#cod mwii

[millzinterlude]

Pt. 2 Pt 3

Okay but what about autistic!Simon Riley bagging a beautiful bombshell of a woman just by simply being weird and abnormal about his interests?? He meets this pretty bird at a pub. You’re sexy in an effortless way, looking him up and down and giving him pretty smiles. He’s a bit aloof, but he also thinks you’re pretty. So when you approach him the first thing that spills out of his mouth is “I have a lot o’ guns inside my house.” It takes you by surprise. You just smile and nod, a little freaked out by it and he takes that as the chance to continue. Even pulls out a knife. “This one ‘ere is Riley. Real special t’me, gets the job done. Quick ‘n easy. Y’wanna hold ‘er?” He sticks a large hand out, offering you his knife. You hold it, letting the weight of it rest in your hands, you give him an awkward smile. He gives you a slight grin, thinking he’s really got you in the bag. So he pulls out his phone, showing you pictures of guns. One in particular being a picture of a L115A3. “‘S a damn good sniper. Ever seen someone get hit bullseye in the head with its bullet? No’ a pretty sight I’ll tell you that much, but she’s a right beaut. Silent and efficient.” He rambles about how he knows to use it and how he can easily take it apart and put it back together again. You have to admit, it’s hot. Watching him rattle on and on about a plethora of guns shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does. So you just smile and nod, actually listening to him and boy does that excite him. He ends up taking you to his flat, holding up and showing you every gun while you throat him and listen <3.

[stargirlstabber]

mdni, 0.14k words, not proofread

imagine simon riley draping your naked form over his fully clothed thighs. he slowly pumps his thick fingers into your dripping hole, squelching sounds filling his ears.

you already came three times, but your man has no thoughts of stopping anytime soon. he'll just hold you still if you squirm too much and continue pounding you with just his fingers.

"that's what you get for acting up, lovie. now you just have to take this sweet little punishment, should have thought before you did that, hm?"

the only response simon gets is some babbling sounds that leave your lips.

"no more thoughts up there? it's alright, baby... i'll take care of you after you've taken your punishment."

after his thumb added pressured circles around your swollen clit, a shriek escaped your throat, wondering how long he's gonna bully your pussy...

[imtherain]

Absolutely amazing

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.

[livienatzk]

knight!Simon yearning the princess!reader love

The morning sun spilled gold over Velbrun’s gardens, its light soft and slow, kissing the castle towers and shimmering off the still waters of the royal fountains. Roses—red, ivory, pale as moonlight—bloomed in neat rows, as if the earth itself had woven them for you.

You walked among them. Your hair—loose for the first time—fell in waves over your delicate shoulders. The white brocade dress, embroidered with pearls and threads of gold, whispered against the stone path. Every step sounded like poetry.

Behind you, a few paces back, followed Sir Riley. His light armor bore the wear of years, his cloak shifting with each measured movement. A soldier’s eyes scanned the garden as if the whole world were a threat— Except you.

“Sir Riley,” you said softly, fingers brushing the petals of a white rose. “The flowers seem fairer today, don’t they?”

His head inclined, respectful but with an edge of warmth. “You lend them beauty, Princess. The roses are only trying to keep up.”

You smiled faintly, your eyes still on the bloom. “You speak like a poet. I didn’t think a soldier had such words.”

“Hearing your voice… even a blade would forget itself.”

You laughed—quiet, restrained. A princess couldn’t let her guard down, not even here.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you longed for more than the honor of guarding me.”

Silence. The distant sound of fountains filled the space between them.

His gaze met hers—not like a knight to his charge, but like a man to a woman. “Isn’t it enough? The honor?” he asked. His voice was steady, but something flickered beneath it.

“It’s all we’re allowed,” you murmured, finally turning to face him.

The wind teased golden strands across her cheeks. And for a heartbeat, nothing existed but them—no crowns, no duty, no cruel world to pull them apart.

“If this were another life…” he whispered, so low it was almost lost.

“I wouldn’t wear my hair up,” you said with a sad smile. “And you wouldn’t call me Princess.”

And there, among Velbrun’s roses, two hearts spoke every word their lips could never say.

[v1x3n]

old drabble i need to get outa my drafts !!!

okay i know konig has anxiety but heavily anxious/nervous konig. so nervous that hes pathetic and a freak.

its to the point he cant speak to girls, he cant be around them or he will get a boner! a weeping, red, swollen boner from just seeing you walk past him. your scent filling his nose and he suddenly wants to bend you over and fill your pretty pussy!!

he sees you again across from his house, hes just outside and sees you in your window. he was just fixing up his car whilst your in a towel - hair damp and your drying your hair with another towel. he feels red rise to his cheeks and a shock down to his cock.

instantly hardening.

what luck a hot girl like you is living just opposite him!

he continues watching you, in the morning, whilst your making your breakfast, whilst you dance around the kitchen and make some sort of sweet treat, whilst you go to bed, whilst you get changed and you forget your curtains are open ><

you've grown into his little obsession, like a tv show that's constantly on going.

one night, he sees you on your bed, hips thrusting forward into your pillow. his cheeks instantly flush up, blood rushes to his leaking dick. you let your head back and he can almost feel the unsatisfied groan. you part your legs, throwing the pillow aside and dip your hand below. konigs hips stutter as he allows himself to grind up into the air.

he watches you, eye lids fluttering as you moan out. head falling back as your fingers work wonders. you finish with your legs shaking violently. he tries to finish at the same time as you. his cum painting his boxers, leaking everywhere, untouched. he glances down at his trousers which are sweaty and uncomfortable. then back at you.

just to see you looking right over, your hand still between your thighs. despite you being far away - he can make out a wink. you chuckle as he panics, heart thumping and closes the curtain. how cute!

