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youngninjaturtle · 2 months ago

Note

Hear me out. Okay what if like. Wade Wilson has a little brother (20-22). Who's trans masc (with top surgery) and is simply the sweetest and softest human being ever and like gives the best hugs ever and Logan can't help but to fall in love with him but wade hates the thought of his sweet baby brother dating the 200+ year old man. So wade makes it his mission to give the reader a bad view on Logan but the reader has too much of a soft heart to hate Logan due to knowing he has gone through a lot. (PLEASE LET IT END IN FLUFF AND CUDDLES🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏)

a/n: oh my dear god your brain. YES. please everyone send more requests. 🙏

sweet. logan howlett x ftm!wilson!reader

a/n: I'm so sorry i took so long, this got longer than expected...

synopsis: logan doesn't want to like wade's brother like everyone else does. he soon realizes that he doesn't, he likes you even more, and wade doesn't like that at all.

cw: slight mention of transphobia, implicit mention of home abuse, reader is really polite and kind, mention of top surgery, smut, oral (v receiving), teasing and fingering, t-shots. worst!wolverine. after deadpool and wolverine. kinda ooc wade and ooc Logan.

words: 4.3k

Logan sighed when Wade mentioned his little brother coming. Who could blame him? The apartment was already small, and the old blind woman, the burnt chicken nugget and the five hundred pound wolverine were already enough for it, even though you were only coming to visit.

It's an important fact that Logan genuinely thought you were a child, like an eight-year-old boy from whom Logan was going to have to run away because he hates kids, so he was very surprised when a twenty-two-year-old man stepped into the apartment with a cute smile on his face.

After that smile, Logan softened a bit, but he still hated the idea of having you around. You hugged your brother and kissed Althea's temple (the woman also seemed to adore you) and Wade began to tell you that Vanessa was yapping his ass out because he wanted to see you. Did everyone in Wade's life love you?

That fact alone made him not like you. He didn't know why, but he wasn't going to fall for your charms, he wasn't going to allow it.

But… he made a few exceptions. Sometimes you would bring a cake or any pastry at all, always with chocolate. And Logan was weak for some chocolate.

So he tolerated you for a tea time with the rest, hearing you talk with that sweet tone you had, giggle and sip from your cup adorably, being simply the cutest. He found himself listening to you, paying your attention, almost forgetting his brownie on the small plate in front of him, and just listening. To that charming tone, the way you moved your hands, how you would laugh when Wade made a joke, how you would smile at Althea and when you smiled at him. Oh, when that smile was for him and just for him. He felt his heart skip a beat.

That night, the image of you was burned in his eyeballs, wherever he looked, your face was there. Fuck, I thought. You managed to get to the soft part of his heart.

You began to stay more since no one complained about your presence. For lunch, even for dinner.

And one night, the night, you stayed over. After dinner, it started to pour rain heavily, and you had come to the apartment on your bike, so it was a dangerous way for you to go home, and Wade offered you the living room couch.

“You can't give him the couch, you fucker.” Logan finally spoke. “He can take my bed, I'll sleep on the couch.”

“But, Logan, there's no need… I can take the couch.” You said with that stupid loving tone.

“I won't fight over a bed, just take it.” Be said roughly and you just nodded, looking up at him when he stood up. “'m gonna record some stuff.” He left the table and went to his room.

You watched him leave, a bit embarrassed about the whole situation. “I just don't wanna cause any trouble.”

“My sweet pumpkin, you are nothing but light in our lives, you don't worry about anything.” Wade hugged your neck from behind and you giggled.

Logan slept on the couch indeed, it wasn't like he hadn't done it before, it just wasn't his preference. He stood up to go to the kitchen and grab a beer, when he opened the fridge he reminded himself of buying more, and when he closed it, you were there.

You had long pajamas trousers, an empty cup in your hands, messy hair and no shirt on, showing the scars under slight your pecs.

“Sorry, it didn't mean to appear like that.” You said with a sleepy voice, but still smiling and being freaking warm.

Logan sighed, but not of annoyance or tiredness, because Jesus H. Christ, the sight of you.

You rubbed your eye and put some water in the electric pot, to make yourself a tea apparently.

“Are you sure you don't want to take the bed?” You looked up at him with soft eyes.

Logan almost stuttered. “No, no, don't worry, kid, 'm good.” He said before drinking a sip of beer. “You couldn't sleep?”

“Yeah, it's hard to sleep sometimes, I have insomnia.” You explained. "What about you?:

“Can't sleep sometimes either. Nightmares.” He have explained.

“Oh, nightmares can be shitty.” You sighed, preparing your tea. “I have them too—well, I used to have them, but now they don't scare me anymore.”

Oh, his damn god, you were so cute and small, why did you have to have nightmares too? His instinct of protecting you just kept getting stronger.

“What were they about?” He asked, leaning against the counter, watching your soft hands prepare the tea.

“Just, you know, when my parents knew I was trans, when I was like… thirteen, or had some shitty years at that house before they kicked me out, then Wade got me to his place and took care of me and all, but those years I had it… pretty bad.” You sighed, taking a sip of your warm drink.

Logan remained in silence for a second before speaking. “I'm sorry.” And he was indeed, he couldn't help it, he wondered why he wasn't there to help him, and the answer was too obvious.

“Oh, don't be.” You smiled sweetly. “I know you went through a lot.”

“You do?” You nodded.

“Wade talks a lot about you.” I giggled. “He wanted me to come over sooner but I couldn't.”

“Why is that?”

You palpated your pectoral. “Top surgery.”

Instinctively, Logan ran his fingertips through the scars of your chest. “Did it hurt?”

You swallowed hard and blushed deeply, your skin getting goosebumps and your chest moving up and down, trying to calm down. And damn, that was a sight, your soft skin reacting to his touch, your chest moving against his fingers.

“I-It didn't hurt much, no…”

Logan smirked. “You're a strong boy?” He asked, and you nodded, looking down at him.

He finally lifted his eyes to you, moving his hands through your stomach to grab your sides and lift you to the counter. “Let me see ya better.”

He removed your cup from your hands and left it aside, slowly going back to caress your scars, you could feel his breath against your chest.

He pressed a slow kiss on the middle of your scar, starting to trace them with kisses.

