmth before your adviser burst in, eyes averted, pressing fresh robes into your hands with an urgency that immediately soured your mood.

“your majesty, it’s time for your evening engagement.”

you slumped further into the water, dragging a wet hand down your face. “i don’t recall scheduling one.”

“ah, well… it’s tradition.”

tradition, apparently, was reclining on silk cushions while a half-naked man in a skull mask danced for you.

the music started as a murmur of stringed instruments, the deep thrum of a drum marking time like a heartbeat. a flute threaded through it all, almost mournful, spreading through the chamber like incense.

the dancer moved with it, body an instrument of its own. the shift of his hips sent the coins at his waist swaying, the light catching on gold and the smooth stretch of muscle. his hands carved shapes in the air, fingers fluid, wrists loose. he twisted, ribs shifting in isolation from the rest of his frame, a display of mastery that you were sure took years to perfect.

the drumbeat quickened, and his movements followed. sharper now, his chest popping forward, hips snapping to the rhythm with ease. he turned in a slow circle, the fabric around his waist flaring, feet silent against the ornate rug.

it was hypnotic— the way he moved, the way the music seemed to live in him, the way every motion felt deliberate, like a secret being spoken just for you.

and you, despite yourself, sat frozen.

you realized only when the music stopped that your grip on the goblet had gone tense, your knuckles white against the dark metal. the heat at the back of your neck crept higher, burning at the tips of your ears, and you swallowed, willing your voice to stay even.

“thank you,” you said, inclining your head slightly. “that was-” you cleared your throat, feeling as though it might crack. “that was beautiful.”

his mask tilted, just a fraction.

you were the first emperor simon had danced for— after all, each ruler had their own dancer, their own traditions— but he had seen the last one up close, felt his gaze crawl over his skin like something wet and grasping. The man had leered, had indulged in his power like a glutton at a feast.

but you— you only sat there, hands tucked in your lap, face warm, struggling to meet his eyes even through the mask.

he watched as your adviser murmur something about retiring for the night after the musicians’ own exit, barely audible over the pounding in your ears, before disappearing through the heavy doors.

the moment the latch clicked shut, simon reached for the folds of his drapery.

you were only just beginning to let out a breath when you caught movement in your periphery— fabric slipping, a belt loosening, fingers curling at his waist.

wait, what?

you shot to your feet so fast your goblet nearly toppled, a hand flying up instinctively as if you could halt whatever was about to happen.

“a-ah- what are you doing?” your voice cracked slightly, caught between command and incredulity. “i- isn’t it a crime to be inappropriate in front of the emperor? ah- don’t people fear anything these days?”

simon stilled, half-out of his outer robe, blinking at you like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of your reaction. slowly, he tilted his head. “...it’s tradition.”

“tradition?” you echoed, voice climbing an octave. “tradition?” you gestured vaguely at his hands, which were once again working at the knots of his attire. “i- what- no- keep your clothes on-”

his fingers paused. you could almost hear his brow raise beneath the mask.

“the emperor takes the dancer afterwards.” his voice was calm, matter-of-fact, like he was explaining something as routine as a change in the weather.

your face crumpled, heat flaring at the tips of your ears, and you pressed your palms against your temples. gods help you.

“your emperor,” you said, exasperated at the situation, “demands you keep your clothes on.” you inhaled sharply, trying to steady your nerves. “and- and eat grapes with me.”

a long pause.

simon said nothing. then, after a moment, he slowly let go of the fabric, letting it rest against his hips once more. he blinked at you, unreadable behind the bone mask, before settling into a relaxed stance, his hands resting loosely at his sides.

he had prepared for many things. entitlement. greed. that familiar, hungry gaze. but this flustered little emperor, looking anywhere but at him, cheeks hot, gripping at their robes like they were the one being compromised— this was new.

then, as if finding the situation mildly amusing, he nodded.

“as you wish.”

( … )

the moment simon stepped back into the dimly lit corridors of the dancers’ quarters, the air shifted. conversations dipped into hushed murmurs, eyes flickered toward him, and the sharp sound of johnny’s bare feet crossing the stone floor filled the space before he even had the chance to remove his mask.

“christ, mate- what happened?” johnny’s voice was low, urgent. his hands were on him before simon could brush him off, fingers prodding at his arms, his shoulders, searching for something. a wince. a bruise. some telltale mark that this night had ended like all the others.

“they weren’t too rough, were they?” another's voice cut through the quiet. someone else shifted closer, brows furrowed. “did they leave bruises?”

simon rolled his shoulders, shaking Johnny’s grip. no bruises. no lingering hands. no unwanted touches. the feeling of silk-wrapped fingers never came. only the memory of a soft voice, a question so out of place it had nearly thrown him.

‘have you eaten?’

he had stood there, still, thrown not by the words themselves, but by the fact that they had been asked at all. that you had noticed.

and you had not only noticed— you had acted.

food had arrived in elegant dishes, but it had not been the delicate, indulgent fare he had come to expect from imperial chambers. no dainty confections, no cloying sweetmeats. no food meant to be fed from gilded fingertips between whispered, filthy promises.

instead, it was real food that settled warm in the stomach. that filled, rather than teased. the kind of food meant to sustain.

and you had simply watched, hands tucked into your sleeves, gaze lowered— not out of avoidance, nor out of shame, but out of respect.

‘eat,’ your posture had said. ‘you are not a meal tonight. you are not meant to be devoured.’

even after the last bite, you had not reached for him, had not let the moment stretch into something uncomfortable or unfinished. you had simply stood, offered the first bow of the night, and said, “thank you for the performance. it was… mesmerizing.”

a pause. a quick breath. a flustered clearing of the throat. “i wish you a good night.”

and that had been it.

johnny snapped his fingers in front of simon’s face. “oi. you good?”

simon blinked. the room came back into focus. bruised knuckles. nervous eyes. a group of men who had learned to expect pain after every dance.

he exhaled, shaking his head, and stepped past johnny.

“yeah,” he said, voice steady.

he thought of you again— how you had looked away when his robes had started to slip.

‘they were flustered.’ his lips curled slightly beneath the mask.

“they were… kind.”

( … )

the purge began in the dead of night.

the palace, usually a place of quiet indulgence in the hours before dawn, was restless. servants huddled together in the alcoves, their whispered prayers swallowed by the heavy footfalls of armored soldiers. the halls that had once been filled with laughter and idle gossip, now echoed with the sharp ring of steel.

in the noble estates, men were dragged from their beds.

the empire’s most powerful officials, men who had grown fat on stolen gold and spent decades tightening their grip on power, woke to the sound of doors splintering under booted feet.

there were no warnings. no trials.

the emperor had decreed judgment, and judgment had come.

by sunrise, half the imperial council was gone.

the first whisper of it reached simon before breakfast.

he had barely sat up when johnny burst through the door, panting like he had sprinted across the entire compound. his eyes were wide with something between excitement and disbelief.

“did you hear?” he blurted.

simon scrubbed a hand over his face. he was still half-asleep, the world a sluggish blur. he hadn't heard anything.

“what?” he muttered.

“they’re gone,” johnny said, voice hushed, as if the walls had ears.

“who?”

“the council.”

simon blinked. he must have misheard.

the imperial council, the real power behind the throne, the untouchable elite who had bled the empire dry for decades, was gone?

johnny must have seen the doubt on his face because he leaned in, voice dropping even lower. “the emperor had them dragged from their estates last night,” the words spilled from his lips in a rush. “the whole lot of them. some executed on the spot, some thrown in chains. the prisons are full.”

a strange silence settled over simon.

the emperor did it. the same emperor who had blushed and stammered at the sight of his skin. the one who had refused to touch him, who had pulled his robes tighter when he moved to undress.

the one who had offered him food instead of flesh, who had thanked him for his dance in a voice that had trembled, not with hunger, not even power, but with something almost innocent.

that emperor had just cleansed the empire in a single night?

but the details were undeniable.

the council had been a cesspit of corruption. that much was known to everyone— servants, soldiers, even the common folk in the streets.

the previous emperor had been a weak, decadent fool, more interested in his own pleasures than ruling an empire.

but the true rot had always been his council. a den of power-hungry parasites.

sons of nobles who had never worked a day in their lives. brothers of wealthy merchants who controlled entire trade routes like personal kingdoms. advisors who spoke in silk-tongued lies while emptying the empire’s coffers. generals who had turned soldiers into mercenaries, selling their blades to the highest bidder while the borders crumbled.

they had taken everything– land, coin, lives— and given back nothing but suffering.

they had thought themselves untouchable. even after the old emperor’s death, they had been certain of their place. the new emperor was young, soft, naïve. nothing would change.

but something had.

the executions began swiftly.

the minor officials were the first to go. the tax collectors who had lined their pockets with gold stolen from starving villages, the magistrates who had sold verdicts to the highest bidder.

then came the generals who had betrayed their oaths, the merchants who had hoarded wealth while the people went hungry.

then, the council itself.

the most powerful men in the empire, who had sat in the emperor’s halls and made decrees like gods among mortals.

some tried to flee. some tried to bargain. some even screamed of injustice as they were dragged through the streets they had once ruled.

the emperor had let the people see them.

no quiet assassinations. no discreet poisonings.

their crimes were read aloud in the public square, their fates decided under the watchful eyes of the very people they had tormented.

the empire had not wept for them.

simon listened.

he listened as the guards swapped stories over their meals, as the servants whispered in the halls, as the lower officials murmured of shifting alliances and uncertain futures.

and in the middle of it all, the emperor stood untouched.

no trembling hands. no stammering voice. no soft, hesitant smiles. the shy little thing who had offered him grapes had wiped an entire generation of corruption from the palace without hesitation.

simon sat on the edge of his cot, johnny’s voice still rattling in his ears.

he thought of you, of your wide, flustered eyes and the uncharacteristic kindness you carried, and found himself wondering—

had you ever been afraid at all?