[private-boots]

The name is Boots:3

oc ask game: song lyric edition

1. a song lyric that makes you think of them 2. a song lyric to describe their love life 3. a song lyric to describe their family life 4. a song lyric to describe their personality 5. a song lyric to describe their physical appearance 6. a song lyric to describe their personal style 7. a song lyric that would comfort them when they’re sad 8. a song lyric that would make them feel Seen 9. a song lyric to make them cry 10. a song lyric to make them happy

tip: if you include a reminder of your OCs’ names in the tags, people will be more likely to send in asks!

[bigproblemsfunnylife]

The mission had gone sideways in the last ten minutes. They were clearing the last building when the explosion went off — not close enough to kill, but close enough to leave Soap bleeding from a deep gash on his thigh, crumpled behind cover with dirt in his teeth and his voice tight with pain.

Ghost had been the one to drag him out. He didn’t speak while doing it, didn’t say a damn word as he threw Soap’s arm over his shoulders, muttering “Come on, Johnny,” like a prayer.

Back at the safehouse, it’s just the two of them.

Soap’s shirt is soaked through with sweat and blood. Ghost has peeled off his mask — not the skull one, but the black balaclava beneath it — and his voice is lower, quieter.

He kneels beside Soap on the mattress. “Hold still.” He says it like a command, but there’s something raw under it. Something that says I need you to be okay. Don’t make me watch you bleed out.

Soap’s laughing through gritted teeth. “I’m fine. You look worse. Like a kicked dog.”

“You’re not funny.”

“You’re not funny.”

Ghost shakes his head, but his hands don’t tremble when he patches the wound. He’s cleaned blood off Soap before. This feels different.

Maybe because they’re alone. Maybe because Soap looks up at him with glassy eyes and says, “You stayed with me.”

Ghost’s voice is barely a whisper. “Of course I did.”

He finishes the stitching, leans back, and finally looks Soap in the eye —he sees just them, just Simon and Johnny.

“You scared the hell outta me,” Ghost mutters, almost like he hates saying it. “Don’t do that again.”

Soap doesn’t crack a joke this time. He just reaches out, fingers brushing Ghost’s wrist. “I won’t. Long as you’re there to drag me out.”

And Ghost doesn’t pull away.

[corpsypher]

part 2 of this

What if reader was the one with the breeding kink, I'm talking, the feral, unhinged kind of breeding kink. Borderline nasty stuff.

"Oh john, oh-" you moan and groan to the rhythm of his thrusts, "I need you to fuck me so deep honey, put it so deep in me, I can taste it." He huffs and puffs, straining to keep the brutal pace of his hips pounding against yours.

"I want it, I need it." You unlock your legs from around him and instead grab them behind your knees, and pull them towards your chest, spreading yourself open even more for his cock. "Put your baby in me, John."

"Oh fuck," John feels the pressure start to build in his core, his balls tighten and rise, "I'm goin' to come, love…" his warning makes you arch your back and ground your pelvis against his.

"Oh yes, please! I want your cum!" you beg him as you push your breast up and let your head fall back, "fill me up, John. Stuff my pussy with your seed," He gasps at your words and his thrusts pause for a second, only to resume with more force, "Stuff me so much it drips out of me."

He's so close to fulfilling your demands, it's not even funny. Still, he holds it, wanting to hear your filthy mouth a little longer.

Suddenly, you drop your back down to the bed and grab him by the nape of his head, your fingers painfully tight on his hair. You force him down with you. His hard body crushing your soft one. His happy trail rubbing against your plump belly, the same with his broad, hairy chest and your pebbled nipples.

You caught him off guard, something almost impossible to achieve (and later he'll blame his pleasure-addled brain). Yet, he keeps moving inside you.

Using your hold, you move his head to the side, exposing his neck for you. Leaning up, you lick a stripe of his sweat, from his collarbone to his temple where the greys are starting to grown. And then you go for his throat.

"I you to fill me up much, it'll look like I'm pissing your cum when I stand up."

His vision goes white, his orgasm so violent he shouts, ropes of his cum pumping inside you to the beat of his thundering heart.

[shadow0-1]

they're lost as hell

[rose37373]

cw: mean!simon, f!reader smut, 18+

sure, Ghost lost a lot of things quite frequently. whether it being his left boot or his acne wash (this man gets mask acne), he lost things all the time.

they always showed back up within a few days though and everything was fine.

but every weekend when he trades his tactical gear for something more comfortable, something is always missing.

his Manchester United hoodie no longer on the chair he usually keeps in on. his grey sweats that he lets hang too low on his hips after his showers no where to be seen.

whatever it is, his clothes are very quickly disappearing.

And Ghost has one culprit in mind.

You.

always staring at his tight fitting tshirt during workouts, the very same hoodie he found you inhaling deeply one afternoon after training

He marches over to your room, prepared to take his things back. Ghost doesn’t bother knocking, he’s seen you naked more than once.

He barges in and sees you wearing his favorite Manchester United hoodie and nothing underneath.

“luv, what’s with that?” he asks, pointing at your choice of clothes.

“hm? what do you mean Simon?” you question, giggling. Ghost sits down next to you on the bed, his hand quickly moving to grip your bare thigh.