“Logan…” You mumbled when he opened your legs to get in the middle of them.

“Can't you see I'm busy here, bub?”

I swallowed hard. “S-sorry.” You mumbled shyly.

You ran your finger through his hair in a little moan when he kissed your hardening nipples, sucking them gently as one of his hands moved to the small of your back, making you arch it a bit and keep it close to him.

"Such a sweet chest for a sweet boy like you." He sucked a hickeys next to your nipple before licking over it, making you shiver. "You like that, don't ya? Can smell how much you like it."

He kissed your belly, nibbling at the extra flesh there, making you giggle a bit. Oh, that sweet sound of yours. He lifted his body up to you again, rubbing his big nose against yours.

"M-my brother won't like this.." You said unsure.

Logan shrugged. "He doesn't have to know." He mumbled before kneeling between your legs and using those to pull you to the edge of the counter.

He undid the knot of your pajama pants and let them fall through your legs till your ankles.

He used his broad hands to separate your thighs more for him, finding your pretty, aroused cunt.

He kissed the Venus mount and began to lower his kisses to your folds, he pulled away for a second and used two broad fingers to separate the folds, drinking the sight of it clenching around nothing and getting so, so wet.

"He is desperate for me, isn't he?" He said, talking about your cunt. You shivered and couldn't help but giggle when you realized he called it a "he". "What's so funny? I assumed that a pretty boy like you had to have a pretty boy pussy like this."

You had to stop giggling when he kissed your clit, grabbing it in his mouth to suck it softly. You covered your mouth with one hand because the sound you were about to make was too obscene and loud. You pulled his hair gently to press him against your juicy cunt even more.

After sucking your clit a bit, he didn't waste a second and began lapping and licking your cunt like it was his fucking last dinner.

"Logan, oh god..." You mumbled, thinking you were about to lose your mind as your squeezed his face between your shaking thighs.

Now you had both hands and legs pressing him against you more, your hips starting to buck against his mouth, trying to reach your high. Logan used his broad hands to part your thighs again, his tongue starting to fuck your hole in and out. You pulled his hair and bit your lip hard, you couldn't allow yourself to moan, not even a little bit. He used his thumb to rub your bundle of nerves and made you squirm even more.

"Gosh, you are even sweeter inside.." Logan groaned, going back to assault your pussy, his big nose helping his finger rubbing your clit.

You tried to push him away when you orgasm was close, but he was way stronger than you, so it was useless. Suddenly, he stood up, still grabbing your thighs and with his face still on you, making you lay down so he could basically binge on your cunt.

He used one hand to cover your mouth while the other left your clit aside and began to tap at your entrance.

"Let's see how tight you are." He teased a bit, leaving soft kisses on your clit while he sank and finger inside of you, groaning low. "Dammnit, kid, so freaking warm here. I bet my cock would love you." You shivered at his filthy words. "You like that? You like thinking about my cock ripping you in half?" He smirked, fucking you with his fingers and kissing your clit.

You nodded frenetically, closing your eyes to imagine it was his cock that was fucking you now and not his fingers. When he began to rub the soft spot of your hole, you shook your head, trying to tell him you were about to make a mess.

"Go on, go on, I can feel ya clenching me, bub." He sank himself back on your pussy to suck your clit violently, making you shake and try to pull his hand away and tell him that you were the messy kind.

But it was too late, the knot that had built on your belly had been undone already, and you were squirming all over in Logan's fingers, beard and shirt.

"God, bub, so messy, how cute. Gonna have to clean you good, you are about to start dripping." He gently removed his fingers and looked at you in the eye when he licked them clean, a little sob escaping through your lips now that he wasn't covering your mouth anymore. He clicked his tongue and shook his head. "Tch, tch, tch, no sounds, you don't want your brother to find out, don't you?" You shook your head. "Then be quiet."

You cried low when he began to gently lick your cunt clean, leaving soft kisses, making you whimper and babble. "Wanna taste yourself?" He asked with a smirk, you tilted your head to the side, slightly confused before he pressed his lips against your furiously. Gosh, how much stamina did that man have? You tasted the sweet flavor of your orgasm and blushed. "Yeah? Does it taste good, kiddo?" You nodded. "C'mon, get to your room before your brother suspects." He palmed your thigh as he kissed your temple. You obediently nodded and stood up with wobbly legs, making Logan chuckle, but quickly went back to your room like a little bunny.

(...)

The next morning, you can feel that Logan is slightly clinger than usual —the usual being nothing—. He used the cereal that you mentioned once that you liked for your bowl, and ruffled your hair, making you blush. He let you borrow a flannel shirt because of the sudden drop in temperature, and even made you a coffee to go. So he just needed to suck your cunt to start being nice? Good to know.

But Wade didn't allow any of these actions to slide, he frowned everytime you two shared a smile or when he made you blush. When Wade grabbed you to the hall with him to take you home like a good big brother, you saw that look in his eyes and you knew you were in trouble.

"What in the fuck helluva is going on with the wolv-mean?" He crossed his arms before even starting the car, after letting you put your bike on the back seat.

You blushed. "What are you talking about?"

"Don't play silly with me, you little filthy shit, you are having fantasies with the old bear." You blushed even more.

You knew you couldn't hide anything from him. "Not just fantasies..."

Wade stopped the car from leaving the parking lot, his mouth falling open as he looked at you. "Where?"

"The counter."

"When?"

"Last night?"

"What?"

"He ate me out."

He gasped loudly, horrorized, before putting a curious expression "Was he good?"

"Amazing."

"Wait— no!" He said quickly, starting to drive again. "Just so you know, you are not coming back to the apartment again."

"What?! Wade!" You complained.

"I can't have you around if Logan is going to start taking advantage of my little tiny weeny brother!"

"He didn't take advantage of me! I'm twenty-two!"

"And he is like, two hundred years old, you are like ten percent of his age!"

"Actually is eleven—"

"I don't wanna hear it!" I raised a hand. "You are not coming back until Logan knows how to behave with a minor!"

"I'm not a minor!" You felt like he wasn't even listening to you. "C'mon, Wade! You know I never have guys around, let me have a little fun."

"I let you have fun... not with my two-hundred-year-old mutant roommate!"