( … )

simon doesn't get summoned for a month. and he understood why.

the empire was unraveling and reweaving itself under the emperor’s hand. the council was gone, yes, but their absence had left a vacuum.

new ministers had to be chosen. laws had to be rewritten. sentences had to be passed down, beheadings signed into order. there were trials, public executions, and long nights where the emperor’s lantern burned until dawn.

the entire court was shifting. a world built on corruption and decadence was being dragged— kicking, screaming— into something new.

and so, simon had not been called. he had heard whispers, of course.

the emperor barely left their chambers. meals were left untouched. audiences grew shorter. even the palace servants had begun speaking in hushed tones.

overworked, someone murmured. drowning, another whispered.

and then, after a full month— a summons.

a messenger arrived at his door, impassively handing him an order written in the emperor’s own hand.

simon stared at it for a long time. he wasn’t scared. not exactly. but something in his stomach twisted.

the last time he had danced for the emperor, they had been a flustered thing beneath the weight of his gaze.

and now?

now, they were someone who had ordered an empire to kneel.

he had seen men like that before. had seen the way power changed them— hardened them, twisted them beyond recognition.

and so, when the doors opened, simon glanced up and braced himself.

not for a cruel emperor. but for a tired one.

you stood in the doorway, shoulders heavier than before, your silk robes hanging looser against your frame.

your face was drawn, shadows carved beneath your eyes, lips pressed together in quiet exhaustion. still, you didn’t look at him with hunger.

you barely looked at him at all.

when you spoke, your voice was quiet. “you may begin.”

simon danced.

and when the music faded, he remained still, letting the silence settle over. the lanterns flickered against the dark, their glow casting long shadows over the planes of his body, catching on the sweat at his collarbone, gilding the ridges of his arms, the curve of his chest. his fingers flexed, breath slow, waiting.

the dance was finished.

he hesitated undressing.

the first time he had danced for you, he had gone to remove his robes and been stopped, by command, by your hands catching at his wrists, voice stumbling over itself as you demanded he keep his clothes on.

but that had been a different time. that had been before.

before the trials, the sentences. before the streets had run slick with the blood of the old regime.

the first time he had danced, you had been unsure. nervous. stiff at the shoulders, eyes darting away, fingers twitching over the silk of your robes.

but now, you had sentenced men to die. you had held the weight of absolute power in your hands and wielded it without hesitation.

surely, you were different now. surely, you would not stop him this time.

simon’s fingers found the clasp at his belt.

“what-” your voice wavered, and your hands twitched, gripping at the fabric pooled in your lap. “what are you doing?”

simon paused. he looked up.

your gaze darted from him to the table and back, never quite settling. you adjusted the rings on your fingers, thumb smoothing absently over a polished stone, then your hands dropped to your lap, fingers curling into the fabric there, gripping and releasing as if trying to find something solid.

you weren’t looking at him. not really.

you were still nervous.

maybe not in the same way— not like before, when you had scrambled back, robes clutched so tightly they threatened to wrinkle. but still, there was tension in your shoulders, your fingers twisting against your sleeves.

you cleared your throat, shifting, before lifting a hand and, almost hesitantly, patting the space beside you.

“sit,” you murmured, still not quite meeting his gaze. “we should eat.”

simon stared.

for all his years of training, all his discipline, all his ability to hold himself perfectly still under scrutiny, something in him faltered.

he had expected demand. he had expected command. he had expected the same cold cruelty that emperors before you had wielded with ease

it becomes a ritual from then on.

every week, without fail, simon danced for you. and every week, without fail, you shared a meal afterward.

at first, it had been nothing more than an act of politeness, a courtesy you extended to someone who had expected something very different from you.

but then it became habit.

you learned the little things. that he ate without sound, exact in his movements even at rest, that he listened more than he spoke, the occasional tilt of his head the only indication that he was considering your words. how he never quite let himself relax, always poised, always ready.

and, in turn, he learned you. learned that you liked your tea slightly cooled before drinking, that you tapped your fingers against the lacquered table when deep in thought. learned that your power did not mean cruelty, that you did not demand fealty through fear most of the time, and that you had never asked for this throne but now that you had it, you would not sit idly upon it.

itt was— not companionship. not quite. but something close. something like familiarity.

so when you left the week’s meetings feeling drained, the echoes of politics still ringing through your head, it was simon you found yourself thinking of.

the courtyard was filled with the spoils of diplomacy— chests of silk, intricately painted ceramics, gilded weapons with delicate inlays of gold and ivory. and, most notably, horses.

tall, well-muscled things, bred for battle or ceremony, shifting their weight with practiced ease as handlers checked their bridles.

all of them were pristine. except for—

you stopped. blinked. tilted your head.

the animal stared back.

it was smaller than the horses, its fur coarse, dark with streaks of gold along its face. its ears were too large, flopping slightly as it tilted its head in perfect mimicry of your own movement.

“what,” you said, voice slow, “is that?”

the attendant beside you perked up. “ah! that’s a dog, your majesty.”

a dog.

you had never seen one before, not up close. the palace had been filled with birds, sleek white cranes that perched along the stone bridges, brilliant goldfinches flitting through the gardens. but not— this.

“does it serve a purpose?” you asked, watching as the creature stepped forward, its nose twitching at the hem of your robes.

the attendant nodded. “they’re loyal. protective. they’ll guard whoever they bond with.”

loyal. protective.

you hummed, considering. it was, objectively, perfect. a perfect gift for simon.

you try to suppress the glee curling in your chest as the dog follows at your heels, its padded steps near soundless against the stone.

it had taken little more than a glance and a soft call for it to follow, the creature trotting after you with an easy, natural obedience. as if it had belonged to you from the start.

but it wasn’t for you.

the warmth in your chest is unfamiliar. strange. it is not the satisfaction of a well-brokered deal, not the quiet triumph of an opponent bested, not even the sharp, addictive rush of power that comes with watching the world bend to your will.

no, this is different.

you’ve heard the stories, of course. of emperors keeping their dancers closer than their concubines. of favor turning to obsession. of gifts upon gifts heaped at the feet of those who spun and twisted for their ruler’s amusement. you have read of love.

but you do not know if that is what this is.

you only know that there is— warmth. a quiet want. a desire to please. not in the way that your court expects, not in the way that your officials demand. not out of duty or necessity or strategy.

but for him.

because watching him dance brings you pleasure. and you.. well, you want to return it.

so you press forward, your fingers twitching slightly against your sleeves, as the dog follows you into simon’s quarters, unaware of the meaning behind its presence.

you step into simon’s quarters, the dog padding beside you, its claws clicking against the polished floor. it’s a good dog. attentive. loyal. it watches you, ears twitching at every little sound, steps in sync with yours as if it had been at your side forever.

you’re not sure why your stomach is twisting like this, why your palms feel warm, why your heartbeat has picked up just slightly. you’ve given gifts before— lavish ones, jewels and gold and artifacts that could buy whole cities— but you’ve never given something like this. never given something that feels personal.

and you want to know what he will do with it.

simon looks up as you enter, standing near the low table where you always share meals, his mask in place, his posture as steady as ever. he’s still in his dance silks, his shoulders bare beneath the soft glow of candlelight, but for once, he doesn’t seem to take note of your presence.

because the moment his eyes land on the dog, something happens.

his whole body locks. his breath halts. his hands, already at his sides, clench just slightly. he doesn’t speak. doesn’t blink.

it’s not the reaction you expected. you thought he might tilt his head, ask what it was for, perhaps hesitate before reaching out

“i brought you something,” you say belatedly, though the words feel thinner than they should.

the dog shifts at your side, tail giving a slow, easy wag. it must sense something, because it takes a step forward, ears pricking up, eyes locked onto simon’s unmoving form.

and then— simon falls to his knees.

he doesn’t lower himself like a man intending to kneel. he doesn’t bow, nor does he fold himself neatly. he drops. a sharp, heavy motion, as if his body has been pulled downward by a force greater than himself. his hands shoot out, grasping, clinging, desperate— and it is not like a man petting a dog. it is not a man greeting a new companion.

the dog whines, shifting under simon’s grip, its tail thudding softly against the floor. simon doesn’t let go.

