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21 • She/Her HOA • TWD • MARVEL • TLOU !Multiple other fandoms!

[silverlullabies]

Ghost likes you soft and squishy with fat on your hips and a round tummy he can grip and squeeze under his thick fingers. More than likes, he craves it.

His life is all edges, hard men, hard steel, hard armor pressed into his chest until he forgets what it feels like to breathe without weight strapped on him. The rattle of magazines, the unyielding bite of Kevlar, the dull ache of scar tissue beneath it all. His world is built of bone and concrete, violence and recoil. Nothing gives. Nothing bends.

Except you.

You’re warm where he’s cold, pliant where he’s rigid. He can’t stop touching you because every handful of you pushes against his palm, yielding, generous, alive. When he takes hold of your hips he doesn’t feel the flat, brutal lines of gear, he feels something he can dig into. Something he can grip and mold and squeeze until his hands ache, and still there’s more. You’re a luxury he never thought he’d get, someone who doesn’t feel like the battlefield, someone who doesn’t bruise his hands just by existing.

And he loves it. God, he loves it. Loves how your thighs spill over his fingers when he spreads them, how your belly softens under his mouth when he kisses down, how you sigh when he grabs and pulls like he’s claiming territory. You tell him you’re heavy, that maybe he can’t lift you, and he just huffs a laugh behind the mask because compared to the endless weight of war, of corpses and duty and goddamn bulletproof glass, you are nothing. He can hoist you with one arm and slam you down onto the mattress just to prove it.

He does it often. Not because he needs to, but because he wants to because he sees the disbelief in your eyes every time and he wants to carve it out of you. Wants to hammer it into your bones that he likes you this way, that he likes having something to hold that doesn’t cut him back.

So he presses you into the sheets, body sprawling, fat spilling warm and perfect beneath his palms, and he groans like it’s a relief. Like it’s oxygen.

“Christ, love,” he rasps, pinning you tighter when you squirm, dragging his mask against your neck as though the fabric itself can taste you. “You’ve no idea what you do to me. I need this. Need you. All soft. All mine.”

And then he grips you harder, pulls you closer, not careful, not apologetic- hungry. Because to Ghost, your softness isn’t a flaw. It’s salvation.

[shotmrmiller]

but what if you're too shy during sex to let your pleasure be known? every slick, trembling movement of your hips is proof your body is betraying nothing, but your mouth is a cage, lips clamped tight, cheeks burning, desperate to stay quiet. you're too self-conscious to let the sounds be free.

but simon isn't having it.

a rough hand slides to your jaw, tilting your head. then fingers press into your mouth, curling between your molars, forcing your lips apart.

"stop hidin'," he growls, low and rough. "your pussy's singin' for me. why can't your mouth do the same?"

your eyes squeeze shut, but he tilts your head back, a thumb flat on your tongue, holding your jaw in place, and a shaky little moan escapes, muffled through his fingers.

"be louder. my hearin' ain't what it used to be."

[shotmrmiller]

Your moan vibrated against his fingers, wet and small, but it had him snarling, teeth bared like the sound was a prize he’d been hunting all along.

“There she is,” Simon rasped, grinding his hips into yours harder, deeper, forcing your body to sing what your mouth refused to. “Knew you’d sound fuckin’ sweet."

Your lashes fluttered, heat crawling over your skin, shame entwined with the raw, dizzy pleasure that made you tremble around him.

“Look at you,” he growled, breath hot at your ear, pace brutal as his cock drove into you. “So shy you’d rather choke on my fingers than let me hear how good I’m fuckin’ you.”

[shotmrmiller]

but what if you're too shy during sex to let your pleasure be known? every slick, trembling movement of your hips is proof your body is betraying nothing, but your mouth is a cage, lips clamped tight, cheeks burning, desperate to stay quiet. you're too self-conscious to let the sounds be free.

but simon isn't having it.

a rough hand slides to your jaw, tilting your head. then fingers press into your mouth, curling between your molars, forcing your lips apart.

"stop hidin'," he growls, low and rough. "your pussy's singin' for me. why can't your mouth do the same?"

your eyes squeeze shut, but he tilts your head back, a thumb flat on your tongue, holding your jaw in place, and a shaky little moan escapes, muffled through his fingers.

"be louder. my hearin' ain't what it used to be."

[lo-vearchive]

Big Blue

Pairing: Clark Kent x female reader, Superman x female reader

Summary: You think your coworker Clark is actually Superman. You ask him out to dinner to determine the truth, only to hurt his feelings. One bad confrontation and two sexually charged encounters later, you decide to stay clear of him at work. Except you really can't, especially not when you know he wants you just as bad, too. That's okay. You'll just have to seduce him into giving in.

Word Count: 10.5K (worth it, i promise)

Content: Hurt/comfort, angst, seduction, explicit language, heavy petting, oral sex (male receiving), female fingering, size kink, heavy kissing, subspace, alcohol consumption, tobacco consumption, mention of pornography, insecurity, misunderstanding, use of nicknames, Clark being his own enemy, Clark having a monster cock?

Note: You asked, I delivered. This may be my magnus opus. I put my whole cooch in the smut.

You discover that your coworker, Clark Kent, is actually Superman on a random Tuesday.

You wished that the reveal was grand in nature—a result of your investigative abilities and not a complete accident.

The Daily Planet was quiet, midnight approaching rapidly closer by the minute, when it happened. Perry White insisted no one clocked out until the first draft of a three-page exposé on the alleged arms deal between Lex Luthor and the Boravian government was done.

You had lost count of the hours you had sat glued to your computer when you finally your eyes from the bright screen. You stretched, scanning the room to see what your coworkers were up to. Your gaze fell on Clark, who sat typing away at his desk a few feet away.

He yawned, pulled off his glasses, and ran his large hands over his face. As his arms dropped to his lap, you froze mid-stretch.

Is that Superman?

He slid his glasses back on smoothly, completely unaware of your earth-shattering discovery. Your gazes met across the floor, and he gave you a sweet smile before returning to his work. You looked around to see if anyone else had also seen what you just saw, but Lois and Jimmy were busy flipping through some papers. You were alone in your revelation

You turned back to your computer, and the words swam across the screen. No way. No fucking way.

You paused again, mind racing a million miles an hour. You began putting the puzzle together. Wasn’t it strange that Clark Kent was the only journalist in Metropolis to ever interview Superman? No reporter —not even Lois Lane— was able to get even a quote from the superhero. Clark was always late to work on days there was a Superman sighting. And then last week, when the Kaiju had attacked, Clark had gone home early, complaining about a headache, only to be gone for the rest of the week. Now that you think about it, you had never seen Clark Kent and Superman in a room at the same time.

You slammed your hands down on your table and spun around in your chair. Using the heels of your feet, you dragged your chair across the tile floor until it bumped into Clark’s desk. He glanced at you with an arched eyebrow, fingers slowing down over the keyboard. “What’s up?”

Are you Superman? you wanted to scream

Instead, you settled on, “Pub on Friday after work?”

He reached for his phone to check something. “I haven’t looked at the group chat. What’s the plan?”

“You. Me. Pub. Seven o’clock.”

He tilted his head to the side and scratched his head. “Oh, okay. Sounds good. I’ll meet you all there.”

“It’s just going to be us, Clark,” you simplified. “I’m asking you out. Like on a date. I think it would be nice for us to go out and talk.”

A pink streak broke across his face. “Oh, um,” he stuttered, “y-yeah. Sure. I’ll be there. Th-Thanks.”

“Good boy,” you smiled. “See you at seven.”

You used your feet to drag yourself back to your desk.

The cogs in your brain were turning; a plan was taking root. If Clark didn’t show up, and there happened to be a meta-villain attacking Metropolis at the same time, your suspicions would be confirmed. If he did show up, you’d present your evidence and ask him point-blank if he was moonlighting as a superhero on the side. He was a terrible liar; he always squirmed too quickly. Either way, it would be like catching an insect in your venus flytrap.

I got you now, big blue.

.

.

.

Clark Kent began bringing you a cup of coffee every morning after that.

He would walk in late, apologize to Perry, and beeline straight to your desk, balancing two paper cups in his hand. “Thought you might like some,” he would say, giving you a dimpled smile.

Okay, maybe you didn’t completely think your plan through. You wanted to lay low until the big day, but patience was not your strongest virtue. In hindsight, perhaps you should have asked for drinks the very next day. Now, instead of asking the big question, you were overdosing on caffeine every morning. You just didn’t have the heart to tell him no.

By the time Friday rolled around, you were buzzing, and you didn’t know if it was due to the coffee sloshing around in your stomach or from sheer excitement. You had fled from your desk as soon as the clock struck five. Today was finally the day you would solve the mystery that was on every citizen’s mind, and you would be the first to do so.

At seven o’clock sharp, you walked through the doors belonging to your local pub and straight into Clark’s back. You yelped back, crying out in pain.

He spun around with wide eyes. “Gosh,” he exclaimed, “are you okay?”

Pain radiated up your face. You held your hand up to your nose and mumbled, “I’m fine.”

“Let me see,” he said, wrapping his hand around your thin wrist and peeling it away from your face. “Golly, you are bleeding! I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you urged, waving him away. “It’s not even that bad.”

He watched you, eyes brimming with concern. He took your hand and guided you to the back of the pub. You sat down, still cradling your nose as he went to the bar to grab you some ice.

This whole nose-bleed fiasco had completely ruined your game plan. There’s no way this man isn’t Superman, you decided. How could some journalist have a back so strong and shoulders so wide and arms so—

Clark returned with some ice-cubes in a thin plastic bag and handed it to you. You took it from him. “Thanks.”

He hovered for a moment before choosing to slide into the chair next to you. “Let me help,” he offered, taking the ice pack from you.

He pressed it gently against your nose. His free hand cupped the side of your head to angle your face up to him. “Does it hurt?”

Your ears burned under his warm touch. “N-no.”

“Poor baby,” he whispered under his breath, making your toes curl in your heels. “You should have watched where you were going.”

His pleasant aftershave flooded your senses. “It’s not my fault you’re made out of iron,” you mumbled.

“Steel.”

“Sorry?”

“Still,” he enunciated, “you gotta’ be more careful. How will you stick your nose in Lex Luthor’s business if its broken?”