"UGH, you are such a pain in my ass!" You pulled your hair slightly. "Stop the car, I'm going home by myself."

"But the street is still wet!"

"So was my cunt yesterday night." You heard Wade gasp as you grabbed your bike and left.

(...)

No calls from Logan. A lot of calls from Wade. You wanted to fucking die.

Your brother was serious when he said you weren't allowed to step into his apartment again, you forgot your toothbrush and he insisted that he would give it to you by himself, but you told him you didn't want to see him, so after another fight, he mailed it to you.

You never bad big fights with Wade, but he was getting under your skin. Of course, you could understand him being so protective over you, but you thought he trusted Logan, and you didn't think Logan could be that bad. He seemed sweet, very, very, very, very deep inside. But it was something.

You wanted to live that kind of romance, that troupe that you only saw in sitcoms, romcoms, or fan fiction. Falling in love with your brother's best friend. Well, in love is a big statement. Sleeping with your brother's friend, although you liked Logan. He was cool, a mysterious, serious, nonchalant man, with a broad chest and arms, the veins that ran through them, you wanted to fucking nibble his arm like a chewing toy—

Back to the point, you wanted Logan, your brother didn't want you to want Logan, but did Logan want you too? You sighed in your bed when you started to think about that. Gosh, you begged for this to not be one sided like your last relationships.

On the other hand, Logan felt like a teen. In fewer words, there wasn't a night he wasn't jerking off with the thought of you, that little cute face you made as you came, the taste of you, the way you squirmed against him, everything was just a lot. He couldn't help it, every time he closed his eyes, that sight of you was there, and his cock would just begin to get harder and harder until he couldn't take it anymore. He would get even harder at the memory of his fingers inside of you, as he pumped his cock, he would squeeze a bit more his hand around it, trying to imagine it was your warm, tight cunt. "Such a pretty filthy boy..."

He wanted to hold you as he fucked you slowly, soothing you while you whined and cried for his big cock. Tell you it was okay, tell you that he was going to stay with you, to hold you forever if you wanted to, if you asked him to. Please, ask him to.

He felt like a stupid kid, hugging his pillow against his chest, thinking it was your pretty, little frame, with that sweet, strong cologne you always wore, lingering in his nostrils still. That masculine, sensual smell.

Finally, you decided to answer Wade calls, which were received with a dramatic relief from your brother.

“What do you want now?” You sighed.

“Look, I'm sorry about what happened, I shouldn't have told you that you couldn't be with the mean wolvie.” He sighed back, you let him talk. “But, it's just that I need you to understand that… he does that stuff all the time.”

“Stuff?” You frowned.

“Yeah, he always brings boys and girls home, and does his stuff with them for a few days before he just… stops talking to them.”

You thought for a second, your brother wouldn't lie to you, and it was real that Logan was a very hot person, everything sounded real.

“Understand me, baby bro, I just… don't want you to get hurt, and I don't want Logan to be the one that hurts you, he is my friend, my peanut, but if he hurts you, of course, I would take your side.” He explained, and you believed him.

Your brother was everything you had, how would you not believe him? He wanted to protect you.

“I understand, I'll move around. I know you want to protect me, I'm sorry that I didn't answer your calls…”

“Oh, baby bro, don't worry your little mind about it, I understood.” His tone made you smile. “You can come over any time, just… keep your distance with peanut, alright?”

“Alright.” You chuckled.

And that happened. You began to go with Wade to have breakfast at his place, to play video games, sometimes you would just go to read or to draw. But ignoring Logan. All the time.

Logan, even though he didn't show it, was happy to see you there. But the second you were polite and quiet with him, he wanted you out again. He preferred to dream about you rather than seeing you disinterested in him, and he hated it.

He wanted you to be close to him, not in a sexual way (even though he wanted that too), he wanted everything to be like the morning after the kitchen encounter, with him having the chance to be close and clingy with you like he secretly is with his partners. Not like he had many in this dimension, not to say that he didn't have any.

It hurt him. Too much for his liking. Was he falling? he begged to not be falling for you, because you weren’t paying attention to him, it would only mean more pain for him.

Still, he tried, he tried to approach you more, which only confused you more. So you asked Wade.

“He is obviously just trying to have his way with you again. Just keep ignoring him like you've been doing, you're doing a good job.”

You sighed because you craved Logan's touch too, you longed for his big hands grabbing you again. And you thought you were being easy to manipulate, that you were about to fall on his tramp and that you had to run away, even though you wanted to cling to him like a tick to a dog.

One night, Wade had gone out, and Logan wasn't home either. According to your brother, Logan wouldn't be home till very late, so you got surprised when he came in at the apartment an hour after Wade had left. You were laying on the couch, playing video games with a bowl of salty popcorn on your side.

“Hey.” He said, knowing that was his chance.

“H-hey…” You swallowed.

“Can… can we talk, for a sec?” He said, suddenly timid.

You frowned at the manners he had, because they were nothing like Wade had told you they were.

“Ahm, yeah, sure.” You paused your game and let him sat next to you.

“So, ahm… I don't do this, and I don't want to be the invasive type, and maybe I'm too old and these are the new ways your generation has to— to flirt and stuff.” He started. “But… did anything happen? I mean, I thought after… that night, everything was fine, that we were both satisfied about how everything went— I mean, I was happy.”

You wanted to say that you have been happy too, that it was one of the best nights you had, but you remained in silence, letting him talk.

“And I didn't understand… why did you got so distant, I just got confused, and, again, I don't know if it's a new way of flirting, I haven't been with… many people.” He scoffed a bit. “So… I just want to know.”

“Wait, you haven't been with many people?”

He hesitated a bit before talking. “It's a… fancy way of saying I haven't been with anyone since I got here.”

You frowned and looked away from him, thinking. Wade lied? To you? it had to be some type of mistake.

“But… But Wade— he told me that… that you had partners here all the time.”

Now Logan was the one frowning. “Maybe he meant that he is trying to make me bring more partners here.”

“No, he literally said that you always had partners here, boys and girls, and you had a thing with them for a few days before ignoring them, so Wade told me to not approach to you, which I—”

“Wait, Wade said what?” He frowned, but not with confusion. With anger.