“where did you find him?” his voice is not like you’ve ever heard it before. it is rough, frayed at the edges, as though he is forcing the words through something raw and hurting in his throat.

you hesitate.

“he was traveling with the diplomats,” you say slowly, watching his fingers tighten in thick fur, his head bowing lower. “i asked for him.” a pause. “you two are... acquainted?”

simon’s hands shake. just slightly.

“he’s my childhood dog,” he says. and there it is. the weight behind it, the tightness in his voice, the way his fingers curl like they’re terrified to let go. “riley.”

something thick lodges itself in your throat. you don’t know what you thought this was. a simple gift. a kind gesture. a way to show simon that he is more than the role he plays, that he has worth beyond his performances. but you had not expected to dig up something this deep.

you take a step back. give him space. say nothing as he presses his face against the dog’s fur, holding it with a desperation that feels too sacred for you to intrude upon.

you did not mean to return something that had been lost. but you had.

and watching him now, watching the way his shoulders shake, just a little, you think, for the first time, that you’ve never been more glad to give something away.

( … )

the room is dim, the scent of burning incense curling in the air. outside, the night hums with distant music, the palace still alive despite the late hour. but here, in the quiet of your chambers, there is only the low crackle of a lantern and the soft, steady sound of simon’s fingers running through riley’s fur.

you watch him, gaze drifting over the scars littering his arms, his back. old wounds, long since healed but still telling of a life that did not belong to a dancer.

“why?” you ask. “why a dancer?”

he doesn’t look at you immediately. he doesn’t stiffen or flinch, doesn’t recoil from the question, only lets out a slow breath and keeps petting riley, his fingers moving in slow, absentminded motions.

“i have a debt,” he says. blank. matter-of-fact.

you tilt your head.

“i got injured,” he continues, voice detached. “took a while for me to heal. guess while i was at the healers, some-” his lips press together for a moment, eyes darkening slightly before he says it, “-higher-up took a liking to me. saved me from getting sent back to the front lines with the state of my body.” his fingers curl briefly into riley’s fur before smoothing out again. “dancing… it's how I pay off my medical fees.”

you watch him for a long moment. the way he speaks of it— detached, impassive, as if it’s something that happened to someone else. he does not sound grateful. he does not sound resentful either. just— removed. like the words are a story told from a distance, belonging to another man entirely.

and you understand why. in a superficial level, you understand.

he had said it himself: dancers are taken after every performance.

you can only imagine. your fingers tap against the table, gaze lingering on the muscles in his forearms, the scars that cut along his skin like old battle lines. tou think about the man who had taken him from the battlefield. the one who had decided simon was better suited for silk than steel.

"would you like to kill them?" you ask.

simon stills. his hand stops, resting against riley’s back. slowly, he lifts his head, looking at you.

"the person who took a liking to you," you clarify, tilting your head slightly. “would you like to kill them?”

he doesn’t answer right away. his eyes search yours, as if trying to find some kind of trap, some hidden meaning behind the words. as if waiting for you to laugh and take it back, to chide him for even considering it.

but you don’t.

simon blinks. a little stunned. he almost forgot who he was speaking to. nearly forgot that this was the same emperor who had emptied council seats, who had cleaned house with blood and blade.

his throat bobs slightly. “... you’d let me?” he asks.

you only smile, the curve of your lips unwavering.

“the only thing i wouldn’t allow,” you say, “is for you to harm yourself, simon.”

( … )

the door creaks open, and simon steps out into the cold air, his breath slow, measured, as if testing whether his lungs still work. the blood on his knuckles is drying now, crusting along the ridges of his skin, but the warmth of it lingers, soaked deep into the fine lines of his palm. his cheek is streaked with red, a single splatter tracing the sharp plane of his jaw like a brand.

he doesn't wipe it away. he feels no need to.

the body inside does not matter. the official is nothing now but another stain on the floorboards, another whisper of corruption excised from the empire. he had not begged, not pleaded. only stared at Simon with something dull in his eyes, as if he had already accepted that this day would come.

the killing had been quiet. private. just as simon had asked.

he breathes in, lets the air sting his lungs, and then he notices you.

you are waiting for him.

the lanterns burn low in the courtyard, their soft glow casting elongated shadows across the stones. the light catches on the edge of the spear in your hands, polished steel gleaming beneath the night sky. it is not ceremonial, not for show.

simon stops.

your gaze meets his. there is no revulsion in your expression, no horror at the blood spattered across his skin. you take him in, the remnants of his violence, the weight of what he has done, what he has become, and you do not flinch.

“you still have a debt,” you say and it is not a revelation but a simple truth.

simon holds your gaze for a moment before nodding. “yes.”

you watch him, considering. and then, in a slow motion, you extend the spear toward him.

the wood is solid beneath your grip, the weight of it resting easily in your hands. it has been used before. it will be used again.

“pay it off,” you say.

the words are an invitation and a command all at once.

simon stares at the weapon, at your fingers curled around its length. he does not hesitate. he reaches out, takes the spear from your hands, and holds it as he remembers how.

after that, he trains.

every day, from dawn until the lanterns are lit at dusk, he hones the strength he once had. the fluidity of movement that had been stripped from him, molded into something delicate, enticing. he reverses it now— makes his body a weapon again, rather than a display.

but the soldiers watch. they are not kind about it.

there are whispers that follow him in the barracks, murmurs exchanged between men who have never known what it is to be bought and sold, who have only ever seen battle as something glorious and not the brutal, ugly thing it truly is.

‘he was a dancer.’

‘he belonged to the emperor’s court, to their bed.’

‘what’s he doing here, playing soldier?’

they don’t say it to his face. at first.

but men like these— men full of piss and pride, men who believe that strength is something that can only be tested through humiliation— they are not patient.

and so they corner him.

not with their blades, no— that would be too obvious, too easy to reprimand.

they do it in ways they think are clever. they shove too hard during training spars, make jabs that teeter just at the edge of acceptable. one even dares to grab him by the arm, fingers tightening like a vice, lips curling into something amused.

“show us, then,” the man had drawled. “dance for us. you must be good at handling a sword in more ways than one, yeah?”

it had been a mistake. simon had let the man live with three broken ribs. the others had needed more convincing.

when word reaches commander price, it is not simon who delivers it.

but it doesn’t matter.

price finds them. the beating is public. price makes sure of it.

he doesn't call them out to the courtyard. no, that would be too generous. too structured. he finds them where they sit, where they drink, where they feel safe— and he rips that feeling away with his bare hands.

the first one doesn’t even see it coming. one second, he’s laughing, throwing back a drink, boasting about how he’d finally shut that smug dancer up, how he’d gotten his hands on him, how he was about to really put him in his place, and then price is there.

his fist caves the man’s nose in before he can even flinch.

the crack is loud. the laughter stops.

the soldier hits the floor, blood pouring from his face, hands scrambling against the stone as he tries to right himself— but he doesn’t get the chance.

price grabs him by the collar and slams his head into the table so hard the wood splits.

“you like getting your hands on people who can’t fight back?” price’s voice is sharp, like the edge of a blade sliding beneath the ribs.

“c-commander-!” someone chokes.

but it’s too late.

price turns his head slightly, catches the others, the whole rotten lot of them, and moves. he reaches the next one in two strides. he punches the bastard straight in the throat.

the man stumbles, gagging, choking, hands flying to his neck— but price isn’t done. he grabs him by the hair, drags him up onto unsteady feet— then drives his knee into his gut so hard he crumples.

one. two. three times.

someone rushes him from behind. price dodges without even looking, turns sharply, elbows the man so hard in the temple he goes down twitching.

the others start backing up.

price is only just getting started.

he throws one into the stone pillar, leaves him gasping, wheezing. he stomps on another's hand until he hears fingers snap— and when the last one tries to run?

price catches him, grabs him by the hair, and slams his head against the nearest wall. the body slides to the floor, leaving a bloody smear in its wake.

and then, silence.

the rest of the room watches in horror. no one dares to move.

except simon. he stands with arms crossed, watching without reaction. price breathes out through his nose, shakes blood off his knuckles, then turns to him.

“is that allowed?” simon asks, voice as neutral as ever.

price shrugs, wipes his hands on his tunic. “the emperor wouldn’t mind the few deaths of pieces of shits.” he pauses, tilts his head. “you’re a very good fighter, simon,” he says. “if anyone tries that again, you have my express permission to fuck their assholes open with your spear.”

simon blinks. then, with a slow nod, he replies, “...yes, sir.”

after that, no one bothers him. no one calls him a dancer anymore. not unless they want their jaw wired shut.

and when simon finally feels ready, he doesn’t hesitate. he requests an audience with the emperor.

the guards let him in without question. they know his face by now— the dancer-turned-soldier. the emperor’s oddity.

when he steps inside, he finds the you at your desk, ink staining your fingers, a candle flickering beside you.

you do not look like an emperor in that moment. you look… tired. human.

and yet, when you see him, you smile.