You couldn’t help but laugh. His eyes met yours, and you saw he was grinning. Before you could lose your nerve, you asked, “Clark, are you Superman?”

His smile fell. He pulled his hands away from you. The noise from the pub seemed to fade away so you could fully experience each painfully quiet second that went by.

His head dropped down to his lap, and a tremor ran through his shoulders. You opened your mouth to speak, but no sound came out. A pit began forming in your belly.

Finally, Clark broke the silence. “You asked me out for this nonsense?”

Blood rushed to your ears. “No,” you began, “I mean— yes. I was curious. You just look so much like the guy, I thought maybe—”

He looked up at you, eyes glistening. “I thought you liked me.”

You felt a sudden pang in your chest. You had been so caught up in making a great discovery that you hadn’t even considered the gravity of your actions.

No, no, no, you chanted in your head. This is bad. He thinks I’m messing with him.

“I’m sorry, Clark,” you sighed, running a hand through your hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt your— I’m really sorry.”

He stood up, no longer looking at you. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a packet of tissue and tossed it on the table. “I hope you get home safe,” he said and then stormed out.

You called out his name, running after him. By the time you step outside the pub, Clark is long gone and the only thing waiting for you outside is the cold autumn breeze.

.

.

.

Sometime over the weekend, you decided that you were a horrible person.

It was eating you alive that you had hurt Clark. You didn’t mean to, but that didn’t matter. Your actions had caused him pain. You had taken his kind heart and crushed it in your cruel fists in the name of journalistic pursuit.

You were dreading coming into work on Monday morning, and when Clark walked in, late as usual, your fears became true. He refused to even look at you. You tried talking to him, and his replies were polite as usual, but short and to the point. The cup of coffee you got him sat untouched on his desk. He didn’t even join in on your banter with Lois.

By noon, everyone at the Daily Planet knew something had gone wrong between you both. The way he cleared the space whenever you stepped into the room made it hard to ignore. “Is everything good between you and Kent?” Jimmy asked in the break room.

Your cheeks grew warm behind your cup. “I don’t think so,” you admitted.

“What happened?”

“ . . . date . . . accused . . . Superman,” you spoke under your breath.

Jimmy raised an eyebrow. “What?”

You sighed and answered, louder, “I asked him out on a date and then accused him of being Superman.”

“Superman? he echoed, and then barked out a laugh. “Clark Kent? S-SUPERMAN?”

You closed your eyes, groaning. It took a complete minute for him to stop howling.

Jimmy wiped his eyes, still chuckling. “Okay, sorry— let me get this straight, you thought our coworker, Clark Kent, who can’t even walk through a door without bumping into the frame, was Metropolis’ saviour? You know that Superman lifts like cars off people, right?”

You cringed at the visual and then gave him the full account of your disastrous date.

“Okay, to summarize,” he said after listening to you, “you asked out Kent, got his hopes up by making him think you genuinely liked him, and then destroyed that hope within the first five minutes of your date.”

You nodded, cheeks flaring.

“Jeez,” Jimmy whistled. “You really have lost your mind.”

“Trust me, I know how that sounds,” you admitted. “I don’t know what was going on in my head. They don’t even look alike.”

“They really don’t. I guess you don’t spend enough time looking at him,” he remarked, shrugging. “At least not as much as he spends looking at you.”

You frowned. “What do you mean?”

Jimmy’s made a face that told you that he thought you were a real idiot. “Oh, come on!” he cried out. “You mean to tell me that you haven’t seen the way Clark Kent looks at you?”

You tilted your head to the side. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” you stated, utterly confused.

Clark didn’t look at you in any particular way. You would have seen it for yourself since you had spent all of last week watching him like a hawk. The phone in your pocket buzzed as Jimmy shook his head, disappointed.

“All right, answer me this. Did you feel inclined to ask him out because you thought he was Superman, or because you simply liked him?”

You had been so preoccupied with feeling remorseful that you hadn’t spent any time dissecting your actions leading to the disaster. “I-I don’t know Jimmy.”

You pulled your phone out of your pocket as you racked your brain for an answer. A text message glowed on your screen.

Clark Kent: Meet me at the rooftop. I need to speak to you.

.

.

.

You raced up to the Daily Planet’s rooftop, out of breath.

Clark stood by the railing, staring out at the Metropolis skyline. “Clark?” you call out, heart beating loudly in your rib cage.

From the back, he appeared taller than usual. You realized the slight hunch in his back from before had disappeared. Cautiously, you made your way closer to him.

“What made you think I was Superman?” he questioned, still looking ahead.

You froze at the sound of his voice. It was much deeper than what you were used to. He sounded different than the Clark you knew. You cleared your throat before answering, “It doesn’t matter anymore. I was wrong.”

“I insist.”

You curled your hair behind your ears, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Okay,” you exhaled, “I guess . . . I just had a hunch that you were him.”

He didn’t turn around to look at you. The yellow sun shone brightly up ahead, bathing you both in its light as it disappeared behind the skyscrapers. The hair on your arms stood up as its warmth faded. The pit in your stomach was back again; something bad was about to happen.

Wanting to break the thick blanket of silence in between you both, you spoke again. “I found it odd that you were the only reporter ever speaking to Superman. Why did he only ever want to speak to when there were so many senior journalists reaching out? Then, it was t-the way you wrote about him . . . the surety in your words . . . it felt like you knew exactly what was going on in his head. You also passed off on fieldwork opportunities a-anytime a meta-villain attacked. I mean, what reporter does that? And then sometimes when you take your glasses off, I swear you look exactly like him—”

Clark finally turned to you. The frames were missing from his face. “Like now?”

There it was again; Superman looking right at you.

You gulped. “Yes.”

“What if I told you that your hunch was correct?” he questioned. “What if I really am Superman? What happens then?”

Your mind went blank. You hadn’t thought that far. Why didn’t I think about what happens next?

“What will you do?” he asked, teeth grinding. “Will you run down and tell Perry White?”

“No,” you whispered, jerking back.

“Or would you wait?” he mused, stepping closer. “Would you put in an overtime request to write the next exposé on me?”

“No,” you repeated, stepping back. “Of course not.”

“Why not?”

“I just wouldn’t do that to you,” you insisted, shaking your head.

You both moved in tandem until your back hit the concrete wall next to the door. His hand came up to rest beside your head. “Why not?” he challenged. “It would make for a great headline.”

Tears welled up in your eyes, threatening to fall. “My professional curiosity got the best of me,” you croaked through the lump forming in your throat. “I’m sorry. I never meant for things to get so bad between us.”

“I don’t believe you,” he stated, jaw clenching. “You’re my friend, Clark,” you blinked, quickly. “I would never put your life in jeopardy like that.”

His icy blue eyes bore right into you. He let his head drop down, and his forehead met yours. “If you ever cared about me,” he sighed, “even just a little, promise me that you will never speak to a soul about this.”

You gave him a shaky nod.

“Give me your word,” he demanded, lips turned downward.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly. “I promise. Please believe me.”

You both remained still, frozen in that moment. Your mind couldn’t process what was happening. The coldness of his words stood against the heat radiating off his skin, making your head spin. Your breathing became laboured. If it wasn’t for his forehead pressed against yours, your legs would have given out.

“For what’s it worth,” he said, his breath fanning your face, “I liked being wanted by you. Even if it was just for a moment.”

A second later, he pushed away from you, yanked the rooftop door open, and disappeared downstairs. You waited for his footsteps to fade away before you let the tears fall.

The ground beneath you swayed and crouched down. In that moment, you felt like a child, caught in a mess that you didn’t know how to navigate. You wrapped your arms around your knees, sobbing.

The only thing you knew was the answer to Jimmy’s question. You truly did like Clark Kent.

.

.

.

Things went back to normal slowly.

Clark returned to his usual, cheery demeanour, but you could see that his eyes had changed. Long gone was the softness for you that always seemed to be settled within them. His eyes now carried that a streak of apprehension instead. Anytime Lois mentioned Superman, you could feel Clark’s eyes glance at you in uncertainty.

For fuck’s sake, you wanted to scream out, I told you I wasn’t going to say anything!

You decided to just stay clear of Clark Kent. You have had enough of him acting like you were some villainess who stole ice cream out of the hands of children. “Aren’t you just dying to know who Superman is?” Jimmy asked, mischief painted across your face.

You rolled your eyes. “Ha-ha,” you deadpanned. “Very funny.”

“For real,” he insisted, “any new guesses?”

You pretended to think for a moment. “Lex Luthor?”

You heard Clark choke on his coffee behind you. Jimmy cackled at your response.

“Seriously,” Lois interjected, oblivious to the reason behind Jimmy’s taunt, “that’s your best guess?”

The clock struck five, and you began packing up. You shrugged. “As long as he keeps on doing what he’s doing, it’s none of my business.”

Lois raised an eyebrow. “Got a hot date?”

You slung your work bag over your shoulder. “Yeah,” you answered with a grin. “It’s with Superman.”

Jimmy and Lois’s laughter echoed through the floor as you exited the Daily Planet. You walked to the bus stop with the back of your ankles scraping painfully against your heels. You reached just in time to see the bus speeding away. On cue, rain began pouring down from the sky, soaking you within seconds.

Great, you thought, I just love my life right now.

You held your work bag over your head to shield yourself from the downpour, choosing to walk home instead. The wind picked up, and the cold air made your teeth clatter. It was times like this that made you wish you could fly. Maybe if you hadn’t ruined things with Clark, he would have taken you flying.

No, you told yourself. I made a mistake and I apologized.

There was not much you could do beyond that. Eventually, Clark would have to forgive you, and if he didn’t, then you’d just have to live with it. You couldn’t spend the rest of your career at the Daily Planet walking on eggshells.

You turned the corner and ran straight into something big and blue. “Agh!” you yelped, stumbling back.

Two hands shot out to steady you. You angle your bag up and saw a familiar face. “Cl— I mean, Superman?”

.

.

.

The superhero stood in front of you with concern coloured on his face.

The bright red and blue of his suit stood in stark contrast against the gloomy city. You could vividly remember the last time you were so close to the man. It was on the rooftop when he had given you a harsh dressing down.