“ya know what m’ talkin ‘bout hun” his voice gruff and dripping with malice.

“Si it’s comfy and soft”

“yea, I know darlin’. thats why I bought it”

you just roll your eyes, making his grip on your thigh tighter.

“can’t jus take my stuff. no matter how comfortable it is”

he rolls on top of you, discarding whatever book you were reading. How can it be more interesting than him?

his lips instantly connect to your neck kissing and suckling as his hands slide under the hoodie, finding your breasts. he cups them as his lips move up to your jaw.

he slides the hoodie up over your head and throws it to the foot of your bed as he twists your nipple slightly, sucking on the other.

your sweet moans quickly make his cock chub up in the last pair of sweats he had, the rest in your closet.

“say ya want it luv” he whispers, barely heard through your moans. your thighs clamp even tighter together, if even possible.

he leaves a few dark marks on top and under the curvature of your breasts and pushes his hand between your thighs.

“yer soaked darlin, want my fuckin cock so bad, huh?”

you nod, squeezing your eyes shut.

“say it. say ya want my fat fuckin cock inside you”

you moan before breathlessly saying “I want it si. I want it so bad”

a huge smirk crosses his face before he gets up and off you, grabbing his hoodie.

“return the rest of my clothes and we’ll talk”

and with that he walks out, leaving you needy and circling your clit with your thumb, desperate for release.

[sugarcherris]

hai i really like your writing! i was just wondering if you could do a short drabble on soap with a plus sized reader? i can hardly find any fics with him :,3

Hi there! Thank you so much for the kind words. This was my first time writing for a plus-size reader, apologies if I didn’t do well. I did my best through research and reading, but I’m always open to learning and improving. I hope you enjoy reading this though (´▽｀)

Farmer MacTavish’s Prized fruits

Johnny soap mactavish x fem! Plus sized reader, pure fluff.

Somewhere between cleaning his rifle and daydreaming about runaway goats, Johnny MacTavish got that look in his eye again—that dumb, dreamy one that made Ghost sigh and walk away without a word.

It was the same face every time: crooked grin, eyes twinkling like a cartoon star, like someone had just whispered “free whiskey” into the wind. And you knew. The second you rounded the corner, he was already on his feet, arms flung open like he’d just spotted his prized fluffy sheep after a week lost in the glen.

He had two hands—and he wasn’t wastin’ either of them.

Not when your cheeks—round, plush, and tragically squishable like freshly risen bread—were within reach. Warm like morning rolls left on a windowsill. And, unfortunately for your dignity, irresistibly soft.

The rest of you matched. Soft in all the right places, with curves so generous he swore you were sculpted by a god who just really loved holding things.

He could be mid-briefing, half-dressed, scratching his butt, chewing a protein bar, or deep into reassembling a rifle and he'd still reach over and gently pinch, prod, or smoosh your cheeks together like he was at a Saturday market inspecting peaches for ripeness.

“Aye, there ye are, ma lass!” he beamed, practically bouncing toward you like a golden retriever in combat boots.

“Hold still, love. Need tae check firmness. See if yer fresh.”

You didn’t even get a proper “hello” out before—schwump—both his hands were on your cheeks. Warm, calloused palms, rough from gun oil and poor life choices, cradled your face like it was divine fruit. He gave a testing squish.

Then again.

Squish-squish.

“Hmmm,” he hummed, rocking your head side to side thoughtfully. “Look at this one. Plump. Juicy. Full of secrets. perfectly ripe, just like I like ‘em. Soft but springy. Ya been watered properly, hen?”

“Every mornin’,” you deadpanned, lips smushed together like a sad fish. “Filtered. Organic. Grew myself in a clay pot. Buy one, get one forehead slap.”

He grinned, delighted. “Ha! Knew it. These cheeks are blue ribbon quality. I’m tellin’ ye, I’d win medals at the Highland Games for cheeks like these. Best in show. Cheek du jour.”

You squinted at him. “Why are you talking to my face again?”

He blinked, like the answer was obvious. “Quality control. Yer a melon. I’m a humble Scottish farmer, searchin’ the land for only the finest fruit. Can’t sell subpar produce at market, now can I?” he said seriously-too seriously. Like he was giving a TED Talk on facial fruit.

You arched a brow. "How much am I going for, then?"

He stroked his chin dramatically, still squishing your cheeks into shapes no human expression should ever achieve.

Then tugged your cheeks gently left, right, gave them a bounce like he was testing gravity. He huffed through his nose.

“For these wee beauties?” he muttered, leaning in close like a bartering merchant. “Two sheep, a jug o’ cider, and me best goat. The one that screams at Gary every Sunday.”

You sighed, long-suffering but amused. “That’s extortionate. Sounds like I’m the one robbing you.”

He grinned wider. “And I’d hand it all over gladly.”

“That’s stupid. You’ll bankrupt yourself dry.”

“Yer stupid!”

“…And your goat has IBS.”

“Oi! Don’t talk about Margaret like that! She’s sensitive!”

Then, of course, he broke into what he thought was your voice—offensive, ridiculous, and weirdly high-pitched.

“‘Ooo, Mister sexy Johnny, I’m just a wee humble melon! Don’t sell me off, I’m full o’ hopes and dreams—’”

“I do not sound like that.”

“You do when yer cheeks’re like this.”

He shook your face lightly in his hands like a bowl of jelly for emphasis. You made a muffled “mmpf,” like a sentient stress ball. He leaned in and kissed your temple—warm and scratchy from stubble, like a cat tongue with better aim.