“simon,” you greet, voice warm despite the late hour. “to what do i owe the pleasure?”

he kneels, lowering his head. “i request to be part of your personal guard.”

the candle flickers. and then, a quiet chuckle.

“you would see more action fighting on the front lines,” you say, setting your brush down, rubbing the ink from your fingers. “you would see more glory.”

“i don’t need glory.”

you tilt your head, studying him. “then what do you need?”

he hesitates, just for a moment, before meeting your gaze. “it’s you i have a debt to. not the empire.”

you hum. “wouldn’t you argue that the emperor is the empire?”

simon exhales. “no. the emperor is the emperor. i fight for you.”

you search his face for something you don’t say aloud. after a moment, you stand. your robes shift around you like dark silk as you cross the room, stopping just before him.

you place a hand on his shoulder. “then fight for me, simon.” your fingers squeeze “welcome to my guard.”

( … )

simon’s entrance into the emperor’s personal guard is… smooth. smoother than he expected, at least.

the other guards do not question him. there are no murmurs behind his back, no sidelong glances filled with doubt or scorn. he had anticipated resistance, had braced himself for it, but instead, he finds himself seamlessly folded into their ranks, as if he has always been there.

they do not sneer at him. they do not ask if he can still move his hips as well as he moves a blade. they do not whisper of the silks he once wore, the way he once swayed beneath golden light.

instead, they watch him. assess him.

the personal guard of the emperor is not composed of fools. they are neither weak, nor complacent. each one of them chosen, forged by war or circumstance into something lethal.

and while simon is not tested, he is measured.

they watch him move when training, how his muscles coil and shift as he maneuvers his spear. they watch how he strikes— if he does it blindly, wildly. he does neither.

they watch his stance, his footwork, how he adapts mid-fight, shifting strategies in a blink, never fully predictable. he does not fight like a soldier, like a man shaped by war. simon fights like someone who has been cornered before. like someone who has survived things he has no name for.

and they notice other things, too.

the sharpness in his gaze, the tension on his shoulders coiled like a spring. how his body moves before his mind can catch up— an instinctive step between the emperor and the rest of the world.

his fingers flexing near the hilt of his sword whenever a voice in the throne room rises too confidently, when someone speaks to the emperor with something close to familiarity.

and they seem… pleased.

"you’re good," kyle garrick says one afternoon, after training. he rolls his shoulders, stretching out his arms as he leans against the stone railing that overlooks the training grounds. his tunic is damp with sweat, a towel draped lazily over one shoulder.

simon does not respond immediately. rather, he shifts his grip on his spear, rolling his wrist, testing the weight.

kyle watches him for a moment, then smirks. "so," he says, voice teasing. "you got a crush on the emperor or something?"

simon stills. it is barely noticeable. a brief pause, a fraction of a second, but kyle is observant— he wouldn’t have survived this long if he weren’t.

"you do," kyle says, grinning now, tipping his head back with a laugh.

simon exhales through his nose. "i don’t."

"you so do."

"i am here to protect them," simon says, evenly, like it’s something obvious, something that should not need saying.

kyle raises a brow, amused. "yeah, yeah, i know. we all are." he waves a hand, as if brushing away the thought, then grins. "just saying, you’re a bit more intense about it than the rest of us."

and he is.

he knows that he walks too closely at their side. he knows that his pulse betrays him whenever they speak his name, soft in a way he did not think emperors could be.

it is not duty that tightens his chest. it is something else. something warm and dangerous.

( … )

the weekends belong to him. not by decree. not by law. not by any spoken agreement.

and yet, they are his all the same.

when simon left behind being a dancer, when he was given his freedom— truly given it, not just the illusion of it— he expected this arrangement to end. the time set aside for him in your presence had always been part of his role, an expectation tied to his station. it was never his to keep.

but you never withdrew it. and simon never refused.

today, however, he hesitates.

he does not know why it is so hard to speak. he is not a man of many words to begin with, but today, it feels different. it is not just silence, it is weight. something thick, cloying, clinging to his ribs and pressing against his throat, strangling the words before they can form.

you notice. you always do.

but instead of asking, instead of prying into what he is not yet ready to give, you simply turn back to riley.

the dog sprawls across the floor, rolling onto his back with a contented huff, stretching long and lazy, paws curled slightly in the air. he is comfortable here. safe.

you hum softly, your fingers combing through his thick fur. slow, careful strokes. your nails scratch lightly at his chest, pressing into the muscle there.

riley’s tail thumps against the floor. once. twice.

when you pause, pulling your hand away, his large paws swipe blindly at your wrist, tugging at the edge of your sleeve with something almost insistent and spoiled.

you laugh. it is a rare sound.

not the laugh you give in court, polite and laced with formality. not the restrained amusement of a ruler who must always be poised, who cannot afford to be anything less than composed.

instead it's something else. something real.

it crinkles the corners of your eyes, softens the sharp edges of you, curves at your lips in a way that makes you look utterly, devastatingly human.

and simon watches. your fingers move through the dog’s fur, rubbing gentle circles into his chest. he watches your eyes soften when riley nuzzles into your touch. your lips part just slightly, exhaling, for once seeming unburdened.

and something in his chest twists. he wants to say something. the words press against his ribs but they do not come.

he breathes in, trying to loosen the knot in his throat, and when he exhales— he tries.

“your majesty.”

you turn to him immediately, hands stilling in riley’s fur.

i love you.

i love you.

i love you.

it sits heavy on his tongue, pressing against the back of his teeth, but they do not leave. instead, he grips his knee, fingers flexing against the fabric, and says, "thank you."

your head tilts slightly. “what for?”

for not using me.

for letting me eat.

for giving me back riley.

for freeing me.

for giving me purpose again.

for being kind.

his throat tightens. his fingers curl against his knee. “for..." He hesitates, breath shallow. "... giving me a chance."

you do not answer right away. and then, softly— "i’m sorry as well."

simon frowns. “for what?”

“for the suffering you endured under the rule of the empire."

the frown deepens. he shakes his head. “that wasn’t your fault-”

“i am emperor.” your voice cuts through his protest. “you are my subject. the sins of all emperors before me become my own. i cannot deny you your suffering simply because it was not done under my rule."

slowly, you rise to your feet, dusting off your robes.

then you kneel.

a ruler should never kneel before their subject.

yet, there you are.

you lower yourself onto your knees before him, hands resting lightly on your thighs. your head bows. “the empire might not apologize to you, simon," you say. "but I will. by my will, i am sorry."

no emperor has ever apologized. no emperor has ever cared to. no emperor has even cared to know his name.

his pulse thrums loud in his ears. “no-”

“i am sorry.”

“your majesty-!”

“i am sorry.”

his throat burns.

you mean it.

these are not empty words. they are not the platitudes of a ruler seeking favor or the hollow reassurances of someone who does not understand what they are asking forgiveness for.

you mean it.

and simon cannot stand it.

he cannot stand the sincerity in your voice, the weight of it, the way you look at him like he is something worth kneeling for, something worth mourning.

no one has ever mourned for him before. no one has ever grieved the life he lost, the suffering he endured, the things he was forced to do just to survive. no one has ever looked at him with something so close to sorrow— not for what he could do, not for what he was capable of, but for what had been done to him.

he does not know what to do with it.

he feels unmoored. untethered. like something inside him is breaking open, spilling out into the quiet space between you.

he has spent his entire life enduring, surviving, weathering the blows as they came. he has been beaten, broken, used, discarded, rebuilt only to be used again.

he has never been seen. he has never been given back to himself.

not until you. not until now.

it is too much.

he cannot hold it. he cannot bear it.

before he can think. before he can stop himself— simon reaches forward, fingers trembling, hesitating at your jaw.

you do not move. you do not pull away.

and it is that, that, which finally undoes him. his breath shudders out of him. his fingers tighten, tilting your chin just slightly, just enough.

and then he kisses you. it is not gentle, not careful. it is desperate, raw, frantic, clumsy.

he does not know how to kiss like a lover. he only knows how to take, how to crave, how to need.

his lips part against yours, rough and unpracticed, like he is searching for something in the press of your mouth, something he cannot name, something he does not know how to ask for.

his fingers curl at the base of your skull, tangled in your hair, gripping tight like he is afraid you might vanish between one breath and the next.

his body trembles, breath shuddering.

he does not know how to be held. but gods, he wants it.

you inhale sharply against his mouth. but you do not stop him. you do not pull away. you let him take. you let him fall apart. you let him grieve.

and for the first time in a long, long time— simon does.