“You’re soaked,” he remarked, eyeing you from head to toe.

You rolled your eyes. “Thanks, genius,” you countered, moving around him to walk ahead.

“Let me drop you off at home,” he called out, catching up with you.

“You don’t have a car,” you said, speeding up.

His long legs made it easy for him to match your pace. “Superman doesn’t need a car.”

“You're referring to yourself in third person now?” you snorted.

“No,” he shook his head, “it's just a thing I came up with. I thought I'd try to work into my chit-chat with the citizens. Why is it strange?”

“Nope,” you lied, “I think it’s completely normal that you spend your spare time rehearsing dialogues with strangers.”

“We are not strangers.”

“My point still stands.”

He grabbed your arm to gently stop you. “What the fuck are you doing?” you hissed through clenched teeth.

People passing by eyed you both, whispering to each other. One man across the street pulled his phone out to record you two. You couldn’t even be upset at him for invading your privacy; you did that as a job.

“I’m just trying to get you home quicker,” he reasoned, throwing his hands up in surrender. “It will take you forever to limp home in those shoes. Why don’t you have a coat with you by the way?”

“Sorry for forgetting to check the forecast!”

“Just let me help you!” he exclaimed, matching your volume.

“You’re making a scene,” you told him, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I don’t need your help.”

“I know,” he sighed, licking his lips. “Let me help you anyway.”

“Why?” you questioned, confused at his changed attitude. “I thought you wanted me to leave you alone.”

“You said it yourself,” he reminded, smirking. “You have a date with Superman.”

You rolled your eyes. Of course, he was eavesdropping; he probably couldn’t help himself with that super-hearing power of his.

“Come on,” he urged, tugging at the straps of your bag. “Let’s get out of here before.”

You stepped back to take a long look at him. A dark, wet curl had torn loose from his neatly combed back hair. You felt a sudden compulsion to reach out and tuck it back in place.

Shit, you thought, am I really about to give in to his bullshit?

Perhaps it was because you missed his company, or the expectant look in his eyes, or maybe you were just curious to know why he had followed you out. Before you could uncover the reason behind your decision, you flipped to face the man across the street.

“Oh, Superman!” you cried out, swooning. “Save me from the rain!”

You tipped back just as Clark reached down to wrap one arm around your shoulder and the other under your knee. He hoisted up to his chest and grinned.

“Let’s get you home, citizen.”

.

.

.

Flying looked better in movies.

You hadn’t stopped screaming since you took off the ground in Clark’s arms. The wind and rain hit your eyes as you both soared over Metropolis. It was probably for the best that you couldn’t see, because anytime you made the mistake of looking down, nausea took hold.

Clark was having the time of his life; he hadn’t stopped laughing for a second. He even had the nerve to spin you both through a cloud over LuthorCorp. Your hands fisted his cape as you buried your head in the crook of his neck. You caught the tail end of what he was saying.

“—not dropping you!”

“DON’T DROP ME!” He laughed even harder. A reluctant smile broke out on your face. You couldn’t remember the last time you had experienced something so exhilarating.

Is this how you live, Clark?

Eventually, you both slowed down. You peered over his shoulder and saw your apartment building underneath. Clark gently glided lower until you both reached your balcony. You thought he would set you down, but he didn’t. He balanced your weight on one arm and used the other to pull the slide doors apart, leading inside. He walked in, slipped on the indoor shoes without being asked, and carried you to your kitchen.

He gently settled you on the counter and stepped back. “How did you like it?” he asked, sheepishly.

“Honestly,” you croaked, mouth dry. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

He squinted at your stomach and then decided, “No, you’re not.”

You used your arms to shield your torso. “Don’t use your x-ray vision on my belly!”

“Sorry, sorry!” he cried, holding his hands up in surrender. “Force of habit. I won’t do it again.”

You shoved him back a little and hopped off the counter. You opened a cabinet and pulled out two empty cups. “I don’t know how you do this every day,” you said, setting them on the marble slab. “I thought I was going to pass out.”

He shrugged. “It was frightening for me at first, too,” he admitted. “I would do it in my sleep and accidentally float into the living room after bedtime. It would give my ma’ and pa’ a real scare.”

“No one ever caught you?”

“I didn’t have neighbours close by,” he explained. “Just acres of farmland. I think our cows saw me a couple of times, though. I-I lived in a small town— Smallville.”

You giggled as you filled up the kettle. “I don’t know why I just said that,” he said in a small voice. “I have never told anyone that before.”

You paused, searching for any hints of regret in his tone. “You don’t have to worry,” you replied. “I told you I wasn’t going to say anything.”

You both stayed silent as you turned the stove on and set the kettle down on top. “I shouldn’t have been so harsh before,” Clark spoke from behind. “I was really alarmed that you figured it out so easily.”

You shook your head, looking ahead. “I should have brought it up with more tact,” you admitted, biting your lip. “You made me feel like shit, but you had good reason to get upset. I just want to put this whole thing behind us, you know?”

You felt him step closer. His forehead slumped on your shoulder. “We can’t. I know you don’t see me the same anymore. How can things ever go back to the way they were?”

You spun around to face him, irritated. “Then what do I do, Clark?” you questioned, lips thinning. “What do you want me to do? I can’t turn back time and pretend that I don’t know you’re Superman. What can I do to make you stop looking at me like I’m a monster waiting to destroy you?”

You saw that he was taken aback. “I—” he began, lashes fluttering, “I just . . . I . . . ”

You felt a sudden surge in confidence. You placed your hands on his shoulders and bore into his bright eyes. “That day when I asked you out,” you started, “how did it feel?”

He blinked. “I was . . . surprised?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. “I was taken aback. I just wasn’t expecting that.”

“And?”

“I was excited,” he continued, gulping. “I had wished for it longer than I’d like to admit.”

Your stomach tightened. “And?” you inquired, fingernails digging into his suit.

“And it hurt my heart to find out that you only did that because you wanted to uncover my big secret,” he confessed, voice getting higher.

There it was. The big hurt lay out in the open; exposed for you both to discuss.

You inched closer to clear the gap between you both. “What if I told you that I didn’t ask you out just for that?” you asked, craning your head up at him. “What if I told you I asked you out simply because I like you?”

The air around you grew warm and made your head spin. It was almost as if the sun itself was inside your apartment. Your lips brushed against Clark, and his eyelids grew heavy. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

He tipped your chin up with a massive hand. Your hands slipped down to his large biceps. His chest rose and fell, rapidly. You swallowed in anticipation. “I’m telling you I want you, Clark,” you whispered.

The kettle whistled behind you, jolting you both. The spell snapped. Clark stepped away from you.

You called out his name, but he cut you off. “It doesn’t matter,” he said, not meeting your eyes. “If it was so easy for you to figure out the truth, then I have to believe that others may already know too. It’s only a matter of time before the world knows it, too. When that happens, everyone around me will be in danger. That can never happen. I can’t do that to you. What I want can never happen.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but he was already gone, taking the warmth in your home with him.

.

.

.

You decided that you will just have to seduce Clark Kent.

Clark wanted you too. Of course, he didn’t say those words out loud, but you knew what he meant. You didn’t know if you should be crying or laughing. The man you liked you back just as much.

His superhero dilemma made you want to bang your head against the wall. You understood why he was afraid, but being alone for the rest of his life was hardly the solution. Some day, he would have to get over it, and you weren’t going to be the woman he almost had.

No, you came to the conclusion, I think I’m going to have you now.

You had no plan; you were being driven just by instinct. It was an act as old as time. Clytemnestra, Cleopatra, Jezebel, and countless others had perfected the game before you. You just hoped that Kryptonian men ran just as red-blooded as their human counterparts.

There was just one issue. You had never seduced anyone before; the need for that had simply never come up. Some brainstorming and a few mortifying Google searches later, you decided on your first move.

Step 1: Look hot.

You looked great every day, but now you had put your sexiest foot forward. Within limits, of course, you didn’t want to be pulled aside by human resources and dress coded. You decided to tap into the part of your wardrobe you were usually too shy to wear.

When you showed up at the Daily Planet on Monday morning, heads spun. You dove right into work, and kept your eyes off Clark. You didn’t have to look to see if he was watching; you could feel the floor turn into a sauna as soon as you had stepped in. Only he radiated that type of heat.

“Hey,” you heard a voice greet.

You peered over the edge of your computer to see Clark standing on the other side. You leaned back in your chair. “What’s up?”

His eyes couldn’t focus on one place. They darted from your face to your legs to your chest and then back to your face. “Perry,” he cleared his throat, “wants you to edit my latest interview for Superman.”

“Okay.”

“Whenever you get the chance,” he said, straightening his glasses, “I’d really appreciate it.”

Step 2: Be confident.

“How about now?” you proposed, standing up.

You walked toward him as he stepped back. You both crossed the floor, and the back of his knees banged against the edge of his desk. He spun around just in time to grab a paperweight before it could topple over. “Sorry,” he huffed, taking a seat.

You moved behind him and bent down to see his screen better. Your chest pressed against his arm, and he stiffened. The scent of his aftershave made your stomach tighten. You let out a shaky breath to compose yourself. At this rate, you’d entice yourself before you could seduce Clark.

Your heart thundered in your chest as you tried to concentrate on his work. “I can just share the file with you,” he suggested, wiping the sweat off his philtrum.

Step 3: Maintain eye contact.

You turned to meet his gaze and held it. “I don’t mind at all,” you smiled, sickly sweet.

You turned your attention back to the screen. Skimming over the words, thankful that there was not much to correct on his draft. He had interviewed himself after all. “Oh,” you pouted, “you made a typo.”

You reached for his hand that was on the mouse and curled your thin fingers over his. You guided the cursor to the mistake and double-clicked it to highlight.

“Thanks,” he croaked, shifting in his seat.

You bit back a smirk. “Any time.”

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.

.

On Tuesday, you ran into Clark in the break room.

He was scarfing down a croissant when you walked in. “Hey,” you greeted.

You took your lunch out of the fridge and set it on the counter.

“Wha’ do havef there?” he inquired with his mouth full.

“Some dumplings from yesterday,” you answered, putting the lunchbox in the microwave. “Did you pack a lunch, or are you just filling up on the treats Cat brought?”