And God help you, sometimes… you joined in.

“’Scuse me, missy,” he’d start again, full dramatic flair.In the thickest farmer accent you’d ever heard (which wasn’t saying much, since he already sounded like a Glaswegian goat herder). “How much for these cheek-fruits?”

You barely blinked. “Twelve-fifty per squeeze and the rest of your dignity. No refunds. Market closes in five.”

“Twelve-fifty?!” he gasped. “What do I get for two euros then—just a sniff? A sample?”

“None. Inflation,” you mumbled through the squish.

.

.

.

“…Maybe a pity pat on the head. And a slap if you squeeze any harder.”

He kissed the top of your head like you were his prize pumpkin, he raised from childhood, “Worth every penny, ye are.”

And the thing was—he meant it.

His thumbs pressed gently into the softness of your cheeks—flesh like sweet dough, sun-warmed and kissed by the world. There was something in the way he held you: a reverence laced with playful awe, like you were some divine peach from an orchard tended by gods, plucked at the perfect hour of morning light. The fullness of your face, the gentle curve of your jaw, the cushion that came naturally with your frame—he loved it.

It wasn’t just your face, of course.

He loved all of you—every curve, every unapologetic inch. The strength in your arms, soft but powerful, like velvet wrapped around steel. Your waist, generous and steady—a soft curve made for holding, made for settling into. The kind of softness he could bury into when the world got too loud. And your hips—God, your thighs—the way they moved with that quiet confidence, swaying with a rhythm no one taught you. Like you moved to music only you could hear. Unapologetic. Proud.

And Johnny? He adored you like a starving man shown mercy.

“I’ve decided,” he declared, slipping into that farmer drawl, “ye’re the finest crop this side o’ the River Clyde. If I were a melon farmer—”

“You’d be bankrupt. You haven’t watered a plant in three weeks.”

“Oi! I’d water ye wi’ compliments daily, woman. Don’t test me.”

“This is my life now?”

“Aye,” he said solemnly. Hands still planted on your cheeks. “Yer my prize melon. The last one in the patch. Locals travel from miles away to lay eyes on ye.”

“Someday,” he muttered, cheek still in hand, “we’re buyin’ a wee farm. Just you, me, and a hundred different kinds o’ jam. I’ll wake up, squeeze yer cheeks every mornin’, check the forecast.”

“What do they say today?”

He leaned in, nose brushing yours.

“…Storm’s comin’. Cheeks’re warm.”

His hand slid to your hip, burying his face in the crook of your neck like you were made of sunshine and honeysuckle.

Then, in a softer voice, “You ever think about quittin’ wi’ me, Bonnie?”

You tilted your head just enough—his cue to go on.

“Maybe, In another life… we’d be farmers. I’d grow tatties. You’d grow peaches. I’d come tae yer stall each mornin’, flirt shamelessly while buyin’ me dinner back. You’d act like ye don’t know me. Tell me I’ve sauce on me chin. Send me packin’ wi’ a basket and a blush.”

“I’d give you the bruised ones,” you muttered. “Because you’re annoying.”

He’d pretend to clutch his pearls. “Bruised?! Me heart, woman—shattered like a dropped watermelon.”

But then he returned against your soft skin. “Can see it now. Big bonnet. Sunflowers in your apron. Arms strong from milkin’ cows. That peachy wee arse jigglin’ in the garden rows—”

“You were doing so well until the end.”

“I’m a man of vision,” he whispered, smug.

You rolled your eyes, laughing despite yourself, and reached to twist his ear. He yelped. Deserved.

He does this often — builds entire daydreams around you. He’s off in some ridiculous fantasy world now In this one, you’re wearing overalls (he insists yours would be covered in flour), and he’s got straw in his hair, slapping bread dough around and calling it “tillage.”

You snorted, letting him continue his dumb little fantasy.

And in another world, your left cheek is named “Honeybun” and the right “Lassie,” and he gave them dramatic story arcs.

“They’ve been through a drought, y’know,” he whispered against your ear one afternoon while you’re making him coffee. “But I watered ‘em with love and protein shakes. Look at ‘em now. Plump ‘n’ happy.”

“You’re deranged.”

“You love it.”

“No comment.”

You played along, always. Patient, sarcastic, gently amused in that soft, indulgent way that only makes him fall harder. You’d cheekily said things like “They don’t like to be touched without an appointment,” or “I’m sorry sir, Honeybun gone bad. Got bruised by some idiot in tactical gear.”

And He gasped in horror like it’s a real tragedy. “HONEYBUN, NO— WHO-WHO DARED?! I’ll heat the market regulation outta him!”

“Good luck,” you muttered. “He talks too much and smells like gunpowder and Lynx Africa.”

“Sounds ah sexy lad!” He whistled, cradling your face with the kind of reckless affection that made your heart warm despite your best attempts at sarcasm.

And once, after a shower, you walked out in a towel, snugged against your soft stomach and caught him on the couch, holding a peach.

You narrowed your eyes.

“You’re the reason humanity doesn’t have flying cars.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

And sure enough, he walked over, squeezed the peach. Then your cheek. Then the peach again. Then your cheek.

Eventually he kissed your face with a wet MWAA and declared you the winner.

“Softer. Sweeter. No pit.”

“High praise,” you said dryly. “You should put that on my tombstone.”

He grinned and laid his head on your shoulder, big warm arm curling around your middle.

“Only if I get to be buried next to Honeybun.”