( … )

the festival is a night of fire and revelry.

it is the last night before the season shifts, before the long, unforgiving winter settles its weight upon the empire. the people celebrate while they can. they light the streets with lanterns, hang silks from balconies, lose themselves in the illusion of warmth.

it is beautiful. it is loud. it is also dangerous.

because festivals make for easy hunting grounds.

nobles walk without their usual escorts, growing bold in the comfort of the crowd. wealthy merchants drink too much and wander into unfamiliar alleys, where shadows wait with knives. the scent of sweat and perfume thickens the air, masking other, deadlier things: poison. smoke. blood.

assassins thrive on nights like these.

that is why you must be seen. that is why you must be present. the empire is a beast with a thousand eyes, and all of them must see that you still live.

simon watches you dress.

it is an intimate thing, though it should not be. he stands by the window, hands clasped behind his back, posture rigid, but his eyes never leave you.

your attendants work in practiced silence, moving with the precision of ritual. they drape silk over your shoulders, smoothing it down with deft hands, tucking folds. the fabric catches the light of the lanterns, the embroidery shimmering as they fasten the clasps. gold and crimson, the colors of the empire, settle against your frame, woven into the very skin of your station.

you do not fidget beneath their touch. you do not squirm, nor sigh in impatience. you were born for this. you have done this your entire life, moved through these motions since you were old enough to stand. you have worn heavier things.

the weight of the robes is nothing compared to the weight of the empire. you carry both without complaint, standing still as jeweled pins are twisted into your hair, as golden chains are draped around your throat. the attendants murmur their approval, stepping back to admire their work, yet you do not glance at them.

you are watching him.

the mirror catches the flicker of your gaze— amusement, mischief, something softer beneath it all. it holds for just a second, a fleeting moment, but simon catches it nevertheless. he always does.

"what do you think, love?"

his breath stirs in his chest.

he has seen you in battle, streaked with dirt and blood, sword gleaming in the dying light. he has seen you slip out of your armor and into silk, the quiet transition from ruler to something softer. he has watched you sleep, head tipped against his shoulder during long rides back to the capital, the tension momentarily stripped from your features. he has seen you at war. he has seen you at peace.

and yet— nothing prepares him for this.

he swallows, throat dry. "you look beautiful, sweetheart."

the words fall easily, instinctive, pulled from some deep part of him that does not know how to lie to you.

your lips curve. "you think so?"

you step closer, erasing the space between you.

simon exhales. he should move. should put distance between you, should remember what you are, what he is. but his hands betray him, twitching at his sides, aching to hold despite the audience.

"anyone who says otherwise is a liar." his voice is rough, the edges frayed.

the gold at your throat glints as you tip your chin, as you step into his shadow.

he could touch you. he could reach forward, brush his fingers over the silk, let them linger at your wrist, trace the curve of your jaw. you would let him. that is the dangerous thing.

but you are the emperor. even if you are his lover in private, you are still the emperor.

and so he forces himself to step back. to clear his throat. to drag his gaze away, though it costs him. "we should go," he murmurs.

your gaze lingers on him for a moment longer. then, you nod.

duty calls.

( … )

the balcony stretches wide, a throne above the city, a vantage point to watch an empire bask in the last of the season.

below, the streets churn with life, a restless sea of bodies swaying to the erratic rhythm of drums and drunken laughter. lanterns flicker in the warm dusk, their light reflecting in uneven pools along the slick stone roads, catching the movement of dancers, merchants, thieves— all swept up in the fever of celebration. the scent of roasted meat, spiced wine, and burning tallow clings to the humid air.

it should feel victorious.

the banners ripple against the night in proud, royal hues. nobles recline in their velvet seats, wine-stained lips curved in indulgent smirks, watching the revelry below with the satisfaction of those who believe themselves untouchable. safe.

simon knows better.

he stands close behind you, his presence like iron at your back. the worn edges of his armor bite into the leather of his gloves as his fingers flex, restless, his weight shifting just slightly, always prepared to move. his head tilts, gaze flicking across the expanse of celebration below, scanning the rooftop lines, the alley mouths, the high windows where a blade could glint, where an arrow could be notched in silence.

kyle is perched higher, a shadow against the marble pillars, his posture loose but his hand firm around his sword hilt. johnny is closer to the emperor’s council, half-drunk on purpose, draped against a column with a lazy, lopsided grin that does nothing to soften the narrow of his eyes.

the empire breathes.

a scream splits the air.

it is not the shriek of drunken joy, nor the playful yelp of a lover chased through the streets.

the celebration stutters, shudders, the music dying in an awkward, broken note. heads turn. bodies press together, shifting, unsure. the ripple of confusion swells, twisting through the crowd like a current.

then— the arrow.

it cuts through the dark, slicing a perfect arc from the rooftops. too perfect. not a warning shot.

"down!"

simon moves, his arm locking around your waist, his hand pressing firm between your shoulder blades as he wrenches you back, turning his body to shield yours. he feels the air shudder past his cheek as the arrow narrowly misses its mark.

it shatters against stone— and then the air explodes.

the hiss is instant, a sharp burst of pressurized gas erupting in a thick, curling vapor. it blooms.

the scent is overwhelming, sticky-sweet and invasive, creeping into fabric, sinking into breath.

he recognizes it immediately. sex pollen. of course.

simon doesn’t stop moving. his palm slams over your mouth and nose, cutting off your inhale before the drug can take root. he grits his teeth against the stench, doing his damndest to keep his inhales to a minimum.

"scatter!" his voice cuts through the chaos.

"what the fuck is that?!" kyle’s voice, sharp with alarm.

"incoming-! rooftops on the east side buildings!" johnny snarls, sprinting to join kyle's position. "they’re fucking everywhere!"

and then the arrows rain down.

the city breaks open.

simon barely has time to pivot, barely has time to shove you behind him before another shot whizzes past, embedding deep into the wooden railing with a dull thunk.

the gas thickens, curling around ankles, clinging to skin. the first victims drop— moaning, writhing.

the other guards hesitate, recoiling as the realization dawns.

"hold your fucking breath!" simon snarls, dragging you back, his grip vise-tight. he looks at kyle, who has his cloak yanked over his face, his sword unsheathed. "can you hold?"

kyle’s grin is nigh feral. “who the fuck do you think i am?”

simon doesn’t ask any more questions.

you sway, your breath hitches. your body shudders, your pulse a frantic, erratic rhythm against his fingers.

"shit."

you go limp.

simon barely catches you before your legs fold, weight crumpling against his chest.

"go!" kyle barks, already shifting to cover. "get them out!"

simon runs.

"ambush!” simon’s voice is seething growl as he storms into your chambers.

the heavy doors slam against the walls, the sound splitting the air like a crack of thunder. a gust of wind rushes through the room from the force of it, stirring the candle flames, making them flicker and stretch like spectral fingers along the gilded walls. the impact rattles the delicate glassware set on the ornate side tables, sends a tremor through the room, an echo of the storm brewing in his chest.

the guards flinch. one jerks a hand toward his sword, another straightens so quickly that his armor clanks. their confusion fractures as they register the weight in simon’s arms.

you.

unconscious. burning up.

"the emperor-"

"-is not dead." the word snap through the air like steel meeting stone. his grip shifts, an unconscious adjustment, his arms instinctively tightening, bracing against your limp weight, feeling the unnatural heat pulsing off your skin. "seal the area- five-meter perimeter. now."

"the healers-"

"out!" johnny’s voice whips through the chamber. "everyone out- now!"

there is a fraction of a second where the guards hesitate, their training at war with the urge to question, to make sense of this. a heartbeat of stunned silence— then a scramble.

a flurry of movement, boots scraping, armor clanking as the soldiers turn on their heels and spill out into the corridor, their earlier confusion hardening into purpose. the doors groan as they swing shut behind them.

blissful silence. only johnny remains.

he stands still, his gaze searching, moving over every inch of simon’s frame, noticing his jaw is clenched too tight, his fingers curled too hard around the fabric of your robes.

then his eyes flick to the air between them.

the scent.

the ghost of it still lingers, clinging to simon’s armor, the walls, the silk of your clothes. it’s a thick, cloying thing, a sickly-sweet undertone curling at the edges of every breath. faint. diluted. but still, unmistakable.

johnny knows.

“are you-” he stops. adjusts. when he speaks again, his voice is more steady. "will you be okay?"

simon doesn’t answer. he doesn’t want to answer. he has spent years forcing himself to be okay.

the muscles in his shoulders lock, his mind an iron grip around the pulse hammering at his throat. he controls his breathing, controls the way he doesn’t react to the way your body presses against him, the way your fevered skin burns through his armor.

"i'm fine." the words scrape past his teeth, flat and sharp, an order as much as a statement.

johnny exhales. his lips press into something almost like understanding.

almost.

but he doesn’t push.