“No lunch,” he replied. “I had a late night.”

You knew what he was referring to; it was all over the news. Superman and Green Lantern had fought a radioactive creature late into the night. You were glued to your television until the wee hours yourself. You knew Clark could handle a fight, but that didn’t stop your stomach from clenching every time he was punched in the face or slammed down on concrete.

The microwave beeped, and you took out your food. “You did pretty well,” you told him, “I’m sure having the Green Lantern assist helped.”

He smiled, his dimples becoming prominent. “It’s nice not doing things alone.”

You grabbed a fork from the cabinet and impaled a dumpling on it. “Want some?” you asked, blowing on it.

Step 4: physical contact.

You held it up to his mouth, still puffing at the dumpling. He looked a bit hesitant, but then inched forward. You knew he couldn’t resist some good food; his big body probably needed a lot of it to sustain itself. He took a bite, and some of the sauce got on his lips. Without missing a beat, you reached out, wiped his lip with your knuckle, and licked your hand clean.

Clark’s jaw fell. He looked like you had just slapped him in the face. “Sorry,” you smiled. “Bad habit.”

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.

.

On Wednesday, you found yourself in the archive room.

Perry had asked you to compile hard copies of any mention of LuthorCorp from decades ago and digitize them. Things were going smoothly when you were fetching files from the bottom shelf, but eventually you had to move up. Begrudgingly, you fetched a ladder from the supply closet and dragged it into the room.

The metal shook under your feet, and you hesitantly climbed up. You shifted your weight on the top cap and slid out a box. You placed it on your lap and began searching through its contents. You must not have heard the archive door open behind you because you jolted when a voice called out your name.

The movement made the ladder dance, and you stumbled backwards. You scrunched up, cradling your head, eyes closed, bracing for impact as you plunged down towards the floor.

When nothing happened, you hesitantly opened one eye, and then the other.

You were in Clark’s arms. He stared at you, breathing heavily. That was probably the first time you had seen him out of breath.

Step 4.5: accidental physical contact?

His fingers dug into the flesh of your bare legs and arms. “You scared me,” you croaked, clutching the collar of his coat.

“I didn’t mean to,” he breathed out.

You slid your hand to his chest. You felt his heart pounding through his dress shirt under your palm. “I’m okay,” you reassured, patting him gently. “You caught me in time.”

He nodded and set you down on your feet. “I’m really sorry,” he apologized anyway. “I should have knocked.”

You shook your head. “You had no way of knowing I was inside, big blue.”

“Still,” he said, frowning.

You bit your lip. You didn’t like seeing him upset. “Wanna’ make it up to me?”

“Yeah.”

“Come to the journalist retreat with us on Friday,” you said, fixing the fold in his collar from where you had grabbed it earlier. “The whole team is going, even Steve.”

“I don’t know,” he started, shaking his head, “what is something happens while I’m gone—”

“Nothing is going to happen to Metropolis while you’re away, Clark,” you cut him off. “Plus, the Justice League will be here.”

“Gang,” he corrected.

“Tomato-Tomatoh,” you waved him off. “So, are you in?”

He eyed the space between you both. You could almost see the cogs in his brain turning as he worked through all the worst-case scenarios in his head. Once he had exhausted them all, he met your eyes. “Okay.”

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.

.

By the time Friday had rolled around, you were on step nine of your seduction plan.

Clark would have to be the most oblivious creature on Earth to not notice. Even Jimmy had picked up on it and, much to your relief, he had kept his mouth shut. That didn’t stop him from raising an eyebrow or smirking anytime you interacted with Clark.

When work ended for the week, you, Clark, Lois, Cat, and Jimmy had piled into a rental car to drive towards the retreat a few hours away.

You were halfway to your destination when you glanced up from your phone and out the window. “Is that Steve?” you asked Jimmy, as your car passed an exit on the freeway.

Jimmy glanced at the rear-view mirror. “Oh, yeah.”

He pulled over and turned the hazard lights on. Steve jogged up to your car, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You rolled your window down. “What happened?”

“My car broke down,” he huffed, “everyone else went ahead with Perry. Can I catch a ride with you?”

“We have no seats,” Jimmy replied. “Just call for an Uber.”

“I’m not paying out of pocket for that,” he said, looking around the car. “NFL season is starting, and this man will need all his dollars.”

His eyes landed on you in the passenger seat. “She can sit on Kent’s la[,” he stated. “We are only an hour away.”

With how your life was going lately, you often doubted the Big Man Upstairs. Then situations like such presented themselves, and you knew there was a higher power. “Absolutely not,” you feigned outrage. “I’m gonna crush him!”

He shot you a weird look. “The man is big enough,” he said. “You can handle it, right, Kent?” “I guess?”

You pushed the car door, hitting Steve’s shin in the process, a dramatically huffed, “Unbelievable!”

You bit back a grin as Steve limped to the front, and you hopped in the back where Clark was.

He sat absolutely still, spine erect, and hands in clenched fists at his side. You gingerly sat on his lap as Steve chucked his duffel bag over Cat and Lois’ thighs.

“Sorry,” you said to Clark.

“No worries,” he croaked, voice high.

The car merged back onto the freeway, and conversations erupted around you both. You were fine for the first few minutes, but then the heat emitted by Clark made you restless. You tugged your cardigan off your shoulders and draped it over your legs. Still too warm, you shifted on his lap, struggling to find a comfortable position. His hands shot up to your thighs. “Don’t move,” he begged in your ear. “Please.”

That’s when you felt it; something hardening underneath you.

Holy shit, you thought. He’s hard.

You pouted and rolled in his lap once again. “I’m just,” you exhaled, leaning back into him, “trying to get comfortable.”

His warm breath hit the back of your neck. “Please.”

Taking pity on him, you kept yourself still. His chest expanded into your back, and your breaths synced. You scanned the car to see if anyone was paying attention to you both, and then sneaked your hand under your cardigan. You curled your fingers over his and rubbed circles on the back of his hand with your thumb. His forehead hit your shoulder. The car suddenly met a rough patch on the road as you all pulled into the city, sending you bouncing. Clark clutched your hand, and his free arm moved to wrap around your waist to hold you in place.

You finally turned to look at him for the first time during the road trip. His hair was dishevelled, and he wore a pained expression. You inched your mouth to his ear and whispered, “Isn’t it time you gave in?”

You rolled your lips, deliberately, and his jaw clenched. He didn’t answer and only stared ahead with thick, furrowed eyebrows. When you finally reached the hotel, Clark pushed you off him and beelined straight for the hotel.

You smirk, pulling the cardigan back over you.

Yeah. I’ve got him now.

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.

.

The only thing on the agenda for tonight was welcome drinks.

You were sharing a room with Lois, who was smoking out the window. “I’m taking the side closest to the bathroom,” she said, pulling the cigarette away from her lips. “I get up to pee during the night.”

“If things go according to plan,” you replied, pulling a dress out of your suitcase, “you will have the room for yourself tonight.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Think you’ll meet someone tonight?”

“Something like that.”

You both took turns changing and getting ready in the bathroom before heading downstairs.

The hotel’s banquet hall was filled with journalists from nearby cities. Clark was already there with the rest of the Daily Planet staff when you reached. It was hard to miss the way he towered a full foot and then some over everyone else. He had traded his usual dress shirt for an identical-looking one, but had spent enough time watching him to know that it was the best one he owned. His hair was only slightly tousled, like he had just finished rolling around in bed. He was toying with the frames sitting on his face when you approached him.

“Hey, big blue.”

He jerked around at the sound of your voice. “H-hey,” he stuttered, eyes moving frantically over you.

“You look good,” you commented, running a hand through your hair.

“T-thanks,” he replied. “You look beaut— I mean good! You look good, also.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from cheesing too hard. “Wanna’ grab a drink?”

He gave you a shaky nod, and you guided him to a bar. “Two martinis, please,” you told the bartender.

“I can’t get drunk,” he shared as you both watched the bartender make your drink.

“Like at all?”

“My Kryptonian physiology makes it impossible,” he explained, leaning on the bar. “I process the alcohol too quickly.”

Your hopes for a drunken confession from him ended quickly after that revelation. The bartender set the drinks in front of you, and Clark paid for them before you could offer. You held the glasses up in your hands and asked, “Should I have them both then?”

“No,” he said. “I still enjoy the taste. Plus, I can recall your tolerance from our office pub nights. You should pace yourself.”

“Why?” you questioned, pouting. “Are we doing something after?”

His cheeks reddened at your words. “Of course not,” he said. “You should stop saying things like that.”

You gulped down a drink and shrugged. “I was just wondering. I need to plan my night out while I’m still sober. Lois and I have an arrangement with our hotel room, and it doesn’t involve me sleeping there tonight. I can do good with some liquid courage before I talk to that reporter from Gotham.”

Your mouth moved to the other cocktail, and Clark’s hand shot out to stop you. He wrapped his hand around your thin wrist and brought the glass up to his mouth. He drank from it, chugging down the contents.

You eyed him, amazed. You had never seen any man drink a martini like a pint of beer before. He took the glasses from your hands and set them down on the bar. He pressed a hand on your lower back and guided you towards the exit. “We are going.”

As you weaved through the crowd, Lois shot you a confused look and mouthed, Clark Kent?

I don’t know, you mouthed back.

His hand burned through the fabric of your dress, and he walked you out of the banquet hall. “What are you doing, Clark?” you cried out once you were out of your colleagues’ earshot.

“What am I doing?” he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “What are you doing?”

“I am trying to enjoy my retreat,” you countered, frowning. “What else?”

“I’m not stupid,” he scowled, towering over you. “You have been coming at me all week, and now you’re telling me you’re going to—”

“To what?” you sneered, stepping closer to him.

“You know exactly what I mean,” he snapped.

You felt like a spider weaving a web for your favourite insect. “I have been nothing but honest with you, Clark,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest. “You are the one who insists on torturing yourself.”

He stayed silent, jaw clenched. His silence infuriated you.

“I told you that I want to be with you, but no, ” you continued, poking him in the chest, “you prefer being alone over having someone care about you by your side. You know what? Be my guest! Have fun being ‘hastag supershit’ for all I care!”