Bonus

Once, Ghost caught him mid-squeeze and muttered, “The hell are you doin’?”

Johnny didn’t miss a beat. “Product quality control, sir.”

Now when Ghost passes by and sees him face-deep in your cheek, he just mutters, “Fruit thing again?”

“Hn.”

“Third time this week.”

“Fourth, if ye count the bread loaf metaphor!” Johnny called proudly. Chest puffed.

Ghost just walked off.

And Johnny? Still daydreaming about the farm. The goat named Margaret. And the legend of the finest cheeks this side of the River Clyde.

[imtherain]

Jesus that's good 👍

TRAINER KÖNIG

sfw + nsfw. sucking könig's humongous titties. big cock. shower sex. semi-public. non-fluent könig.

it was a practical decision, you told yourself, scrolling past flashy advertisements for gyms promising overnight transformations, past testosterone-fueled testimonials about “beast mode” and “grindset.”

you'd sworn to yourself that as soon as you had the financial breathing room, as soon as you didn’t have to mentally calculate whether a dinner out would set you back for the week, you’d do it. invest in yourself. not in aesthetics, not in performance metrics, but in survival.

something that made you feel safer so that walking home late at night wouldn’t always feel like a loaded gun pressed to the base of your spine. you wouldn’t keep your keys between your fingers like they were some flimsy excuse for a weapon.

you found a coach who was within budget, someone named könig. a straightforward profile without a profile picture and just a handful of mid-range reviews.

it was genuine in its mediocrity, not glowing in the way bot-generated reviews tended to be, but not riddled with horror stories of scams or half-baked lessons either. people mentioned that he knew what he was doing, that he was patient, that his methods were effective.

but there were a few comments about his communication too. his english, more specifically.

at first, you were more nervous about looking weak than anything else.

logically, you knew that was the point. that was why you were paying for this— to get stronger, to learn. but the thought of stepping into a room filled with people who could probably bench your body weight while you struggled with a 25 kg deadlift made something inside you shrivel. made you feel like you’d be under a microscope, mistakes magnified. the thought of someone watching you fumble through drills, assessing your form— the potential for ridicule made your stomach knot up.

so, you signed up for solo lessons.

before you even met him, könig messaged you. a late-night notification breaking through the dim glow of your phone screen.

“is it ok that my english is not so good?”

you blinked at the screen. read it again. there was something unexpectedly… earnest about it. a self-consciousness that you rhymed with your own.

your thumbs hovered over the keyboard before you replied. “of course! i don’t mind at all.” then, after a second, “i’ll probably learn some phrases from you, haha.”

a long pause. three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared. finally— “this is nice. i will try my best.”

something about that, about the fact that he had asked at all, the careful way he phrased it, stuck with you. you didn't know why, but it did.

the first time you met könig, you nearly turned around and walked straight back out the door, convinced your coach still hadn’t arrived.

at first, you genuinely thought you had the wrong room. or maybe there’d been some kind of mix-up, like another instructor using the space before your lesson.

you had walked into the gym expecting— what? some average-looking guy in a compression shirt? maybe a little bulky, maybe with that particular kind of gym-rat energy, all tight smiles and way-too-enthusiastic handshakes.

instead you got könig.

a massive, six-foot something, tank built like something that was meant to withstand damage and then deliver it back tenfold.

his hoodie, loose on his frame and looking a bit worse for wear from too many washes, still did nothing to hide the sheer scale of him. the water bottle he was holding was dwarfed by his hand and his arms, even relaxed at his sides, looked like they could crush a man’s ribs without much effort.

out of place. that was what he looked like. less self-defense coach and more guard stationed at the gates of hell.

you hesitated in the doorway, gripping the strap of your gym bag, suddenly hyperaware of every muscle in your body tensing up.

and then he spoke.

"… my client?” his voice was surprisingly soft. deep, yes, but smoothed down with the lilt of his accent.

you had to crane your neck to meet his eyes. jesus christ.

“uh, yeah, i think so,” you shifted on your feet, clearing your throat. “i booked the solo slots.”

he nodded. “good.” a pause. then, “you are… beginner?”

you exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh. “you could say that.”

his eyes smiled, something in the creases looking like amusement, before he jerked his head toward the back of the gym. “we start slow then.”

the whole thing went… surprisingly well.

könig was an amazing instructor for self-defense, not afraid to teach you moves that were downright dirty. not just the textbook counters or polished techniques that looked good in demonstrations but the kind of violence that left real damage. moves that could end a fight before it even started. his lessons were brutal in their practicality, built for survival, not sport.

his shrug always came before the skepticism could leave your mouth, as if he already knew the doubts forming behind your eyes. anticipation sat in his expression, waiting for you to question the practicality of a move that involved hitting someone's throat or breaking a wrist. waiting for that flicker of hesitation so he could counter it.