“right,” he mutters, tipping his head toward the door. “i’ll give you space.”

simon lays you down gently when he reaches your bed. his hands do not tremble, but his pulse is hammering. he watches as your body sinks into the silk sheets, the fever in your skin burning bright even against the cool fabric. your breath is shallow, uneven. the fine tremors wracking your frame are small, delicate, but he sees them— feels them— like aftershocks rippling through his bones.

his fingers brush over your wrist, just long enough to feel the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath too-hot skin.

too fast. too weak.

fuck. he should have been faster.

his jaw locks as he adjusts you, shifting your limbs, trying to ease the unconscious tension wound tight in your muscles. he does not let himself feel the heat radiating from you, does not let himself dwell on the fact that your robes have loosened— because of him, because of the struggle, because of how he carried you.

but the sight is there, in the corner of his vision.

your robes, slipping. your breath, shaking. your body, pliant beneath his hands.

he swallows, hard. inhales. exhales. the scent is still there, thick enough to choke on.

it clings to your skin, curls in the air between you, winds its way into his lungs, refuses to let him take a single breath of clean air. he hates it.

his fingers curl into his palm, blunt nails pressing deep into the skin. tight enough to hurt. tight enough to remind himself that he is still here, still in control, still—

you whimper.

simon stops breathing. his gaze snaps to you and he sees you shifting against the sheets, damp with sweat, slipping further from your shoulder, revealing more. offering more. your thighs press together in a slow, restless motion, and the sight of it sets his veins on fire, makes him want to—

no. not now. not like this.

he tears his eyes away, turns sharply, moves toward the washbasin, his steps too forced. the pitcher clatters against the bowl, the sound too loud.

he grips the cloth too hard. wrings it out too forcefully. watches as water spatters onto the floor, the droplets lost in the ragged sound of your breath behind him.

"simon-" his name falls from your lips, small, raw with something he cannot name.

his.

you.

his.

he turns. he shouldn’t but he does and his hands are on you before he can think better of it, before he can stop himself from giving you what you’re asking for. before he can stop himself from holding you the way you need to be held.

his fingers brush over your cheek, tracing the curve of your jaw, the heat beneath your skin burning into him, sinking deep. you shudder at the touch, a quiet, desperate noise slipping past your lips, your body arching ever so slightly into his palm.

you have always been beautiful. but like this— like this, caught in the golden glow of the lantern light, lashes fluttering, lips parted, your breath shallow and uneven— you are devastating.

and it is killing him.

your hands find him, weak and uncoordinated as they are, desperate in their seeking. you clutch at his robes, clinging to him like a lifeline. like he is the only thing anchoring you to the world, the only thing keeping you from slipping into the fever that is devouring you whole.

"simon- everything hurts-"

and he knows. he knows.

his arms tighten around you, his body a wall between you and the suffering threatening to consume you. his lips brush against your temple. "i’ve got you."

and he does.

because he is your guard.

because you are his emperor.

because he has loved you for years, has worshipped at your feet, has devoted himself to you in ways that go beyond duty, beyond reason, beyond anything he has ever known.

because he has no choice. because he would burn the world to the ground before he lets you suffer.

because there is no one else.

the fever is a living thing, burrowing deep, wrapping around your spine, clawing through your veins. you can’t think past it, can’t breathe past it, can’t do anything but tremble beneath the weight of it— beneath him.

simon is blistering against you. sweat beads at his hairline, slicks his chest, makes the muscles in his arms gleam under the dim light. he smells like salt, like heat, like skin rubbed raw. his pulse thrums in his throat, in the thick lines of his forearms where veins stand taut beneath flushed skin, in the solid weight of him pressing against you, pinning you down, keeping you from slipping away into the haze.

your fingers twitch where they claw at his biceps, barely able to grip. you’re shaking, muscles locked tight, spine arched, your thighs trembling where they spread open beneath him.

he notices. of course, he notices.

his hand drags up your side, slow, deliberate, feeling every inch of you. when he reaches your chest, he presses his palm there, right over your sternum, feeling the frantic, stuttering beat of your heart.

he groans.

"fuck," he mutters, breath shuddering out of him.

his forehead knocks against yours, damp skin on damp skin, his nose brushing yours, mouth parted against your cheek. you can feel his breath, feel the ragged shake of it, the way it stutters when his cock twitches against you.

he wants.

so do you.

you choke out something wrecked, something that isn’t even a word, just a sound— high and thin and pleading.

his jaw goes tight. his fingers flex against your chest, the other hand anchoring itself to your hip, gripping firm, holding you steady.

"breathe," he rasps.

you try. you fail.

his cock drags against your hole, the head catching, nudging, pressing— but not sinking in. not yet.

you whine, twitching beneath him, muscles jerking, nails digging into his arms.

simon’s breath stutters.

"shit," he mutters, voice frayed, breaking apart. his teeth sink into his bottom lip, his whole body coiled.

you reach for him— sliding trembling hands up, over the broad slope of his shoulders, the thick column of his neck. your fingers curl there, feeling his throat works, swallowing hard, pulse pounding against your fingertips.

he’s barely hanging on.

you can break him.

"please," you whisper, soft.

his restraint shatters.

his hips surge forward. his cock sinks in, thick and hot, stretching you wide.

you cry out.

his hand clamps over your mouth. "quiet," he hisses, his own voice barely above a rasp. his breath shakes, his whole body trembles.

his cock throbs deep inside you. you can feel every inch of him, every pulse, every twitch. he holds still, his hand pressed tight to your mouth, his forehead still resting against yours, panting.

"fuckin’ hell.”

his rhythm crumbles. thrusts turn wild, erratic, slamming too hard, dragging too slow. he groans, forehead pressed against yours, breath pouring over your lips, damp and shaking.

"fuck," he grits out, voice breaking. his jaw clenches, his whole body shuddering. "you're-"

he doesn't finish. just moves, just takes.

his hands clutch at your hips, fingers bruising, digging in like he needs to feel every inch of you, like he needs to own it, like he’s terrified you’ll slip away if he lets up even for a second. but you don’t slip away. you pull him in.

"si," you gasp, voice shredded. "more-"

he hisses through his teeth, hips snapping forward, cock sinking deep. a shudder rolls through him, his whole body locking up for a second.

his thumb strokes over your mouth, pressing down on your lower lip, teasing the wet heat of your tongue. he watches, eyes blown wide, pupils swallowing the color.

"fuckin’ love this mouth," he mutters, slurred. "love how you-"

you cut him off, dragging his thumb in deeper, sucking. his breath stutters.

"christ," he groans.

his hips stutter too, cock pulsing inside you. he drags his thumb free, watches the wet shine of it, then slides it down, presses against where you're stretched around him, feels the way your body grips him tight.

"you feel that?" he grinds in, slow and cruel, lets you feel every inch of him. "feel how fuckin’ deep i am?"

your head kicks back, breath breaking apart.

"yeah," he rasps, voice dropping. "fuckin'- yeah, you do."

his hand snakes up, finds your throat, fingers curling around it, not squeezing, just holding. just feeling your pulse jackhammers against his touch.

"si," you gasp, hands scrambling over his back, nails dragging over sweat-slick skin.

"yeah," he mutters. "know, baby, know."

he drives in deep, grinds his hips, feels your whole body trembles around him. your muscles lock up, your back bows, a sound rips from your throat— wrecked, helpless.

he groans, hips moving faster, harder, cock dragging in and out, every stroke hitting deep, every thrust pushing you higher.

"gonna come?" his grip tightens, hand on your throat, holding you still.

"please," you gasp.

his body shudders. a sharp breath leaves him, like the sound alone is too much, like hearing you beg is about to ruin him.

"then fuckin’-" his voice catches, breaks. his hips snap forward, slamming in, grinding. "-fuckin’ do it."

and you do.

it doesn’t creep up on you. doesn’t build slow. it crashes.

the pressure snaps like a wire pulled too tight, heat igniting in your spine, exploding outward, everything pulling tight, then breaking apart, shattering you from the inside out. the world vanishes. sound cuts out. your body locks up so hard you can’t even breathe.

your muscles spasm around him, sucking him deeper, milking him. your thighs tremble. your fingers claw at his back, at his arms, at anything you can reach. your lips part on a cry but nothing comes out— just raw pleasure, a wrecked thing too big to hold in.

his breath shudders, chest caving in against yours, every muscle in his body strung tight.

"fuck, fuck," he chokes, almost a whimper.

his hips snap forward, frantic, a few more sloppy thrusts before he breaks. his whole body seizes up, cock throbbing deep inside you, heat spilling hot and thick, filling you up. he groans against your skin, hips jerking, grinding through it, holding you open for him, pushing in as deep as he can go.

he trembles. his forehead presses into your shoulder, his hands shake where they clutch at your body, holding you there, grounding himself in the feel of you.

his breath is ragged.

his chest heaves.

his arms stay locked around you, keeping you pressed close, keeping you his.

and he still doesn’t pull out.

[aaravosss]

yee

[aaravosss]

DISCORD BOYFRIEND KÖNIG

sfw + nsfw. this is just an amalgamation of all my ideas

könig has never been one for putting his face on social media. even before the scars that pull at the skin of his cheek, reshaping his expression in ways he’s never fully grown used to, the idea of being seen, really seen, has never sat right with him. there’s a certain comfort in anonymity, in keeping the world at arm’s length. easier that way. safer.

that unease, paired with what some might consider his more nerdy interests, means he gravitates toward spaces like discord rather than the highly curated feeds of instagram or facebook. there, he doesn’t have to worry about photos or videos— just a username, and a presence in text.

his handle is simple: king 👑. a nod to the name he’s carried for so long, stripped of rank, stripped of weight.

even in the server where he’s most active, he keeps things vague, blending into discussions about games, military history, or whatever niche interest has caught his attention that week.

every now and then, he’ll let something slip— a mention of deployment, an offhand comment, disappearing for months at a time, only to return with a sudden burst of activity. some put the pieces together. most don’t. and könig prefers it that way. it’s easier to let them think he’s just another guy with spotty internet.

your first interaction is rather simple in retrospect.

he’s back after weeks of recon, shaking off the mission like dirt from his boots, easing into the familiarity of a gaming server he’s called home for years.

it’s not a small server, so new people come and go. he does his usual routine— an automated, slightly impersonal welcome but what he doesn’t expect is the sheer enthusiasm in return.