“Yeah, he didn't want me to get hurt by you, so he… he told me to keep my distance.” You explained.

He closed his eyes, huffing. “That fucking liar…” He sighed before looking at you again. “That's not true, kid, I… I'm not with tons of people all the time, and I don't want that either, I…” He began to get red out of embarrassment.

You giggled. “You want to be with me?” You tilted your head to the side, trying to find his eyes again. He nodded with an embarrassed frown, you smiled with excitement.

“Is that okay?” He asked unsure.

“It is, but… there's something I need to do first.”

(...)

Wade opened his room door and quickly slipped, hitting his head with the ground.

“Goddamnit, what?!” He complained, noticing an odd feeling of his body on the floor. The whole room floor was covered in a layer of oil. “What the fuck?! Logan!?”

“Not Logan. Me.” You crossed your arms, he tilted his head back to look at you. “Maybe hitting your head can make you realize how stupid and selfish you were when you lied about Logan.”

He sighed. “Baby bro..”

“Why, Wade? You know I trusted you.”

“I just… I really enjoyed you coming g here to see me, and… I was scared that if you got into something with that hairy old man, you would only come in here to see him and I would be left aside.” He said in a slight sad tone.

“Wade, that's so freaking stupid.” You frowned. “You are my brother, the only family I have left, why would I do that to you?”

“Yeah… it was stupid…” He tried to stand up but failed, you swallowed a chuckle while he sighed. “I'm sorry, baby bro.”

“Alright, I forgive you. But good luck trying to get Logan's forgiveness.” You said, helping him to stand up.

“I could think about something…”

(...)

“Hi.”

You screamed when Logan appeared behind you in the kitchen of your apartment.

“What the fuck are you doing here?! You almost gave me a heart attack!” You put your hand on your chest.

He laughed a bit. “Sorry, kiddo.” He hugged you from behind, putting his head on your shoulder.

“How did you got in my apartment?”

He raised his hand, the tingling sound of keys calling your attention. “Wade gave me a copy of the keys.”

“That's creepy… but I guess you forgave him.” You ran your hands through his strong arms.

“After this, I did.” He nuzzled his nose on your neck.

“You wanna stay?” You giggled. “I'm making pasta.” You talked low as you nuzzled your head on his temple, he nodded.

You tried to remove yourself a bit, but his embrace stopped you. “Logan—”

“Sh.” He shushed you. “A little longer please.”

The pasta got overcooked, but he finally got his cuddles, because how could you say no to him?

#logan howlett #hugh jackman wolverine #ftm reader

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youngninjaturtle · 2 months ago

Text

Will you love me again?

Summary: Simon’s returned home after 20 years but the suitors have finally grown restless of waiting for you to pick a new King of Ithaca. Pairing: King!Simon Riley x King!Ftm!reader Wc: 6.1k Tags/Warning: Canon-level violence, talks/planning of S/A, Epic the Musical Ithaca Saga spoilers! Most of the words are literally lyrics so ig song fic, oral (r!receiving), fingering, stomach bulge, reader has a vagina, no protection, creampie

His skin remembers the touch of your lips, the way they’d press against his tense muscles, the way they’d kiss his scars and carry soft whispers and songs. How your hands would touch him, run up his arms, cradle his face, and remove his helmet. He remembers the sound of your voice, how you’d talk to him while weaving against the window, your kingdom standing below your castle.

The castle he’d built all those years ago as a declaration of his love for you. A castle that grew colder as the years stretched on since he’s been there; taken away for a war.

A war, born from a greedy man kidnapping your cousin. A war Simon hadn’t wanted to participate in because, despite his oath to your cousin's husband, the Trojans have never helped Ithaca in their times of need. And even more so, he had you, his husband, and your newborn to watch over. To protect. He’d only agreed to help after he’d been tricked.

A war that was supposed to be no more than five years had turned into a twenty-year journey. He’d left a twenty-year-old, rising to power in Ithaca with a newborn son. Now he’s forty, his home just out of sight, and his son would be twenty. He imagines how you must look now. How your hair must’ve greyed, how you picked the hyacinths and bluebells from the garden.

He wonders how his son is doing, what he likes, and what he’s accomplished. How he’s missed his whole life.

Simon strains as he pushes the raft from the island, the goddess he left on the sandy shores crying for him. Begging him to stay; she loves him. He loathes her. He loathes the years he’s stayed trapped on that island, how she’d been persistent on loving him. Gods, provided she wasn’t a goddess, he would’ve killed her the first time she even hinted at such.

His head hurts when he remembers his fallen friends; Gaz, Price— and Johnny. He’d gotten his brother killed, he let all of them, all six hundred men die under his watch. The cyclops, Scylla, Circe— Zeus, Poseidon. He recognizes the pain turning into red-hot anger as he pushes past Charybdis. These past years cannot have been in vain. The souls that haunt his dreams won’t have died in vain.

He’ll make it home, he’s sure of that.

—

You stare at the suitors gathered at the palace gates, angry men eager to become the next king one way or another. All the while your son, Johnny, stands in front of them with a spear and your old armor. You know that look in his eyes, that Athena's determination he has because Simon had it, too.

You sigh, undoing the threads you’d made the day before. For the funeral shroud you’ve been making for ten years with the promise that once it’s done, you’ll pick from the suitors and give Ithaca a new king. You almost laugh when you remember how many years ago that had been now. How foolish the suitors had been to agree to your demand. How you fear you’ll have to finish it one of these days.

You look at your sword hung in the corner of the room. You remember your newly made armor, tucked in your closet, the new bow and arrow next to it. You remember the feeling of warm blood on your hands.

Even if you must finish the shroud they’ll never get their wishes. No one will rule alongside you and if you must, you’ll take a queen. Perhaps some common woman with nothing better to do; drown her with all the things a queen would desire all the while you continue your duties as king.

Standing, you close the curtains to the window and grab your sword. It feels like home in your hands, reminders of your time as a warrior of Sparta and then Ithaca. You’ve never forgotten your lessons, the teachings so ingrained in your very being they feel like second nature when you swipe the air.

It’ll need to be sharpened before tomorrow.