“has no rules, defense,” he simply told you, adjusting his gloves with a nonchalance that felt at odds with the destruction he'd just inflicted on the poor training dummy. his foot still pressed into its broken torso, the material caved inward like a crushed can. “s’long as you're safe, is good tactic.”

it was truth that didn’t need embellishment to him. könig wasn’t just saying it to justify his methods— it was a simple fact.

he made it seem less brutal, more justified. not just an excuse for violence but a reassurance, a lesson in survival.

it had you thinking if maybe you had been seeing things too rigidly, measuring combat in terms of right and wrong instead of what kept you breathing. könig didn’t. his world wasn’t one of fairness, it was of outcomes.

you exhaled, glancing at the poor, ruined dummy before looking back at him. “i think you broke it.”

könig tilted his head, unbothered. “hm. ja.” then, after a pause, he grinned, nudging the dummy’s crumpled remains with his boot like it might suddenly spring back to life. “but was good form, yes?”

the laugh that bubbled up caught you off guard, an unexpected burst of warmth. the corners of his grin lifted just a little higher at that.

texting started out as a necessity. scheduling changes, clarifying techniques, occasional reminders about bringing extra wraps. that was the whole point, really— a way to communicate outside of training.

somehow, though, könig turned out to be a menace over text. sarcasm practically dripped from his messages, sharpened now that he had the time to translate things properly. he was witty, sometimes outright ridiculous, and the sheer absurdity of his jokes caught you off guard more times than you could count.

könig: i think i have unlocked a new level of muscle soreness. my body is rejecting me. i am a broken man.

you: rip. gone and forgotten.

könig: good. don't tell my story. it's kind of pathetic.

“könig,” you typed one evening. “where the hell did you learn english?”

“the internet.”

immediate suspicion flooded your mind. “what part of the internet?”

“…the bad part.”

“be more specific.”

“ah…” there was a long pause, like he was regretting his choices. finally, “weird forums.”

apprehension curled at the base of your spine. “what kind of weird forums, könig?”

“…conspiracy theories.”

sheer, undiluted disbelief clung to you as you stared at your screen.

“WAIT” he backpedaled immediately, as if he could feel your judgment through the phone. “i was a child!!”

“A CHILD IN CONSPIRACY FORUMS?”

“it was not like that!!”

his frantic response only made you laugh harder. “then explain.”

“i was just reading, yes? stories. people told very cool stories. aliens, secret government projects, ghosts”

“oh my god, you were a cryptid kid.”

“nein!!”

amusement bloomed in your chest. “so what i’m hearing is you were, like, deep in the trenches. lizard people? JFK clone theories? the moon isn’t real?”

“…yes.”

“jesus christ.”

“it was fun!! and good english practice!”

“you learned english from paranoid men on the internet.”

“they were very passionate.”

laughter ripped through your chest so violently you nearly dropped your phone. könig sent a series of increasingly exasperated texts, all variations of “stop laughing”, which only made it worse.

every time you thought about it after that, a fresh wave of giggles overtook you. the next training session, you couldn’t even meet his eyes without picturing tiny könig hunched over an old computer, nodding solemnly as someone named TruthSeeker88 explained how the queen of england was actually a reptilian overlord.

he hated you for it. “you are evil,” he muttered when you brought it up again, shoving your shoulder lightly. “this is slander.”

“is it slander if it’s true?”

“YES.”

somewhere along the way, little snapshots of your lives started slipping into the conversation. könig sent blurry photos of his boots kicked up on a table, a war documentary playing in the background. “history lesson,” he’d caption, like he wasn’t watching something unreasonably brutal for fun. you sent the sky from your morning walk, pink bleeding into gold, and he always responded with a simple “pretty.”

you weren’t sure if he meant the sky or something else, but you let yourself wonder.

and then, selfies.

his were always shy, half-obscured, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to let you see too much despite the fact that you saw each other every week. the lower half of his face, mostly— jawline tucked into the shadows, the soft curve of a grin barely visible.

sometimes it was just his hands: wrapped around a steaming mug, fingers long and scarred, or flexed absentmindedly over his knee, veins shifting beneath pale skin. you never commented on them outright, just sent something casual— “cozy” or “nice gloves, old man”— but you always saved them, tucked away in your camera roll like little guilty pleasures.

yours were much less subtle in comparison.

exhausted post-workout, slumped against your couch with a dead-eyed stare. wrapped up in a hoodie, coffee in hand. the first time you sent one, you didn’t expect much. maybe a quick “good job” or some kind of fitness advice. instead, he sent “cute.”

you stared at the message for a full minute, blinking. your stomach did something stupid.

after that, he started commenting more. when you looked particularly grumpy, he’d send a teasing “you need nap, bird?” or “angry face. very scary.” and when you groaned about soreness, he was smug about it, “should have stretched. tsk tsk.”

it was cute. unbearably cute.

but all good things must come to an end.

one month. that’s how long this was supposed to last. four weeks of training, a neat little package of lessons that would leave you more capable of handling yourself in a fight. somewhere along the way, that timeline stretched, bending under the weight of something neither of you dared acknowledge.

könig should have cut you off weeks ago.

“you are expert already,” he tells you one evening, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. his tone is light, teasing, but there’s a hint of real curiosity beneath it. “i do not think class is needed. why do you keep taking?”

hesitation flickers in your chest. because of you, you want to admit, but the words sit heavy on your tongue, too risky, too exposing. instead, you roll your shoulders back and offer something easier, something safer.

“i need to beat you first.”

amusement dances across his features. könig huffs out a quiet chuckle, tilting his head as if considering the possibility.