“hi!!!!”

he stares at the message for a second, counting the exclamation marks. three. four. five? a small smile tugs at his lips before he even realizes it.

it doesn’t take long before you’re at his metaphorical side, sending a friend request before the conversation even shifts from your college courses.

the older members tease him. something about his last deployment scrambling his head enough to take a newbie under his wing. he lets them talk. he doesn’t mind.

soon enough, you’re in his private messages, dramatically lamenting your latest loss in a game he’s only vaguely familiar with. könig listens— well, reads— as you rant, words spilling out at a rapid-fire pace, interspersed with keyboard smashing and increasingly incoherent frustration.

he’s not much for new releases, preferring to sink his teeth into a single game for months on end, grinding away until mastery is muscle memory. still-

one evening, without preamble, he sends you a link. his profile. in your game.

the response is immediate. ‘king!!! 🥺’ you type, followed by an onslaught of keyboard mashing that takes up half his screen.

he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. he wonders if you know how easy it is to make him grin like an idiot.

the calls are… an unexpected development.

könig doesn’t make a habit to join server calls. ever. it’s not even about anxiety, not really, just preference. too many voices, too much noise. he never expected to be comfortable enough with anyone to want to be in a call, let alone initiate one.

but when you start gaming together, it becomes a necessity. typing mid-match isn’t exactly efficient, and you’re the first to point that out.

“okay, listen, king, i am not about to lose another ranked match just because you take five years to type ‘behind you.’” he huffs, amused, but relents.

soon enough, calls become second nature— no longer tied to gaming, no longer requiring an excuse. you always ask first, polite thing that you are, and könig always agrees. sometimes it’s an unspoken invitation, a simple “call?” sent in the quiet hours of the night. sometimes he beats you to it, pressing the button before he can think too hard about it.

one time, it’s you who calls. he answers on the first ring.

“are you- wait.” you pause, listening. there’s a distinct, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the background. not footsteps, but something heavier, more controlled. “are you on a treadmill?”

“mm.” his voice is steady, unaffected. a quiet confirmation.

you gasp, and he can practically hear the amusement brewing in your tone. “oh my god! you actually work out? i thought you were lying.”

he snorts, breath hitching slightly as he adjusts his pace. “why would i lie about that?”

“i don’t know! you just- i mean, you sit at your desk all day, playing the same game for hours, and you’re always online at weird times-”

“you are describing yourself,” he points out.

“shut up.”

there’s a pause, and then, with the kind of mischief that only comes from knowing exactly how to push his buttons, you add, “prove it.”

he slows to a walk, swiping open his phone. a moment later, you receive a picture. him, flexing. the lighting is dim, but you can still make out the cut of his forearm, the solid shape of his bicep. just to humor you, he throws up a peace sign.

“not stolen from pinterest.”

you burst into laughter so sudden and bright that he finds himself smiling before he can stop it.

you learn what it means to miss könig pretty early on.

it happens suddenly. one day, he’s there, active as usual, sending the occasional meme, idling in voice chat even if he’s not talking. the next? radio silence. not even a ‘typing…’ indicator.

at first, you don’t think much of it. maybe he’s sleeping in. maybe he’s busy. time zones are weird. it’s fine.

but then a whole day passes. then another. you check his status— nothing. not offline, not do not disturb, just… gone.

curiosity turns into concern, and before you can think better of it, you ask in the server.

“hey, anyone heard from king?”

the response is casual. unbothered. “oh, dude’s probably deployed again.”

you blink. reread the message. “deployed?”

“yeah, king’s military.”

there’s no warning for the way that statement knocks the air from your lungs.

military? as in, real-life combat? as in, war zones and danger and actual life-or-death situations?

you stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, unsure what to even say to that.

he doesn’t resurface for weeks.

you don’t realize how much you’ve come to rely on his presence until it’s gone. his absence is loud in the quiet moments of your day, in the spaces where a message from him would normally be.

you check the server out of habit, catching yourself before you can search his username. it’s stupid, you think. you barely know him. he’s just some guy from a discord server.

but the worry lingers.

and then, one day, just like that— he’s back.

his return is as unceremonious as his disappearance.

no dramatic entrance, no fanfare. just a simple “hello.”

you see it the moment he sends it. your stomach flips.

before you can stop yourself, you send a private message. “you’re alive.”

a moment passes. then— “yes.”

you frown. “you were gone for weeks.”

“i know.”

frustration bubbles up. “you could’ve said something.”

“i couldn’t.”

you hesitate, fingers tightening around your phone. you don’t know what you were expecting. an explanation? reassurance? but it’s clear you’re not getting one.

but then, a follow-up message. one that feels heavier, more careful. “i’m sorry.”

and just like that, the irritation dissolves.

it’s strange, the way things slip back into place after that.

he doesn’t talk about it, and you don’t ask. but something shifts. after that deployment, könig starts telling you when he’ll be gone. nothing in detail, really. just a simple, “i’ll be away for a bit.”

(it means everything.)

slowly, you get used to it. the rhythm of his presence and absence, the way your conversations pick up right where they left off, as if no time has passed at all.

it goes on for months. this… thing between the two of you. könig doesn’t hesitate to call it friendship, though he knows, knows, it’s something else entirely.

something with edges softer than companionship, something that lingers in the pauses between conversation, in the way you had whispered his real name under your breath when he revealed it to you.

he doesn’t rush to name it. doesn’t push. he lets it simmer until it feels inevitable.

in the end, it’s you who breaks first. technically. not that he’s keeping score. not that he would ever rub it in your face, especially when he was a mere day away from asking the very same thing.

it starts with a message. no preamble, no buildup. just a simple: hey, what are we?

könig sees it and reacts before thinking. presses the call button so fast his thumb practically smashes the screen. it rings once, twice—

“you didn’t even ask.” your voice comes through, half exasperated, half amused.

“didn’t want to give you time to unsend.” his own voice is steady, but his heart is anything but.

you huff. “bold assumption.”

“not really.”

a pause. he hears you shift, fabric rustling, the sound of you settling in. something warm and slow uncoils in his chest at the familiarity of it.

“so,” you start, hesitant. “what’s your answer?”

könig exhales, tipping his head back against his pillow. “do you want the truth?”

“obviously.”

he hums, considering. in reality, he’s known the truth for a while now. probably before you even realized it yourself.

“i like you,” he says, simple, sure. then, because he knows you, because he knows your deflections, your habit of teasing when you get nervous, he adds, “and i’m very aware you like me back.”

you sputter. “that’s a bold assumption-”

“not really,” he repeats, smug this time.

you groan, but you’re laughing, and it sends something bright flickering through him.

könig doesn’t ask for nudes. not once. he flirts, he teases, but never pushes. he knows your boundaries, respects them, never even hints at wanting more. if anything, he’s careful. too careful, sometimes. like he’s afraid of crossing a line you haven’t even drawn.

so when you finally send something, it’s your choice.

the first picture is tame. barely anything. it's a shot of your thighs, soft and warm in the low light of your room. nothing scandalous. nothing too revealing. but the second you hit send, your stomach twists with nerves.

könig sees it immediately. you watch the typing bubble appear, disappear, then appear again. and then— “fuck.”

you grin. “good?”

“you have no idea.”

it only escalates from there.

könig never requests more. but when you send it, when you want to send it, his reaction is worth it. he worships you through the screen, tells you how beautiful you are, how much he wishes he could touch you.

“pretty,” he texts once, attached to a voice message.

you press play. his breath is ragged, like he’s just run a mile. “pretty thing,” he repeats, voice tinged with something almost reverent. “you’re going to ruin me, love.”

the first time he sends you something, it takes him forever to work up to it.

you don’t ask for it. wouldn’t dream of pushing him into something he’s not comfortable with. könig isn’t shy, necessarily, but he’s private. you know that by now.

so when, out of nowhere, a picture pops up on your screen, your brain short-circuits.

it’s cropped carefully, but there’s no mistaking what you’re looking at— bare skin, broad shoulders, his stomach flexed just slightly.

“you like?” he texts after a minute.

you swallow hard. “yes.”

“good.” and then— “more?”

you bite your lip. “please.”

könig gets bolder after that.

he sends more. never too much, always teasing, always just enough to leave you wanting. sometimes it’s his hands, sometimes it’s his abs, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the waistband of his sweatpants hanging just low enough to make your mouth water.

one night, he sends a voice message instead. you press play.

at first, all you hear is his breathing. then, slowly, softly— your name, whispered through a noise that makes heat bloom low in your stomach.