“Super-shit?” he echoed, voice rising. “Why would you say that? You know that one specifically irritates me!”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “You either want to be with me, or you don’t,” you exhaled. “I can’t wait for you forever.”

“It’s not that simple!” he cried, eyes shot wide. “I told you t-that being with me is dangerous, but that doesn’t mean I can just stand by and watch you talk about s-some other guy. I have feelings too! You have been driving me insane. I can’t think or sleep or eat, or breathe when you’re near me. You have got to stop playing with me!”

There it was. Not a drunken confession, but close enough. Tears welling up in your eyes, you grabbed the collar of his shirt. “You think this is a fucking joke to me?”

His breathing picked up, and his hands clenched into fists. “Waiting for you to want me back is humiliating,” you confessed. “I hate that I watch for you in every room I’m in. I hate that you pull me close and open a window into your heart, only to slam it back shut in my face. I hate you so much sometimes that I could just—”

His mouth crashed down on you. You gasped, mouth parting just enough for his tongue to slip inside. He backed you into a nearby wall, and your hands flew to his face as his hands grabbed a handful of your ass through your dress. You sucked on his bottom lip and bit down, gently. Clark let out a pained groan. “Screw it,” he whispered in between the kisses, “you win, baby. It is about time I gave in.”

Hook, line, and sinker. You smiled against his lips, letting out a shaky breath and the anger bubbling within you with it. “We are going upstairs,” he commanded, pushing off you.

You nod, blood rushing to your ears, and let him pull you toward the elevator.

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.

.

You and Clark stand on opposite ends of the elevator.

The lift stops at your floor, and you step outside, Clark on your heels. He grabs your waist and hastens your pace. “Go change into something comfortable and then come up to room two-twenty-four,” he said.

“You want it to be easy to take off later?” you teased.

“Careful,” he warned.

You grinned from ear to ear and followed along. You changed into a plain shirt and matching shorts and skipped all the way back to his room, humming to yourself.

You skidded to a stop in front of ROOM 224. You could hear the hardwood floor creak under Clark’s foot as he paced in his room alone. You gently knocked, and the door opened immediately.

“Hey, big blue.”

“Hi,” he smiled.

His glasses were gone, and he had changed into some blue pyjamas. He moved out of your way so you could step inside. His room was just as tidy as you expected. His clothes from the mixer were placed with care in the hotel’s laundry bag. His work laptop and notebooks were placed neatly on a desk. His unzipped suitcase sat on the bedroom bench, the familiar red and blue suit peeking out. You can take the boy out of the city, you thought, but you can’t take the superhero out of the boy.

You accompanied him on a short walk to the sofa facing the television.

He had put out for you two cans of soda, several bags of candy, and some popcorn on the coffee table. “How did you get all of this so fast?” you asked, taking a seat.

“Super speed,” he answered, shrugging casually, “I even managed to get a shower in before you got here.”

“Impressive,” you commented as he reached for the remote to search for a movie.

He picked one and pressed play. You both watched the screen in quietude. You couldn’t concentrate; your thoughts were racing back to the kiss you had shared in the lobby with him. You both were so hot and bothered minutes ago only only to now, you didn’t understand why he was making you watch a movie set in nineteenth-century Paris .

What the fuck is happening?

“Madame Raquin is making Thérèse marry her cousin Camille,” Clark said, eyes glued to the television.

“Oh.”

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye and saw him fully engrossed in the storyline. “That’s Laurent,” he shared sometime after. “He works with Camille.”

“Oh.”

He fisted some popcorn in his hand and shoved it in his mouth. You had no choice but to turn your attention to the movie. Camille and his mother had exited the room to fetch some champagne, and once alone, Thérèse and Laurent had leapt at each other to kiss passionately.

You wished that it were Clark and you. That was you both mere minutes ago. “We were just doing that downstairs too,” you commented, yawning.

Clark choked on his popcorn. You rushed to him. “Oh my god!”

You picked up a soda can, pulled the tab off, and handed it to him.

He gulped down some of his drink and nodded frantically. You continued massaging his back. “Are you okay?” you asked, rubbing his large back.

His face had gone red. “Poor baby,” you laughed.

You slid your hand up and cupped his nape. His eyes widened as you moved closer, knees digging into the cushion. “Clark,” you murmured, “are we just going to watch a movie?”

He swallowed, shaking his head.

“Good,” you said, and inched your face closer.

He closed the distance and pressed a chaste kiss on your lips. Once. Twice. Thrice. His hand slipped into your hair, and he opened his mouth more. You relaxed your jaw to let his tongue prod your own. He tasted sweet, like the soda he had just drunk.

The kiss grew messier; his saliva mixed with yours. He pulled your arm and moved you so that you were straddling him. You gasped as his tongue swept over the roof of your mouth. He pulled away from you and mumbled, “Gosh, you smell so good.”

His lips trailed down to your neck, and you squirmed in his lap, attempting to get as close to him as you possibly could. He peppered kisses down to the hollow of your throat and then back up to your jaw on the other side. Your head was spinning. His scent and touches invaded your senses. Clark guided your hands to his hair, and you clenched the strands as your mouths met again. His own arm wrapped around your waist, and he slipped his fingers under the hem of your shirt.

His touch burned. You jolted at the sensation. He tore his mouth away from you again. “What’s wrong?” he asked, eyes searching your face for any signs of discomfort.

You shook your head and grabbed his face. You kissed him, and your hips rolled down on their own accord. You were sure you were soaking his pyjama bottoms through your shifts. His body felt so strong underneath you; it was the best feeling in the world. You didn’t know where you ended and he began.

Clark groaned and seized you by the shoulders to move you back. “Wait! Wait!” he heaved. “I can’t do this!”

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.

.

Your head tilted to the side, puzzled. “What?”

“I can’t have sex with you,” he blurted out, lashes fluttering.

You looked down at the bump pressing up through your shorts. “You don’t have the apparatus?”

“Of course I do!” he exclaimed, mortified at your question. “I’m literally hard right now!”

You pouted. “You don’t want to sleep with me then?”

“No,” he croaked, face scrunching. “Of course I want to.”

He curled your hair behind your ear with a finger and held your face. “I have been thinking about it for months.”

You kept your hand down. “You can have sex with me, you want to have sex with me, but you’re not going to? I’m confused.”

You heard him exhale. “I’m not like other men,” he began. “My . . . physiology . . . is different.”

You looked up at him. He licked his lips, looking visibly distraught.

“Different how?” you asked, intrigued.

You knew he was an alien, but the thought that there may be issues between alien-human copulation hadn’t crossed your mind. He let go of you to run a hand over his face. “I’m too big,” he mumbled through his fingers.

Oh. Oh.

A smile crept up to your face. “That’s hardly an issue for me,” you stated, pulling his hand away.

“You don’t understand,” he said, jaw clenching. “It’s not that simple. I have never been able to fit inside anyone before. The human body has its limits, and it’s l-like I’m not compatible with it. I don't want to m-mess this up or hurt you in the process. For heaven’s sake, they don’t even make condoms my size!”

You didn’t know what to say. You had a feeling that he had been hurt in the past. Kind words simply wouldn’t be enough to reassure him.

You sighed. “Let me try anyway, Clark.”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“Let me try,” you repeated, pushing off him.

You kneeled between his legs and looked up at him. “Let me try, baby. I wanna’ make you feel good.”

His chest rose and fell quickly as he stared down at you. Your hands reached for his crotch to rub him through his pyjama pants. “Please?”

He gulped, letting out a shaky breath, and then gave you a small nod. You smiled and hooked your fingers behind the elastic. Clark lifted himself up off the cushion to let you shimmy the fabric lower. You noticed that he wasn’t wearing underwear when his cock slipped out and slapped against his stomach.

You kept your expression neutral. “See?” he asked, shutting his eyes.

Big was an understatement; he was huge. His penis reminded you of those monster cocks you had seen in hentai novels back in college. It was thick at the base, too broad to fully wrap a hand around. His bulbous head was thinner in comparison, the perfect shade of red. Two heavy balls accompanied his cock and completed the picture beautifully. Your mouth watered.

Yeah, I’ll make it work.

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.

.

You wrapped a hand around his cock, and he hissed in response.

You stuck your tongue out and ran it to the tip from where the base met his balls. You started off by placing open-mouthed kisses along his length to test the waters. His stomach clenched in response. “You taste good, baby,” you whispered, between licks.

You glanced up to see Clark’s blue eye watching you through the gaps in his fingers. His breath hitched every time your mouth made contact with his dick. You geared yourself for your first attempt and relaxed your jaw to slip his head inside. You felt him let out a deep groan.

You worked your mouth over him, slowly, to not overwhelm him or yourself. If he saw you struggle, you were afraid he was going to get embarrassed. His heaviness made you salivate. You hollowed cheeks out, wrapped both hands around the parts of his shaft you couldn’t reach just yet, and bobbed your head down. He hit the back of your throat, and your toes clenched around the carpet hair. You had reached your limit, and he was only a quarter in.

His hand moved to your hair as you sucked away. You didn’t think you could ever enjoy pleasuring someone else this much. Maybe everything did feel better when you did it with someone you loved. The thought made you smile around his cock.

Clark’s fingers cupped the back of your neck, and you felt him inch forward slightly. You glanced up to see him chewing his lip, trying to hold back the sounds from escaping his lips. You ran your hand from his knee up to his thighs, soothing him.

It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.

He cupped your face and drove his shaft further down your throat. You dug your nails into the meat of his thighs as he rocked into your throats with shallow thrusts. If you reached up to your neck right now, you’d feel him moving through your skin.

“Gosh,” he groaned, tugging his dick out.

He yanked you up and crashed his lips over yours. He licked into your mouth, tasting your saliva intertwined with his pre cum. He spun you around and sat you down over his abs. “I think I love you,” he exhaled. “I-I love you.”

You turned your head to the side and kissed him over your shoulder. His lips were soft and plump; you wanted to feel them forever. He groaned and slipped his fingers in the waistband of your shorts and pulled them down along with your underwear in one go. “Spread your legs for me, baby,” he whispered in your ear. “I may have been too big to fit in anyone, but I have had a lot of practice with my fingers.”