That night a storm rages on the coast of Ithaca. You watch from the balcony, the wind blowing your hair and clothes as you try to see inside of the storm. Poseidon fights, you can tell that much, and gods, you know in your bones. You know it’s time to set your plan in motion.

You call a maid to send the news; the Challenge you’d set up after five years of Simon being gone was happening. You rush to gather Simon’s old bow, carefully undoing the string while the servants gather twelve axes from the armory.

—

“I’ll be back soon,” Johnny promises the next morning. You stand at the pier, watching as he loads onto a boat; about to head off for a mission for the kingdom.

“I know you will,” You smile, giving him a dagger that he places on his thigh strap. You don’t pretend to notice the group of angry suitors hiding behind ships, watching as you watch your son leave. Leaving you alone for who knows how long, the mission shouldn’t take longer than a day, though.

As the ship leaves, you look at where the storm had raged, sure that you see a small object floating towards Ithaca shores. You smile, hanging your head before thanking whatever God had allowed him home and return to the castle. The suitors follow, ready for the challenge you’d sent messengers to talk about that morning. You ride your horse back, letting them climb the mountain to the castle as you prepare for what’s to come.

Their footsteps are heavy, echoing in the halls as a maid guides them to the throne room. You sit at your throne, the half-finished shroud draped over Simon’s throne. His crown sits under it, shining like the first day it was made. A reminder to them and yourself that your husband is out there, that they’ll never sit on that throne as long as you’re alive.

As you look around, you inhale and look over the crowd of men. There are dozens of them, some bigger, some smaller. All of them hungry for power, all of them greedy in a way that makes your stomach turn.

You stand, shoulders back and head held high as hold back a deep, etching frown.

“The Challenge,” You start as the murmurs die into a silence that had overtaken the castle all those years ago. You grip the bow, raising it in the air for everyone to see. “Whoever can string my husband's old bow and shoot through twelve axes cleanly,” Your gaze travels to the axes, lined up in a straight line, the hole only just big enough to allow an arrow to slide through. “Will be the new king and rule with me.” Cheers echo through the halls and you hand the bow to the first suitor before you take your seat. Your throne.

You hope Simon knows that you’re buying him time; that you’ve bought him twenty years of time to return. That he’ll climb the mountain from the shores to the castle before they grow behind restless. Bloodthirsty with one goal on their mind. You hope your son doesn’t come back to see you in such a state if Simon doesn’t make it on time.

They grow more frustrated as the hours tick by and they find that no one can string the bow. Eventually, the sun sets and you tell them they can try again tomorrow. They all agree, with some grumbles and you take the bow back from a suitor who bares his teeth at you. He resembles a beast, a beast that you don’t dignify with a reaction.

—

“Screw this competition,” A man that Simon knows all too well, Graves, snarls as he tosses his old bow to the ground. “We’ve been here for hours. None of us can string this; we don’t have the power. Screw this damn challenge!” He rakes his hands through his hair, the stress clear in his actions that make Simon proud. Of course, you’d set up something only he could do, of course, you’d waited all these years for him to return.

“No more delay. Don’t you see that we’ve been played?” Grave’s eyes travel amongst the men crowded around him. Men that are so easily swayed by simple words that it makes Simon seethe. “This is how he holds us down as the throne gets colder. Hold us down as we slowly age. Hold us down while the boy gets bolder.” Grave continues, daring to even hint about Simon and your son. “Where the hell is our pride and our rage?” A couple of the men agree, egged on by each other's stupidity.

“Here and now,” Another man says as Grave smirks; clearly his plan is working. Like a moth to a flame, they take his bait. “There’s a chance for action; we can take control. Here and now we can burn it to ashes.” Too big for his pants, Simon assumes.

He leaves for a moment, gathering their weapons and hiding them in the armory, making sure to leave it unlocked before he returns to their conversation. By that point more men had gathered; you’d long since left the throne room so Simon didn’t worry about you hearing their voices any longer.

“Haven’t you noticed who’s missing? Don’t you notice the prince is not around? I heard he’s on a diplomatic mission and I heard today he's coming back to town.” Grave continues, and crosses his arms over his chest. Simon’s eyes dart down from his place in the room, overlooking the shores of Ithaca as a boat slowly approaches.

“So…?” A different man speaks from somewhere in the crowd.

“I say we gather near the beaches. We wait till he arrives, then when he docks his ship I say we breach it. Let us leave now, today we can strike!” Grave doesn’t feel the sharp glare that hits his head as he speaks. Unaware that his words have just set his fate into motion; a fate that Simon has become oh so familiar with these past twenty years.

“Hold him down, till the boy stops shaking.”

He counts the men; seventy in total.

“Hold him down, while I slit his throat.”

He’s taken down worse. More.

“Hold him down, while I slowly break his pride, his trust, his faith, and his bones!”

He can’t wait to watch them bleed. The feeling of their blood on his hands; something he hadn’t realized could feel so good until now. He wanted to chase it like they plan on chasing you and your son.

“Cut him down into tiny pieces. Throw him down in the great below that way when the crown wonders where the prince is only the ocean and I will know.”

Watch their light leave their eyes; hear their screams. Beg him to spare them. The gurgling sound as they choke on their own blood.

“And when it’s done,” Grace smirks. “The king will have no one to stop us from breaking his bedroom door. Stop us from taking his love and more. And then we’ll…”

He’ll savor Graves the most, he quickly decides. He won’t dignify him with a fast death. He’ll hurt him, hold him down, and break his bones. He’ll drag him by his legs into town, parading him around to not only show he’s home to his throne, to his husband and his son but to show that anyone who had thought any different will face the same consequences.

“Hold him down.”

“While the gate is open.”

“Hold him down.”

“While I get a taste and we share his spoils. I will not let any part go to waste.”

He rises from his spot, his hand a deathly grip on his knife as the men try to leave the halls, one of them pointedly staggering behind. Drunk on wine. The perfect way to announce himself.

He doesn’t waste a second, stabbing the man in the throat and he watches as he gurgles on his own blood as he returns to his perfectly hidden spot. He watches with glee as the light leaves his eyes, staring down at him as his body goes limp.

The men stop at the door, having heard the noise. When they turn they only see a dead man and then nothing around him. Quicker than they can react, the torches around them snuff out one by one, and then the door behind them locks. Like rats they scramble, searching frantically on the ground for anything they can use to defend themselves.