“wish you were here,” he murmurs. “wish you could see what you do to me.”

the actual nudes don’t take long. not ar all. you’re both desperate. buzzing. könig’s the one who caves first.

it starts with your text. 10 p.m., the hour where inhibitions slip through grasping fingers like sand.

“wanna see your cock so bad, könig…” you murmur to your propped phone, cheek pressed to your pillow, another one stuffed against your chest like it might replace the hollow ache between your ribs. a distraction. a poor substitute.

on the other side of the screen, he exhales, dragging a hand down his face. fingers tensing, then flexing, like he needs something to hold onto. “love-” your whine cuts through before he can even think. instinctive. needy. his stomach clenches. “okay, okay. as long as you're sure.”

his heart pounds as he opens his photos. he doesn’t exactly collect dick pics, but there are a few kept locked away, private albums, a passcode he suddenly fumbles to enter.

three minutes. that’s how long it takes to choose the best one. the right angle. the right lighting. enough to make your breath hitch when you see it.

he hits send before he can overthink it, then leans back, phone balanced on his thigh, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

your phone buzzes. the photo pops up. you blink, breath hitching sharp in your throat.

“oh my god.” the words spill out of you before you can even think to stop them. “könig…” you stare at the screen, gaze locked on the thick, heavy length of him. the way it curves slightly, resting against his thigh like it’s weighed down by its own sheer mass. your breath stutters.

“you're so fucking big.” it barely registers that you've said it aloud.

“yeah? you like it?

“like it?” you shoot back. “i want it inside me.”

his breath leaves him in one harsh exhale. he shifts, hips rolling involuntarily like he can feel your words on his skin.

“can i see you too?” he sounds so polite. and then, as if that wasn’t enough to twist the knife deeper— “please?”

your stomach flips. you bite your lip, already reaching for your phone camera, the need to show him everything burning through you like wildfire.

your breath comes shallow as you slip your hand lower, phone steady in the other. the need is a pulse under your skin, throbbing, insistent. you pull the covers back just enough, the cool air prickling against the heat between your thighs.

the camera catches everything. your slightly parted thighs, your swollen clit, the wetness gushing out of your hole. it feels like baring a secret you’ve never told anyone. you hesitate for half a second, heart racing, then hit send.

the second the message disappears from your screen, it hits you— you just sent that to him.

on his end, könig freezes. the photo loads slow, torturous, and when it finally pops up, he feels his whole body tense, blood rushing south so fast it’s dizzying. “f-fuck, i need to be inside of you-”

sex with könig, if you can even call it that, at first, sneaks up on you. you never thought you’d be the kind of person who got into this. sending texts that made your face burn, leaving voice messages you could barely listen back to without cringing. but with him, it’s different. easier. less embarrassing because it’s him.

still, going from nudes to actual phone sex takes some time.

“gonna sleep,” könig texts you once, attached to a blurry photo of his bed.

“alone?” you send back, teasing.

the typing bubble appears. then disappears. then— “obviously.”

you grin at your phone, satisfied. but then— “but i could use some company.”

you stare at the message longer than you’d like to admit.

in the past, you hadn't told him how many times you’d dreamt of him because you thought you'd scare him off, kept your mouth shut about the images that haunted you at night, of his hands pinning you down, his mouth at your throat.

didn't tell him that you had woken up panting, arousal between your thighs, könig’s name on your lips too many times. didn't tell him that you had pressed your hand against your clit during your calls, to the sound of his voice, to his laugh, to the quiet, wrecked groans he sometimes lets out when he stretches after a workout.

but you wanted to.

and tonight, you would.

the conversation turns slow. lazy. heavy with something unspoken.

“you sound tired,” könig murmurs, voice warm. he’s always like this late at night. soft, unhurried, like he’s sinking into the sound of you.

you swallow hard. your skin feels too hot, too tight. “i’m not.”

a pause. then, lower— “what is it, love?”

you hesitate, pressing your lips together. it’s too much. too embarrassing. but he knows something is different.

“talk to me. tell me what you’re thinking.”

you let out a shaky breath. “i had a dream about you.”

the silence stretches.

you can hear him inhale. you bite your lip. force yourself to continue. “i think about you. when i-” you stop. you can’t say it. can’t admit it.

könig exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to steady himself. “when you what?”

your stomach is a knot of nerves. but you want this. want him. so you take a breath, close your eyes. “when i touch myself.”

his breath stutters.

“fuck.” the word is almost a groan. your pulse hammers, blood rushing through your ear as heat pools in your stomach.

“könig,” you whisper.

he exhales, whispers his next words like a beg, “say it again.”

you swallow. “i touch myself to you.”

“i do too.”

your stomach flips. “what?”

“i-” he cuts himself off with a quiet curse, like he's frustrated with himself for hesitating. “i touch myself to you too.”

your breath catches. heat blooms in your chest, spreading down your spine. “könig-”

“all the time.” his voice is lower now, raw, like he's aching with it. “when i can't sleep. when you're on call with me, laughing, teasing me. when i wake up hard in the middle of the night and can’t stop thinking about stuffing you full.”

your body is burning again, despite the aftershocks still rolling through you. you're about to choke out a reply when you hear it— the rustle of fabric, the faint creak of bedsprings, the wet slide of skin on skin.

“are you-”

a sharp inhale. “yes.”

“let me hear you,” you whisper, thinking about his pretty, pretty cock. uncut, soft skin stretched over the flushed head, the way it would slide back when he’s fully hard, revealing the deep pink of his leaking tip. the veins that wind down the length, standing out against the pale skin

there's a pause, a hitch in his breath. then, slowly— “okay.”

there's a small rustle, könig adjusting himself on the bed. the faint sound of him pumping lotion on his hand. a quiet sigh. and then, a low grunt as the warmth of his palm wraps around his cock.

könig looks down at his hand, eyes half-lidded, hips bucking up in small thrusts. he imagines your pussy instead of his fist, hot and tight and so fucking warm, fluttering around his length as he pushes in, spearing you open with a cock too big for your little cunny.

he knows you’d cry for him, little gasps and hiccupped moans, squirming beneath him as he bullies his cock deeper, past that tight ring of muscle into the slick, warm clutch of your cunt.

“a-ah- fuck, ah-”

your breath stutters at the sounds, hips grinding against your palm. “wish i could see you.”

“on cam?”

you groan, squeezing your thighs around the pillow in-between your legs, grinding your clit against the material softly. “yes, please..”

fuck, you're so polite.

[aaravosss]

Hi! You wanted requests? What about "innocent" Reader making Konig cum in his pants by "innocently" sitting on his lap and wiggling around to get "comfortable" on a car ride. Bumpy road***

you're squeezed into the backseat of a packed suv, the mission debrief droning on as the vehicle rumbles over a rough dirt road. könig's next to you, his massive frame taking up half the seat, thighs spread wide enough that you're practically forced to slide onto his lap to make room. "sorry," you mumble, all soft and shy, trying to sound polite as you wiggle, adjusting yourself to get comfy. you don’t even notice how your hips roll right over his groin, the tight space making every little movement press you closer.

he grunts, low and rough, gloved hands gripping the seat beneath him like he’s trying to anchor himself. "s’fine," he mutters, voice strained, but you feel the way his body tenses, the way his breathing hitches. the road’s uneven, each bump jostling you, making you bounce lightly against him. you’re oblivious, just trying to find a spot that doesn’t feel so cramped, shifting side to side, your soft weight rubbing against him in a slow, unintentional grind.

"this road’s awful," you say with a little laugh, turning your head to glance at him, all innocent eyes and flushed cheeks from the heat of the car. you don’t see how his jaw clenches under the mask, how his eyes squeeze shut for a second. another sharp bump, and you grip his knee for balance, your ass pressing harder into his lap. he lets out a choked sound, barely muffled, and you think he’s just annoyed at the tight space.

but then you feel it—something stiff, twitching under you, unmistakable even through the layers of tactical gear. könig’s hands fly to your hips, gripping hard to stop your movements. "stop… moving," he growls, voice thick, almost desperate. you freeze, confused, tilting your head like you don’t understand why he sounds so wrecked.

"sorry, am i squishing you?" you ask, all sweet concern, shifting just a tiny bit to look at him better, and he sucks in a sharp breath, hips jerking up before he can stop himself. his grip tightens, bruising, and you’re still clueless, thinking he’s just uncomfortable. but the road bumps again, hard, and your body jolts with it, dragging you right over the bulge in his pants.

he’s done for. a low, broken groan rumbles out, his whole body locking up as he cums right there, soaking through his pants under you. you blink, feeling the sudden warmth, the way he’s trembling beneath you, and finally put it together. "oh," you gasp, cheeks burning, but you don’t dare move, not with his hands still clamped on your hips, his chest heaving like he’s run a marathon.

"don’t… say a word," he mutters, voice hoarse, refusing to look at you. you bite your lip, still perched on his lap, the road still bouncing you both as the car rolls on, and you can’t help the tiny, nervous giggle that slips out. innocent, sure, but you’re not that clueless.