You did as he asked, moving one limb over his thigh and the other over the armrest. His thick fingers glide down the exposed skin of your stomach, where your shirt had hiked up, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He trailed his hand down the hair on your mound, over your clit, and in between your lips. He spread them apart, exposing your cunt to the cold air in the room.

A shiver ran down your spine as he dipped his fingers into your cunt and collected the wetness on his fingertips. His free hand wrapped around your knee, holding you in place. “Gosh,” he groaned in your hair, “sucking me off was that fun? You are so wet.”

You nodded, shaking in his arms. “A-all for you.”

He pressed a soft kiss on your earlobe. He glided his fingers over your labia and back up to your clit. His fingertips began circling it as he spoke, “You know I had five piano teachers quit on me back in Smallville?”

You tipped your head back, biting down on your lips. You clenched your hands into fists, unsure what to grab onto as you withered under his touch. “They said there was no point in teaching me,” he continued, absentmindedly. “I was too shit at it . . . ’cause my fingers were too big for the keys. They were good at other things, though. Would you like to check for yourself?”

“Fuck!” you exclaimed, toes curling in anticipation. “Yes! Yes!”

You felt his lips curve into a smile in your hair. Clark moved his middle finger down to your hole and inched it inside. You arched off him at the sensation, and he wrapped a hand around your waist to pull you back to his chest.

He pushed through the initial resistance in your cunt and slid down to his knuckle. “There you go,” he cooed. “You’re so soft inside.”

He pumped his finger inside you, and your eyes rolled back. A sob tore out of your throat. “Don’t cry, baby,” he exhaled. “I’m trying to make you feel good. Doesn’t this feel good?”

You had woken up something within him. You didn’t expect him to be so vocal to begin with, and now he wouldn’t stop asking you questions that made you clench around his finger. “F-feels good,” you spoke through clenched teeth. “You feel so good.”

“You can hold on to me,” he said, gently. “You can make all the noise you want.”

You unclenched his fists and placed them over the arm that held you in place. Your nails dug into his hand every time he pumped his finger out of you.

“One more?” he asked.

You could only nod frantically in response. His index finger prodded your hole and slowly swivelled inside. “B-big stretch,” Clark panted in your nape. “Good girl. You’re taking my fingers so well.”

Your body shook as he curled his fingers in deeper. They moved within your gummy walls and found the spongy bit that made you seize above him. You let out a loud moan and hoped the hotel room was soundproof.

He rubbed against the spot, and electricity ran up your spine. You were close. He felt it too. “Come for me, baby,” he instructed, kissing your throat. “Please.”

His fingers moved in and out of your cunt faster. His thumb found your clit again and he began toying with it in a pattern that followed his own will. Both your breaths picked up in tandem.

Your pleasure reached a crescendo and burst like a balloon over an open flame. You shook wildly in his arms, as your orgasm tore up through you. Exctasy rolled through you in waves, making your limbs tight in one moment and then relaxed in the next.

Your head felt light. You felt your soul levitate out of your body and upwards to the ceiling. You looked back down to see your own eyes, glassy, staring in the distance as Clark shook you by the shoulders. His mouth moved as he spoke, eyebrows furrowing, but you weren’t listening.

You stretched your arm out to float back down; it was like moving through molasses. You let out a gasp as you came back to earth. Clark was calling out your name in distress. It took all your effort for you to turn around in his embrace. You silenced him with a kiss. “I fucking love you, too,” you sobbed against his mouth.

His hands slid up and down your back; his touch grounded you. “I’m never letting you go,” he croaked through deep breaths. “I’m going to keep you safe forever. You’re my girl.”

“I know, big blue. I know.”

The movie played in the background, long forgotten. You both held each other close, basking in the warmth of the moment you had just shared. Figuring out coworker was Superman proved to be a great discovery after all.

[honey-on-your-tongue]

Simon Riley eating you out (nsfw)

His mouth slanted all over your pussy, tongue sliding down between your folds to your entrance before traveling back up to your clit.

He tastes you, drinks your slick patiently, forcing himself to not bite you. He loves the way you smell, loves the way your wetness gets all over his mouth, his chin, his nose.

He looks up at you, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide from lust as he watches the way you moan, the way you quiver. Your chest heaving with each breath, hips bucking against his mouth in search for more, more, more.

And he gives it to you.

He slides a finger into your cunt as his mouth focuses on your clit. He adds a second finger, curls them up, and your legs start shaking.

“Si, please—” you gasp in a broken moan, shaking.

He hums in response, a sound of acknowledgement, and runs his teeth over your clit.

It sends you over the edge, makes you shake and gasp and cry out his name as your hands move to grab onto his hair and hold his mouth to you while you ride out your orgasm.

He laps up your slick eagerly, moaning at the taste, cock rock-hard. And then you come down, slowly, boneless and spent. And Simon kisses his way up your body, kissing your mouth, making you taste yourself as he sinks his cock into your heat to get more of you.

---

Taglist

@booboobear-12 @lilychristine01 @smzyyx @mxsatorisimp @akkahelenaa @crypticlxrsh @m-0-ssy-m-3-ss @actualpoppy @dawnnightshade666 @dethspllz @massivecandycrusade @mentally-unstable-hottie13 @shushyoudontknowme @readinggeeklmao @despairingrat @h0lydrag0ns @poseidonsbichild @sillylittlereader @vanillarosekiss @jangles-the-clown @lem-hhn @doubledizzy22 @http-bell @readingthingy @velvetdimond @thegaywitchofwhimsy @weaniebeaniebaby @havoc973 @lucienofthelakes @keiminds @8pmismybedtime @i-wanabe-yours @happysmappy @jp600fox @moonbluff @hobiebrownenthusiast @dragons-flare @canyonmooncreations @foxintheferns @dreamland08 @fertilise-me @dravenskye @hobiebrownenthusiast @liidiaaag @viviansvault3 @alwayzmsbehavn @nicolebarnes @tysukier @icouldntthinkofanythingclever  @cd-mr 

*if you wanna be added to my Ghost taglist, lmk 💛

---

Ghost masterlist

[tobeholyistobeempty-deactivated]

you’re drunk - simon ghost riley

part two. find part one here.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

sober you is a lot less bold, but simon is a man of his word. 18+. insane amount of dirty talk, reader afab, PIV. smut smut smut smut. size kink.

——————-

the headache you wake with is devastating.

biblically so.

and not in the sunday service, water‑into‑wine sort of way. this is old‑testament vengeance. locusts and brimstone and a hammer slamming the earth between your temples. divine retribution for every godless thing you said, every blurred line you crossed - like some higher power watched you drink yourself stupid last night and said let there be suffering.

and fuck, suffering you are.

you’re barely coherent, hardly sentient, when you squint into the cold morning light and find the realization of what happened last night dawning in on you in fragments. out of order, scrambled like eggs - simon’s arm around your waist. you calling him big. military‑issued. ruin‑her‑life‑in‑a‑single‑night kind of hands. been into you for ages. god yes. please. y’don’t know what you’re askin for, sweet’eart. the way he said you’re makin me hard like it physically pained him.

practically moaning into his motherfucking palm.

wait - practically? no. you did.

you spend majority of the morning with your head buried under blankets and pillows mourning the death of your past self because you know your soul must be charred. burnt like the edges of hell where your feet are now firmly planted.

“you, wakin up with my dog tags round your neck and nothin else.”

fuck sakes.

you’ve known hangovers, you’ve known embarrassment, but this - this is some divine hybrid of the two. a cocktail of humiliation and mortification laced with whatever residual high you’re still riding from him saying come say it t’me sober like a goddamn dare.

and of course it only gets worse when you finally make it to your feet - teeth brushed twice after two whole water bottles and a shower hot enough to burn the devil out of hell - and notice something silver glinting on the table by your door that most definitely wasn’t there yesterday morning.

“oh…god.” your heart flips up into your throat.

his dog tags.

you’ve known simon long enough to know what this is. he didn’t forget them. he didn’t misplace them. he left them there to tell you he heard every fuckin word you said and he’s not letting you off the hook for it. it’s a test. if you meant it - which you did - you’ll bring them to him. you’ll say it to him sober like he asked.

a man of morals. who knew war criminals had it in them.

you spend what has to be a full ten minutes just staring at them - like maybe you’re still drunk, maybe you’re seeing things and they’ll vanish if you focus hard enough. maybe you can unsay every devastatingly honest thing you said with sheer mental fortitude alone and they’ll magically fly back to him on their own.

spoiler alert: they don’t move. because of course they don’t. and it takes another ten before you finally stuff them into your pocket.

it’s probably best to just rip the bandaid off. bring them to him before you have to face him infront of the others in mess or briefing - damage control before the rest of the world finds out about the stunt you pulled. you don’t even know what you’re going to say - sorry? thanks? let’s just pretend i never told you i fantasize about fucking you when i can’t sleep?

fuck. it doesn’t matter. you know you owe him the return. a peace offering, a penance, a silent white-flag kind of knock on his door.

and so you walk the hall like it’s the green mile. you’ve never done a walk of shame but you imagine this has got to be as close as it comes. his door is shut when you reach it, and you stand in front of it like a coward for another unnecessary amount of time - complexion almost ill. ghostly. like you could float right through the fuckin wood if the wind blew hard enough.

finally, you knock.

it’s a moment, and then he answers, filling his doorframe with those thick shoulders stretching a tight black t-shirt, looking right as rain besides damp hair and bloodshot eyes.

you wonder, fleetingly, if he even slept. but then his gaze drops over the length of you and you busy yourself with fighting the urge to run for your fucking life.

you clear your throat. “can i..uh. can we talk?”

he nods and pops the door open, gesturing for you to come in. you take a few steps into his room - dark, organized, rather sparse - and nearly jump out of your flesh when the door shuts behind you. the click of a cell door closing, announcing your sealed fate.

you spin to face him once his boots have stopped dragging across the tiles, and find him leaning back against his desk - ankles and arms crossed.

you swallow, and pull the tags from your pocket. “i um. i think you forgot these.”

his brow twitches, barely, as he takes a glance at your hand. a flash of something behind his eyes you can’t name.

“did i?” he doesn’t move.

you shift your weight. the mortification could eat you alive. you’re certain it currently is.