“Twenty years,” Simon growls. “I suffered from the wrath of Gods and monsters to the screams of my comrades. Watched my men die like cattle. I come back to my palace, desecrated and sacked like Troy. Worst of all,” He reaches into the darkness, grabbing a random man who shouts, tugging at Simon’s wrist to be let go.

“I hear you dare to touch my husband and hurt my boy! I… have had… enough.” He snaps the man’s neck in three motions before stepping over his now limp body as he watches the men scramble in the dark. He supposes he should thank Calypso for living on such a dark island, now he can watch them as they scramble for torches. Lighting them with the nearby lighters.

He grabs his bow, stringing it with ease while the others run in the castle. The darkness that shrouds them is emphasized by the setting sun. Simon struts after them, listening to their footsteps and breathing like a predator.

“We have the advantage; we’ve the numbers and the might.” A man says, clearly not knowing who he’s up against.

“No!” Shouts a man who does, he wonders if they fought together before. Somehow that makes him all the more angry as he grabs an arrow from his quiver. “You don’t understand! This man plans for every fight.” An arrow flies through the air, stabbing him through the neck and the others shout, watching as he drops and the torch rolls away from his limp hand. Everyone scrambles away, fleeing down the hall.

“Where is he? Where is he?” Someone shouts, his eyes as wide as they can go and he looks into the darkness.

“Keep your heads down, he's aiming for the torches!” Someone else hisses and they all duck, holding the torches as high as they can manage without dropping it.

“Our weapons! They’re missing!” Simon grins at the fear in the man’s tone, stringing another arrow.

“We’re empty-handed,” Someone says, the realization that they’re fucked dawning on him. “Up against an archer.” He mutters, looking around the dark room.

“Our only chance is to strike him in the darkness. We know these halls our odds can be titled.” Someone tries to comfort him before flinching at the sound of Simon’s snicker.

“You don’t think I know my own palace? I built it!” Another arrow flies, hitting a man in the head. He walks after them as they run away.

“It’s the old king!”

“No! Our leader is dead!”

“Old king forgive us!”

“Let’s have open arms instead!” He stops walking, notching yet another arrow as he’s reminded of Gaz. His chest tightens when he remembers his friend, his brother.

“No,” The arrow flies, he doesn’t care to see who it lands inside of. He knows Graves isn’t with this group and heads the other way; towards where he’d hidden their weapons. He’ll deal with the others later, for now only one person has a giant target on their back.

“Dammit,” Grave hisses as he opens the door to the armory. “He’s more cunning than I thought. While we were plotting he hid our weapons in here.” He waves the torch through the room, each weapon highlighted by the burning flame.

“I find it hard to believe that the sharpest of kings left his armory unlocked,” A man mutters, his frantic eyes looking outside of the room because he knows what’s out there, waiting for him.

“So what?” Grave scoffs as he grabs his sword. “Let’s make the bastard rot.”

“Behind you!” He spins, watching as Simon stabs a man through the chest with a sword, his piercing eyes glaring at Graves over the man’s shoulder. The man collapses to the floor while Simon takes the sword out, flicking the blood onto the walls.

“Put the weapons down and I’ll spare you,” He tells the men and immediately they do but Graves doesn’t. Simon tilts his head, eyes flickering to the ten men around Graves.

“How do you dare? Haven’t you seen what he’ll do to us?” Someone asks him, his hands held up in fear.

“The prince!” Someone shouts and Simon makes the mistake of looking behind him. The men in the armory jump on his back without hesitation, shouting to attack the prince that way he’ll have to stand down. Simon struggles against them, his sword clattering to the ground when he sees the torches illuminating his son.

He chokes as he sees his son falling to the ground, scrambling to his dagger that had gotten thrown in the fight.

“Stop struggling and we’ll show you mercy,” Grave whispers in Simon’s ear, holding his hair in an iron-tight grip.

“Mercy?” A voice cuts and Simon feels blood running down his cloak. He hears the sound of someone being impaled and then another in quick succession. The weight on his back lessens and he charges forward.

“Mercy?” Simon bellows, taking harsh steps toward the now-fallen Graves. Unable to find his footing again as more men die around him. “My mercy long since drowned. It died to bring me home. And as long as you're around my family's fate is left unknown. You plotted to kill my son.” In one motion he scoops Graves up, bringing him to his feet and then against the wall. The tip of his blade presses against the man’s neck as his eyes squeeze shut, feet trying to find purchase aside from the tips of his toes on the cold marble floors.

“You planned to rape my husband! All of you are going to die!” He stabs Graves six times, huffing as the body slumps against him and then against the wall when Simon shoves him away.

He stands tall, listening to the shouts of the scared, trapped men as their fates quickly find them. He knows who is fighting at his side; he knows so well but he doesn’t register it until everyone is dead. Until the torches line the walls and he sees his foes splayed on the floors.

“Father?” The sword in his hand clatters to the ground as he spins around. Johnny stands where he was once pinned down, blood dusting his tunic and his face. None of which is his own, Simon thanks the gods for that fact.

“Son,” His voice cracks as he takes a step forward. His chest heaves as he looks at his boy, and how he’s grown into a man. Johnny rushes forward, pulling him into a hug.

“I’ve waited my whole life for you. Twenty years,” He cries into Simon’s chest, his sobs growing as he feels his father's tight embrace.

“Oh my son, look how much you’ve grown,” He whispers, fighting back his own tears. “Oh, my boy. My sweetest joy. I captured the wind and sky for you.”

“My son, I'm finally home.” He finally cries, looking at his son's face for the first time in twenty years. He sees you in him, he sees himself. Simon presses his forehead to Johnny’s, holding the back of his neck as he cries. He cries and he weeps, relief, something he hasn’t felt in years, floods his body as all of the suffering he’s endured has been worth it.

“My love?” He hates to look away but he does, his chest tight when he sees you removing your helmet. Your sword stuck in some man’s chest as your feet carried you across the hall and into his arms.

He calls you, your name falling from his lips and you cry into his neck. You’d nearly forgotten the sound of it on his tongue.