“it will not happen in a million years, i think.”

arrogance suits him. confidence carved into his bones, stitched into the way he moves, the way he fights. you don’t argue because he’s right— he’s bigger, stronger, more experienced. if he wanted to, he could probably break you in half without much effort.

but miracles happen.

it’s a fluke. both of you know it. a momentary lapse, a split second where his guard lowers just enough for you to slip past his defenses. könig lets you try—indulges you, really, humoring your attempts at taking him down like he’s teaching a child to wrestle. that cockiness, that easy amusement, is what costs him.

somehow, impossibly, you get him in a triangle choke.

his body tenses the moment your thighs clamp around his neck, locking him in place. shock flickers in his eyes before it shifts into something unreadable, something quiet and assessing. his breath comes out steady despite the position he’s in, controlled in a way that makes your pulse stutter.

for a moment, you think you have him.

then, with an ease that’s almost insulting, he pries your legs apart, spreading them like it’s nothing.

a gasp hitches in your throat.

his movements don’t stop there— before you can even process what’s happening, he shifts, pressing himself close, kneeling between your thighs, completely caging you beneath him. his grin is wide, pleased, entirely too unbothered for someone who had just been seconds away from losing.

“very good, bird,” he praises. “very good takedown. i like.”

air sticks in your throat. something is wrong.

“k-könig-”

he blinks at you, tilting his head slightly. “ja?”

your bugged-out stare flicks downward, and his follows instinctively.

oh.

his entire body tenses. his pupils shrink.

understanding dawnes, slow and terrible, as he finally feels the press of something very, very apparent against you.

“that was not supposed to happen.”

no shit.

könig’s weight shifts over you, muscles tight as he tries to move away but instead— maybe by accident, maybe not— his cock drags against your core, thick even through the fabric separating you. the pressure is just enough to make your breath hitch, a spark of something warm licking up your spine before a sound slips from your throat.

he freezes, head jerking up like a startled animal, eyes darting around the empty training room, scanning for any sign that someone might’ve heard, his breath uneven as he listens, as you listen, as the silence between you stretches impossibly thin.

nothing. no one.

he exhales. something in his face twitches, like he’s still trying to convince himself this is real, that you really just made that sound because of him.

his gaze drops, landing back on you, mouth parting, jaw flexing. then his body moves again, slower this time, cock grinding against you, rubbing you through your clothes, dragging heavy between your thighs, and you swear you see his eyelids flutter just slightly at the friction.

his forehead presses against yours, breath coming faster. “tell me to stop.”

the words hit your skin as more air than voice, warm against your jaw, but you don’t even need to think about it, because stopping is the last thing you want right now, the very last thing your body would allow.

“d-don’t stop.”

he curses, words slipping before he can stop them, and you don’t know what they mean, only that they sound wrecked, like they’ve been dragged up from somewhere deep in his chest.

könig’s forehead presses harder into yours. his hands tighten at your waist. his breath comes out uneven, stumbling over itself, and his voice fumbles through the next words. “i don’t have lube.”

“we don’t nee-”

“we do.” his face twists a little, mouth pressing tight, like the idea of taking you without it is actually painful.

you swallow, shifting slightly under him, feeling just how big he is. slick gathers between your thighs, and before you can stop yourself, the question slips out, barely above a whisper.

“are you big?”

his lips twitch, like he’s fighting back a grin, like he can’t believe you just asked that, and then it spreads into something quintessentially könig, — slow, lazy, and warm.

he presses in harder, dragging over your soaked cunt through the fabric of your underwear. the friction pulls a gasp from your lips, hips rolling up instinctively.

his grin stretches wider, eyes flicking down to watch you grind against him. "i am not small."

heat floods you, pussy fluttering around nothing, aching. your hips move again, searching for more, slick soaking through your underwear. your head tips back, breath catching. the sound that escapes you is closer to a whimper than you’d like to admit.

his lips find your jaw, tongue flicking out, tasting sweat and skin. his voice follows his mouth, words warm against your neck. "pretty little pussy..." he murmurs, dragging the syllables out like he’s savoring them. "bet it’d feel better wrapped around me."

the sound that leaves your throat is humiliating, high-pitched and needy. you don’t mean to make it, but it’s too late.

könig grabs your wrist. pulls you up. your balance falters, and before you can recover, he hauls you toward the showers. boots thud against tile. the door slams, lock clicking into place.

his mouth finds yours before you can speak. lips crash into yours, messy and eager. tongues tangle, breaths mix, heat pouring between you as your fingers twist in his hair. a laugh bubbles up between kisses—yours or his, you can’t tell—and he groans into your mouth, grinning against your lips.

“fuck,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. cheeks flush, eyes dark with something feral. “wanted this so long…”

clothes hit the floor in frantic shoves. hands fumble, pulling fabric away until skin meets skin, warmth pressing in on all sides.

his cock, thick, flushed, and dripping with precum, hangs between the two of you, weighed down by its own girth.

he sees your stare and grins. "big, huh?”

words fail you and for a moment you can't do anything but nod dumbly.

könig reaches past you, flicks on the shower. water crashes down, steam rising fast. the air thickens with heat and he wastes no time to pull you under the spray, water slicing over skin.

scarred hands find your face, thumbs brushing your jaw as his mouth returns to yours.

your hand slides down between you and wraps around his cock. konig's hips jerk forward, breath shuddering out against your lips.

“could kill you with this, eh?” his grin tugs lazy at the corners of his mouth. his chest lifts and falls, breaths dragging in deep, water cascading over both of you, hot against skin already burning.

your hand tightens, fingers sliding along the thick length of him, precum slicking your palm. warmth pulses beneath your touch, veins pronounced under your grip. he twitches when you give a slow twist near the tip, hips jolting forward. a groan rips from his throat, echoing off the tiled walls.

“scheiße,” he hisses, jaw working as he fights the urge to thrust. one hand flies to his hair, tugging as if the sting will help. water streaks down his face, lips parted, breaths breaking up his words.