“figured i’d bring them back.” you add, quieter now, trying your fucking hardest to sound normal. like you didn’t just spend the night saying all kinds of unholy things into the palm of his hand. “incase…uh, you were looking for them.”

he still doesn’t take them.

“strange,” his lips tilt. the first sign he’s shown that he's enjoying this. “coulda sworn i left em’ somewhere on purpose.”

your stomach flips. you try to laugh but it’s brittle. “right. sure.”

he shrugs. “not the kinda thing i usually misplace.”

you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you think it might bleed, unsure how to respond to that. it’s hard to even breathe with the way he’s watching you - like he’s taking notes - reading everything you’re not saying in the line of your mouth, in the way your fingers tremble around the chain of his tags.

“shaky this mornin, yeah?” he says, just casually knocking the rest of the wind out of your chest.

“i-“

you falter, because what the fuck are you even supposed to say? no, i’m fine. i’m totally good, actually. i definitely didn’t spend all morning curled fetal, praying to gods who’ve certainly damned me for a head injury so i can forget the mental car crash that was last nights events.

simon waits, eyes blazing like you’re a twitchy little experiment. trying to see which wire makes you spark the hardest.

you clear your throat. try again. “m’just tired.”

“mm.” he hums with a lazy nod. “musta been all that talkin you were doin.”

and there it is. here it comes.

“can’t really remember, but i’m sure it’s part of it.” you lie with a forced laugh. lie so awkwardly it hurts. “tequila. you know how it is.”

“do i ever.” he replies, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

silence stretches thick, after that. it’s so thick it makes the walls feel closer, the floor feel further away. you avert your gaze, and realize almost immediately how big of a mistake that is because the motion pulls your eyes across his forearm - his bare, inked forearm, tendons flexing with the movement he’s making.

you remember that arm last night, wrapped tight around your waist. pulling you close before you moaned god yes and please beneath the big hand attached to it like fucking gospel.

when you flinch, he smirks. not even pretending like he didn’t notice. “y’remember nothin from last night, then?”

your eyes snap up to his. you hate yourself for the fact that all of last nights confidence seems to be no where in fucking sight.

“well, uh, it’s fuzzy but…i remember bits.”

“bits.” he echos. nodding. “yeah. must be a shame.”

oh god.

“shame?”

“shame t’forget all that detail.” he lets the words sink in, watching your face as he leans a hand on the desk behind him. “pretty interestin things. real deep. could write a bloody novel, the way y’were goin on.”

“oh.” you choke, again, and mentally slap yourself. get it together. “well. thats-“

he hums again. “suppose i could walk y’through it.”

“walk me-“

earth tilts. he doesn’t let you finish. “y’know. help piece it together. fill in the gaps.”

“you don’t-you don’t have to-“

he lifts a hand to gesture vaguely toward his bed. your pulse races to the moon.

“your room, y’were right there. lookin at me like i was gonna eat y’alive.” his voice lowers. you swallow and it tastes like sin. his finger shifts to the space before his bed. pointing at the edge. “and i was right there, tryin’ like hell t’be a fuckin gentleman.”

you could laugh, maybe cry, or just absolutely combust right there on the floor because it all floods back in an instant. the way you moaned his name when he knelt over you to undo your boots. the way your thighs tensed as you told him you think about him. the way you stared at him while your brain short circuited and your mouth betrayed every secret you thought you’d die with.

part of you did die, you suppose. the part with your dignity. right there on the floor of your room, next to your boots he took off.

“look, simon-“

he steps closer now. just a step. “y’said you’d been into me for ages.”

you blink, holding your breath.

“said y’think bout me when y’cant sleep.” his voice is a rasp now, the muscle in his jaw ticks. “i asked y’a question, then. d’you remember it?”

fucking hell.

“yes.” you exhale.

“what was it.”

your heart is a jackhammer, breaking through your sternum.

“you-you asked if i think about you when…” you hesitate, and he cocks an eyebrow. “…when i touch myself.”

“yeah.” he says lowly. a breath, not a word. “tha’s right.”

your skin is burning and your limbs feel foreign, at this point. you feel nerve endings pulsing in place you didn’t know you even had nerves.

“d’you remember your answer?” he continues, taking another step toward you.

and it’s then that the anxiety takes over - you blink twice and bite down until you taste blood, shaking your head no. not because you’ve forgotten - fucking hell you remember everything - but because saying it out loud feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.

he doesn’t buy it.

“mm, sure y’do.” he calls your bluff, says it so soft it’s almost a coo. “y’know i know your tells - two blinks while bitin the inside of your cheek.” his eyes gleam as his lips twitch. “y’can’t lie t’me, princess.”

christ, you can’t help but laugh at that. it’s exactly the reason why you’ve been into him - he’s perceptive and cunning and cocky all at once.

this is the man you’ve thought about fucking for months.

“yes.” you whisper in admittance. “i said yes.”

“god yes.” he corrects with another step until he’s so close you have to kink your neck back to meet his eyes. his shoulders swallow the edges of your vision until all you see is him. “…still true?”

you nod. a broken thing. “yes.”

“yeah?” his head tilts, the heat of him sweltering. “y’think bout me when y’put hands on yourself?”

“simon-“

he hushes you with a shake of his head, eyes dipping to your lips. “tell me.”

it’s then that you realize dragging this on is for nothing. whatever drunken confession you made last night clearly cracked open whatever restraint simon’s been exercising for months.

clearly whatever you feel, he’s feeling it too.

“yes.” you confess, as firm as you possibly can. nothing coy in it now. “yes, i think about you when im alone. when i touch myself…doesn’t even feel right unless im picturing you. your hands. touching me.”

it all comes out of you in a rushed whisper, desperate and dripping sweet from your lips like it’s been saturating behind your teeth for too long. when he doesn’t respond right away, you realize you’ve stunned him, and pull on whatever courage you have left to press forward.

“i’ve wanted you for so long ive stopped tryin to figure out when it started.” you murmur, lost in his eyes. “and you?”

his breath catches. just the faintest hitch, like he wasn’t prepared for the edge of your honesty to turn and face him instead. it’s delectable, the slight composure tilt, but it doesn’t last long. because slowly - slowly, his mouth curls into something wrecked. something that says fuckin hell, it’s on.

his knuckles come up to graze your jaw, he lowers his head until his lips find your ear—

“y’askin if i think bout you when i’ve got my fist wrapped round my cock?” you inhale sharply, then choke on it when his mouth brushes your lobe. “course i fuckin do.”

your hands lift timidly to find his shirt, curling into it, dog tags still clinking between your fingers.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

your lashes flutter. his free hand slips around your waist. “fuck, simon-“

“i know, sweet’eart.” he murmurs it, almost gentle, like it’s something you share. “tha’s what y’need, ain’t it? f’me to admit you’re not the only one losin mind here.”

you nod, partly frantic and partly delirious, and he exhales something strained - something from somewhere deep, catching on the parts of him dying to stay patient.

“good.” his hand slides up the back of your shirt, while the other finds the one of yours still holding his tags. “y’really come here just to return these, then?”

“no.” it chokes out of you instantly, mouth tilting toward his. “you wanted me to say it to you sober. made a promise bout what you’d do if i did?”

something feral flashes over his face, at that. translated through the grip he tightens on your waist, the exhale he washes over your jaw.

“yeah.” he says, tight. “i did.”

his mouth is barely a breath from yours.

“well here i am. sober.” you whisper. “wanting you more than i did while drunk.”

he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. not a groan, not a moan, something deep and feral punched straight out of his chest.

“fuckin hell.”

and then he’s kissing you.

no more waiting, no more games. simon’s a man of his word and it shows in the way his mouth crashes into yours - hungry and bruising and impatient - teeth knocking, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt and tearing it off you while the other pulls you in. he spins you both so your ass hits the edge of his desk, and then breaks away - trailing spit slick lips down your jaw and throat, thick fingers working to tease the band of your sweats.

“tell me where y’want me, sweet’eart.” he growls into your pulse.

you blink, dazed. “i-what?”

his teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, before his mouth drags back up beside your ear - ruinous in the inflection.

“tell me how you’ve imagined it,” his finger tips slide under your waistband, just teasing. “what you’ve pictured when you’re thinkin’ of me like this. right ‘ere.”

“oh god, simon.” you moan by his words alone, too wound to be embarrassed, fingers cinched tight in the fabric of his shirt. “your-your fingers. your mouth. your cock-“

that sound again. deep and devastated. restraint being ripped out by the roots.

“fuck. filthy thing f’me, aren’t you?” he says, as two fingers slide lower, slipping under heat soaked fabric and finding your slit, pressing in no further than they need to before circling back up - spreading the mess you’ve made just to feel it. “you’re fuckin soaked.”

you whimper as he teases your clit. his mouth finds your throat again, teeth grazing where your pulse stutters wild beneath flushed skin. you don’t trust your legs to hold you upright under the weight of it all - his touch, his voice, the feral gleam in his eye when he looks at you like you’re some prophecy being fulfilled.

“s’this what i do t’you?” he murmurs. “just from talkin t’you like this?”

you nod, a frantic little thing. “yes-god, yes.”

he exhales hard like it's kicked out of him, tugging your sweats down until they slide off your ankles before he lifts you back onto his desk and parts your thighs with hands so big they nearly span the entire width of them.

you fucking moan at the sight.

and of course it only fuels him - braces you back on your elbows, spine arched, breath caught in your throat as he steps in close between your legs. his eyes drag down to where you glisten in the dim light - slick, flushed, waiting - and he lets out a curse before returning his fingers to your aching cunt.

he presses in one digit slow, then adds another. knuckle deep until your eyes roll, hips jerking at the stretch.

“oh, fuck-“

he hisses through his teeth. “tight little cunt. fuckin meltin f’me.”

his thumb catches your clit in the same motion - rubbing soft circles, pushing you closer, dragging you toward the edge with every brutal curl of his fingers inside you.

“that feel good?” he growls against your jaw. “touched y’self in bed thinkin bout me between your thighs like this?”

you’re panting now. shaking.

“i-“ you gasp. “yes, simon-yes-“

“yeah?” his thumb speeds up, his fingers pump deeper, your head spins. “and did y’cum like this? like you’re about to f’me now?”

you don’t answer fast enough. he bites at your jaw.