“Is it you?” You ask, pushing away from him after the initial shock. He’d warned you all those years ago, not to trust anyone who looked like him. He knew the Gods and their tricks; you knew them, too. “Have my prayers been answered? Or am I dreaming again?”

“I am no’ the man you fell in love with,” He admits as your eyes scan over him. You pick apart everything about him that’s changed over the years as doubt creeps in the back of your mind. “I am not the man you once adored; I am not your kind and gentle husband and I am not the love you knew before.” You frown as he takes your hands, falling to his knees before looking up at you. With a gaze, you tell Johnny to leave the two of you for now.

“Would you fall in love with me again if you knew all I’ve done? The things I cannot change. Would you love me all the same? I know that you’ve been waiting for love.” He begs, his bleary eyes unable to look at anything but you.

You nod, holding his face before guiding him up to his feet. “What kind of things did you do?” His head dips down in shame as the two of you move to stand outside in your garden. Free of blood and bodies as you sit under the olive tree he’d planted for you all those years ago.

“Left a trail of blood on every island. I traded friends as though they were objects. Hurt more lives than I can count. But all so I could come back to you.” He cries, holding your face, his cries growing as you lean into the touch. “Tell me, please. Would you fall in love with me again?”

“If that’s true,” You start, moving his hand from your face and he falters, eyes darting between yours as if they’ll reveal your choice before your voice does. “Could you do me a favor?”

“Anything,” He nods.

“Just a moment of labor that would bring me some peace. See that wedding bed? Could you carry it over? Lift it high on your shoulders and take it far from here?” You ask, your eyes darting between his own as you wait. Wait as you’ve done for twenty long years.

“How could you say this?” He asks, his hand moving from your face. “I built that wedding bed with my blood and sweat. Carved it into the olive tree where we first met. A symbol of our love everlasting! Do you realize what you have asked me? The only way to move it is to cut it from its roots!” He shouts, almost standing due to the anger bubbling in him.

“Only my husband knew that!” You sob, holding his hands again. “You’re real! My Gods, you’re real!” He calls your name as you shudder. You shake your head, pulling him close as your hands search his body, holding him impossibly close.

“I will fall in love with you over and over again. I don’t care how, where, or when. No matter how long it’s been. You’re mine. Don’t tell me you’re not the same person, you’re always my husband and I’ve been waiting for you!” He blinks, brushing your tears from your face before he kisses you.

You crumble under his touch, your hands shaking as you cradle his face. He holds you tightly, pressing your armored chest flush against himself. You pull away first, tucking his now long blonde hair behind his ears to see his face properly.

—

You don’t get a chance to admire the new Simon, not between the kissing and his insisting that you share the bed with Johnny for the night. You agree, of course, the two of you squishing Simon while he happily holds the two of you in his arms as the night draws on.

Simon wakes up first, he’s gotten so used to being forced to share a bed with Calypso that he’d made his body wake up early to escape her. He looks at you and Johnny for a while, softly crying as he knows he’s home. Eventually, he gets up, hating the way the two of you whimper at the lost feeling between the two of you.

He doesn’t venture far, just far enough to grab a bowl of water and a blade. Settling in front of a mirror, he shaves his face for the first time since he set out to Troy and then cuts his hair. He’s never seen his grey hairs before. Despite knowing that he was aging while he was out there he hadn’t realized he was aging. He wasn’t twenty anymore, he certainly didn’t look it either.

He has scars on his face, he has grey hairs, he has the starts of wrinkles, eye bags— he could list them for hours.

He looks back at you as you sleep. At your grey hairs, at your wrinkles and he smiles. You’re just as beautiful as the day he met you.

Stepping towards the window he sees the castle workers dragging the bodies out of the castle and into a carriage. Tossing them unceremoniously and he makes his way down.

“Load them and wait. Do not touch them any further,” He tells one of the maids without looking at her, his gaze locked on the men who had dared to try and defile his family. “Send word to the people of Ithaca. Meet at the pier by noon.” She nods, waiting to be dismissed by the king but he turns on his heel and returns to your room.

You’re awake, rubbing your eyes as your sleepwear slips from your shoulder.

“Did I wake you?” He asks, crawling into the bed and kissing the exposed skin. You roll your head at the feeling, holding the back of his head to keep him in place.

“No,” You murmur, head against his. “I missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” He pulls you onto his lap and you let him, too tired to fight back as he lays down again. “Trust me, ‘m not leaving ever again.”

“I like the sound of that,” You yawn, rubbing Johnny’s hair as he reaches out for the two of you. “We need to get up, though. Clean the halls,”

“Already taken care of, love.” You hum, head resting on his bare chest, fingers tracing against his skin.

“You cut your hair,” You point out.

“Mhmm, like it?”

“Ask me later; ‘m too tired.” He chuckles and pets your cheek with his knuckles.

“Rest my love, I’m not going anywhere.”

The next time you wake up, he’s engrossed in a conversation with Johnny. He’s still holding you, but now it’s sitting up on the bed while Johnny all but bounces around the room. He talks about his own adventures with Athena, how he’d almost beat up Graves this one time, how you always kept a place for him. He talks about the stories he grew up hearing about the great King Simon of Ithaca.

Simon listens, committing his son's voice to memory while he inhales the smell of your hair.

A knock at the door stops their conversation and Simon calls for whoever it is to come in as he pulls the blanket over your body.

“It is nearly noon, King Simon.”

“Thank you,” He nods, watching the door close before he looks down at you. “How long have you been awake?” He chides upon seeing your very much awake eyes on him.

“Long enough,” You respond but make no action to move. “What’s at noon?”

“You’ll see.” He lifts you with ease, picking himself up in the process and you laugh, holding onto his shoulders while Johnny gags and rushes out of the room.

In the tub, Simon sits first, letting you slowly sit with him before he kisses you. His lips and teeth pull and suck at the skin of your neck while you coo, squeezing his shoulders. The cold water wakes you up more than the kisses do, but when his hand dives between your legs you swear you’re more than awake.

“Mmm-mm,” You shake your head as you reluctantly push his hands away, he pouts but doesn’t fight it. “I want it to be in bed. To reclaim it,” His pupils dilate at the idea, you feel his pulse against his wrist and you grin, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“I can do that,” He nods, instead moving his hands to start washing the two of you.