“not helping,” you breathe, voice shaking. you press your mouth to his jaw, pressing a kiss there before your tongue darts out to taste the salt of his skin. his breath catches, eyes squeezing shut.

“oh, fuck-” his hips rock forward again, cock dragging through your fist, smearing more warmth along your stomach. precum drips from the flushed head, glistening in the steam-filled air.

a grin tugs at his lips, strained but there. “you tryna kill me?” the words slide out. "scheiß kleines ding…”

you laugh, kissing down his jaw. “not my fault you’re easy.” your thumb slides over the tip.

his head knocks back against the wall, neck stretching, throat working through a swallowed groan. “you- fuck- you think is easy?” a hand finds your chin, pulling your gaze up. “look at me.”

könig’s eyes catch yours. blown out. a ring of blue against black. then suddenly his lips curl, and his voice slips through his teeth.

“i have touched myself to you.”

you blink. “what?”

his grin widens. “before.” his hips push forward, cock dragging against your belly. “many times.”

your face burns.

“oh my god.”

his head dips, lips brushing yours, his breath hot and amused. “you do too, hm?”

your heart stops. heat shoots through you, cunt clenching. “yeah,” your breath shudders. “me too…”

his eyes widen, like he didn't expect you to admit to it, then narrows, grin pulling crooked. “yeah?” his cock twitches in your hand again. “fuckin’ knew it…” laughter spills out, breathless and warm.

könig’s head dips to press a sloppy kiss to your lips. tongue sliding against yours, messy and eager. laughter rumbles out, hips rolling, giggles slipping between mouths.

“fuckin’ knew it,” he repeats, words slurring together. “think about me late at night? fingers stuffed in that pretty cunt…”

you gasp, half scandalized, half aroused, hips shifting as slick pools between your thighs. “könig-”

“yeah?” another thrust. precum smears across your belly. “tell me.”

“i- fuck- yeah,” you breathe. “think about you all the time.”

he groans like the words alone could undo him. könig’s hands drop to grip your thighs, fingers digging firm into the flesh as he lifts you like you weigh nothing. your back meets the cold tile with a dull thud, heat from the shower clashing with the chill seeping through the wall.

your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him close. his cock drags through your folds, thick length sliding slick against your cunt, nudging your entrance but never pushing in.

könig watches your face, chest lifting with every shaky breath. “how much do you take?”

you blink, heat simmering through your skin. “what?”

his cock slides against you again, harder this time, grinding against your clit, making you twitch. “normally. how much?”

a shrug rolls through your shoulders, confidence bubbling up, reckless. “all of it,” you answer without thinking, back arching, rubbing against him, arms looping around his neck. “i can take everything.”

he stills, expression shifting— his lips part, brows lifting just slightly. then he laughs, a low, amused sound, mouth curling into a grin. “nein, you can not.”

challenge flares in your chest. “i can.”

another laugh, softer now, hands adjusting on your thighs. “you are-” he shakes his head, grinning wider, lips brushing your cheek as he exhales, “-so very stupid.”

heat pools in your stomach, thighs clenching around him. “i’ll prove it.”

hands grip your thighs, fingers pressing deep into flesh as könig shifts his weight, cock grinding slow against your entrance, precum smearing where you’re slick and warm. a breath shudders out of him, jaw tight, brows pinching like he’s trying to hold something back. “you say this,” he mutters, “and then you cry.”

“i won’t,” you shoot back.

“hm.” his gaze flicks down to where his cock pushes against you, dragging through your folds. “we’ll see.”

könig’s fingers flex. his grip tightens and your breath hitches. “ready?”

“please,” you gasp, nails biting into his shoulders.

he grits his teeth, cock sliding as deep as your walls will allow, head bumping against your cervix. every sob that escapes your lips makes his hips stutter, breath catching like he’s holding on by a thread.

"oh shit," he mutters. "look at you... crying so much."

"feels too good." your hands are weak on his shoulders.

könig grins, breathless, hands squeezing your hips. "ja? but you begged for this, no? say ‘please, könig, fuck me’-" he mocks your voice, low and whiny, then thrusts, ripping a squeak out of you. "and now you cry like a little baby like i said."

you shake your head against his chest, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. you love it—you love his cock so much it hurts—but you just can’t stop the sounds. every thrust drags a new sob from you, body trembling in his grip.

"shh." he squints down at you. "you are too loud-" his hand slides to the back of your head, pressing you close. "fuck... here. suck."

your lips brush his chest, and his nipple is right there, stiff against warm skin. you hesitate, dizzy from pleasure, but then your mouth opens and you latch on, tongue flicking over the peak before you suck soft and slow.

könig’s hips jerk.

"oh, shit- good girl," he breathes, head falling back. his fingers tangle in your hair. "yeah, just like that. little baby needs something to suck on, huh?"

your cheeks burn, whining against his chest, mouth working over his nipple as his cock drags in deep and slow. he groans, low and desperate, fucking you through your cries.

"such a messy baby," he grins, looking far too fucked-out to be as smug as he is. "can’t stop crying, can you? too good, yes? too much?"

you nod, sobbing around him, and könig just laughs, like he can’t believe how fucked you both are.

"keep sucking," he growls. "will fuck you ‘til you’re dumb.”

[the-californicationist]

here's a bit of a preview for the next chapter. O_O

i'm just gonna need everyone to remember that this fic does in fact have a happy ending. i promise. just... well, you'll see.

[qpiiee]

husbands👄

[v1x3n]

hate when too many people r texting me at once. also hate when noones texting me. lifes so hard