The two of you dress together in your finest tunics, adorning yourselves in the royal jewelry and colors before getting Johnny from his room. Again, Simon finds himself between the two of you as you head down to your horses. Even more so when you’re all squished into a chariot.

The wagon of dead bodies follows behind you, the smell of death present as the townspeople watch. People gasp at the sight of Simon, and whispers of the long-since departed king's return echo throughout Ithaca.

Simon steps onto the platform, bringing you up with him and you stand next to him while Johnny stands in front of the two of you.

He starts a speech, making a point about the dead men. He talks of the disrespect to his house– to his family. He dares someone else to try to ruin his family, to hurt his son, his husband. He declares himself back, the two kings of Ithaca ruling again. Merciful, he calls the act of bloodshed the two of you had committed the night before. He calls the men’s mothers, their fathers, their wives, their children. He tells them they can weave their funeral shroud for them. Or else he’ll burn them to keep your room warm.

He watches as they collect their sons, their husbands, and their fathers. He holds you close, fingers a bruising grip against your waist.

The two of you head back; Johnny stays behind to venture around the kingdom. You think it’s so the two of you can be alone for a little while.

—

“I’ve missed you, husband,” Simon says, his head between your legs. He’s thrown them over his shoulders, his hands kneading the flesh of your stomach. He’s dreamt of this sight for two decades and yearned to dive his head between your legs again. Savoring the taste, feeling the way you’d clench around him.

“I’ve missed you, husband,” You parrot, reaching down to hold his chin. He leans into the warm touch, eyes closing as he savors it. You trail your hand up, holding his hair as he dives down. You gasp when he presses his tongue flat against you, slowly dragging up and down while watching you.

“I’m yours,” He murmurs, pressing sloppy kisses against your warmth while you twitch under his hold. “Only yours.” You pant, holding the cotton sheets for a reprise as his tongue makes figure eights around you, how he sucks and nips at your sensitive bud. He moves, sliding a finger into you; his eyes stuck on your face as your back arches. It’s an adjustment, just as it had been the first time you’d done this.

Your body had almost forgotten the feeling of his fingers inside of you, how skillful they’d been during your marriage. How he knew your body inside and out, what points to press on, and how fast to go. He maintains a rhythm that makes you cry, your arm across your eyes as you try to compose yourself. Not let yourself come undone so fast.

“Simon,” You breathe, trying to get to your elbows but he starts moving his finger. He's pushing and pulling, curling inside of you and it makes you fall back on the bed. He shudders, that tone in your voice, that feeling on his finger, the taste on his tongue. It’s all he’s ever wanted; it’s what kept him going all these years. “I need you,” You cry, eyes closed as your stomach tightens. He adds another finger, the added pressure makes your jaw drop.

“You have me,” He swears. “Look at me, please,” You try, honestly you do, but the tightness reaches a high and your eyes screw shut. Your fingers tighten around his hair, your voice echoes in the room and Simon feels you clench around him. He almost laughs, not because it hadn’t taken much to push you to the edge but because he’d already come. It hadn’t taken anything, all it took was you saying his name and he spilled into the bedsheets.

“You okay, moon?” He asks while crawling on top of you, his lips leaving scattered kisses across your body. You nod, face blissed out and eyes watery. “Can you take another?”

“I can take a million more,” You breathe and he laughs, head dropping between your neck. You laugh along, legs raising as he bites your skin. He moves so he’s holding himself up with one hand, his other grabs his dick as it hardens again.

“You sure?” He asks and you nod, kissing his shoulder.

“I can take it,” You moan, feeling the tip move across your folds. It slips and prods before he eventually pushes inside in one fluid motion. Your back arches, pushing your chest against his as he fills you.

“Full, ‘m so full,” You pant against him and he nods, moving your hair from your face.

“Full ‘n’ tight f’ me, yeah?” He teases, slowly rolling his hips against yours. He relishes in watching your expressions, how your mouth drops open and you’re unable to control the sounds you make. “Waited so long f’ me, didn’t you?” As he’s speaking, he raises up from you, his right hand holding your stomach down while the left starts rubbing soft circles on your clit. “So patient, my love. Thank you.”

His eyes dip down, looking at the bulge in your stomach as he slowly enters and exits you. He moans at the sight, eyes closing for a brief moment as he begins to pick up pace. You struggle to look at him, one hand holding the wooden headboard behind you while the other loosely holds the wrist that’s circling you.

“Missed you s’much,” He moans. “Missed all of you.” He slurs, leaning down to kiss you. He bites your bottom lip before his lips capture yours, his hips pressing against your own with each thrust. “Gods, you’re so tight.” He grunts as he pulls away, moving your left leg to be over his shoulder while the right leg sits at his hip. He speeds up, twitching as your moans only grow louder. Your nails drag against his chest and circle to his back.

He feels his scars under your nails, the sensitive skin prickling hot as you open his flesh. He hisses, the pain far easier to manage than anything he’s faced while away but so different. So loving.

“Inside me,” You moan, finally able to look at him as you bite your bottom lip. It’s throbbing from the pain of him biting it but you don’t care. “Inside me, Si, please.”

“Who am I to deny you, my king?” He grins and then drops his head down to your neck, feeling your walls tighten around him. You hear him whimper and moan against you and it only eggs you on. He’d chased that feeling for years, spilling inside of you as your high starts approaching. He continues for you, continuing his bruising pace until your body stops moving, your mouth falls open and your breathing goes ragged. Tenderly, as he always used to do, Simon holds you close to him. Your head rests against his chest so you can listen and feel his heart beating against your ear.

His hand stops circling your clit as he slowly pulls out from inside you. The sounds that come from him and you spur him on more but he contains himself. Instead, he watches as his cum leaks from you. On instinct, he pushes it back inside, loving the way your legs twitch when he does.

“Do you need a break?” He asks, eyeing the sweat on your brow. You inhale, thinking about it before shaking your head.

“I can take more,” You swear and he raises his eyebrow. “Please, Simon.”

“Your wish is my command.”

#simon riley x male reader #simon riley x ftm reader #simon riley x trans reader #thank you op!!!#epic the musical

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youngninjaturtle · 2 months ago

Text

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.”

#könig x reader #könig cod

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