“tell me.”

“no-n-never like this—”

he growls something vile under his breath. “poor thing. s’okay. i’ve got you.”

your walls flutter around him, your thighs shaking where they frame his hips, and he feels it - feels the beginning of the end stutter through you.

“simon-“ you whinge.

he cuts you off. “look at me.”

you do. barely.

“tha’s it,” he breathes. “cum on my fuckin fingers. show me what i’ve been missin.”

you’re starved for it, beyond saving, and its only a couple more deep pumps before you break.

it floods through you - white hot and searing. you cry out his name as you clamp around his digits, trembling apart on his desk while he watches you like you’re art - jaw clenched, pupils blown - his fingers still moving, dragging you through it until you’re sobbing into his shoulder.

“there we go.” when it passes and you’re limp, blinking up at him stunned - he withdraws slowly. “attagirl. s’fuckin good.”

you swallow, watching wide eyed as he brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

“been dreamin bout that taste, knew it’d be sweet.” he purrs as he leans down, wiping his spit slick digits over your cheek. “gonna need it proper soon.”

you don’t even have time to question or respond to that, because then he’s unbuckling his belt.

when you finally look back up, his eyes are wild.

“s’this what y’want?” he murmurs, tugging leather through loops before undoing the button at his waist. “when you came t’me this mornin, all flushed and pretendin t’be innocent. was this it? wantin’ me to bend y’over and take what y’fuckin offered?”

you choke as he tugs himself free - thick, leaking at the tip and throbbing - bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, nevermind taken.

the nod that follows is compulsive desperation. “holy fuck-yes-“

he smacks light at your thigh. “stand up. bend over f’me.”

you do as you’re told without hesitation - legs shaking as you stand spin and lean forward over the desk - breath still stuttering in your chest, heart going a mile a minute. your hands barely meet wood before he’s on you - no preamble. no breath between. grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like his hands were molded to hold you like this, and yanks you back against him with a roughness that steals whatever’s left in your lungs.

you shudder when he slides his cock against your slit once - twice - dragging the head through slick and stalls notched just shy of your entrance, breathing hard like it’s killing him to wait.

“y’remember what else y’said last night?”

you barely manage a nod. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he exhales something like a laugh.

“not compliments. not the fantasies. not the whining.” he drags through your mess again, slower this time. deliberate. “you said—“ his hips press forward just enough to make you gasp. “—you wondered if it’d hurt.”

you whine, embarrassed, but god it shoots straight through you. he bends low now, chest flush to your back, mouth to your ear.

“truth is, it might.” his lips curl into a smile. “so don’t fuckin run now.”

and then - only then - he pushes in. you gasp so hard your chest deflates on impact, thick head stretching sopping walls wide and dragging deeper than you’ve ever imagined - too much and not enough all at once.

“ohfuck-simon-“ your head drops toward the desk, eyes stinging.

“mm. tha’s it.” he groans, loud, burying himself halfway before pausing there. “tightest fuckin—bloody hell.”

he presses forward a little more - just enough to make your knees shake as he steadies you with one hand at your hip and grits his teeth. he pulls out just to feel you clench, then shoves back in - hard enough to jolt the desk and feed you all of him before you can even brace for it.

“ffffuck-ohfuck-“ you wail, knuckles bloodless where they clutch the desk. “you-you’re-“

“deep.” he bends over you, grabs a fistful of your hair, and drags your head back to his mouth, voice hot on your skin. “i fuckin know.”

he thrusts once. hard. then again. slower. deeper.

“jesus christ,” he undoes your bra with his free hand, paws at your tits until it hurts. “walked around this whole time with this cunt made f’me and didn’t say a fuckin word.”

“fuck simon-“

“yeah.” he grits against your ear. “tha’s how you moaned it last night. just like that.”

it’s punishing, the pace he sets. each snap of his hips smacking against your ass drags stars down into your retinas - body rocking and cervix kissed with each thrust - his grip is bruising and his mouth works at your neck, forcing noises out of you loud enough to rattle the fucking walls.

it doesn’t take long before your chest collapses onto slick wood, drool coated cheek pressed to the desk - vision bleeding white around the edges. he’s relentless - driven, brutal in rhythm, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your voice out of his head, the memory of your thighs pressed together last night when he walked away instead of dropping to his knees and giving in.

he groans, open-mouthed, flushed everywhere. he’s not just fucking you. he’s wrecking you. dragging you across the edge by the throat and holding your broken pieces together with his own.

“mmf-fuck.” he snarls, burying his fist back in your hair. his palm cracks hard across your ass before snaking around your thigh to find your clit. devastating. “this. this is what i thought of for months. you. fuckin boneless f’me.”

he pulls out slow with a shuttering exhale, just enough for you to whine before he roars back in - hard and fast, fingers never slowing.

you shriek, squirming with no where to go.

“y’got no fuckin clue what y’did to me last night.” he’s panting, fingernails burning your scalp. “sat there slurrin filth. darin me t’do somethin bout it. tested every fuckin moral i’ve got.”

your second orgasm is a charging tide - and god, you know he feels it. you know by the way he rolls his fingers faster to chase it, moans in your ear when your walls flutter around him, fucks you deeper and slower just to drag you over by your hair.

“cum f’me. give me another.” he grits. “let me fuckin feel it sweet’eart.”

“ff-fuck simon! yes-yes-“

you sob, and then it hits you - violent and wet and cataclysmic - like every single one of your fantasies brought to life, like every pathetic orgasm you gave yourself to the thought of him and his fuckin hands all combined to create this. it’s stratospheric depths of bliss, all the colours of the rainbow erupting behind your eyes as he fucks you through it, not stalling his fingers until you’re sobbing.

“mhm. messy little thing.”

he growls with it before pulling out just enough to slap his cock against your soaked cunt, watching the slick stretch, the way you whine and arch out of pure fuckin instinct.

“look at this pretty cunt,” he rasps, teasing his tip over your clit. “drippin. tremblin. fuckin cryin f’me.”

you try to say something, try to catch a breath, but that all falls void as he thrusts back in without warning - one brutal, complete thrust, pushing everything out of you. screams, his name, your fucking soul. he groans as his hand finds your jaw, forcing your head to turn just enough so he can see your face. cheeks flushed, tears caught in your lashes.

“shh. don’t run—don’t fuckin run,” he growls against your mouth, arm cinched tight across your waist when your hips jerk away like it’s too much. “y’asked for this. said it t’me sober.”

“si-simon. please.” it’s breathless, ruined, wrecked beyond meaning, your mouth falling open on another sob when his hips grind deeper, when the head of him kisses a spot that has your knees giving out entirely. “fuck. s’good. s’m-much-“

“yeah?” he snarls. “s’good, huh?”

you nod something pathetic, lost for words. broken around him.

“want y’to think bout this when you’re alone.” his free hand drags down to your stomach, rests just high on your pelvis, feeling where he’s drilling. “how deep m’buried in this tight little cunt. how good my name feels in your fuckin throat.”

another nod. another hiccuped moan dragged out of you. “y-yes-yes i’ll think about it-mmff-“

“mhm,” he kisses you once. fleeting and viscous and hot. “good. s’good.”

a few more ragged thrusts and a sound gets torn from him, pulled from somewhere deep, feral and hoarse and ragged. his hips punch forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then—

“fuck—fuck.”

he lets go.

he groans, voice breaking at the edges, forehead falling to the space between your shoulder blades. he pulses deep inside you, all of his pent up heat flooding you full until he’s spent, until he’s got nothing left to give and collapses against your back in one shuddering, boneless exhale.

and when it’s over, it’s just breathing - a long quiet moment full of everything neither of you know how to say before you register that he’s moving - leaning over you to grab at where his dog tags were discarded on the desk.

he slips them around your neck, and then pulls out.

“man of m’word, sweet’eart.” he whispers against your jaw. “this isn’t over.”

———————————-

taglist: @ilovesoapandnotthebar @ricabobbie @venus111sworld @nanamisboobies @delusionsofgrandeur13 @x3rox @genericpenname @lovemymustache @sweetybuzz25 @asiavvv @jazz-cat-on-a-broom @violetisheresworld @depornable @sugarandserum @emilyyyyyys-stuff @julesneedshelp @rene-with-an-e @caramelsundaysstuff @adeptua @beautifuleaglealpaca@chronicallyicky @s-void @trulovekay @mary-magdaline @moongir99 @goldiesoaked @backtotheintro @ribbitribbitquack @matumogs @xjustxlookingx @prettgirlwhoreadsatnite @angielove07 @olives10 @zzzz20d @greylykaylee @suikasweetheart @deliciouslydisturbed365 @british-ppl-scare-me @bless-my-demons @tofunoodlesoup @rafaelcallinybbay @blahox @dethspllz @casual-darkness @lem-hhn @astridminsstuffie21 @xdcgfvh @viviansvault3 @mygsbin @booboobear-12 @pink-hufflepuff @just-lilita @succulambb

[mynowherenothing]

Sympathising with my mother but at the same time

[quarterlifekitty]

Soap about to go nuclear because he’s seeing you pull all of the stereotypical cutesy ploys to get intimate with ghost and none of them are landing

Holding your hand up to his and acting in awe of how much bigger it is than yours

In cold safe houses telling him you should just sleep in the same bedroll to keep warmer

Asking him if he wants to fucking share chapstick with your lips all pursed and shiny

Soap pulling ghost aside with a death grip on his shoulders saying “c’mon man yer focking killing me. Please just fuck her”

And ghost being like “idk what you’re talking about she doesn’t like me like that”

And soap being 2 minutes away from just grabbing your heads and making you kiss like dolls

[sunshineclassics]

DISCORD USER KÖNIG Part 2 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝑜𝒻 𝒹𝓊𝓉𝓎

(König x Reader — Discord Friends, Slow Burn, Soft, Eventual Smut)

Taglist:

@poltergeist404 @laduenadelswing @dillybuggg @illonvk(i can’t tag you??😭) @whore4romance

4 Days Earlier – Discord, 1:13 AM

You:

“König? You alive?”

“You didn’t rage-quit life, right?”

“Don’t make me send memes. I’m armed.”

Silence.

No online status. No “typing…” No pings.

You sat there staring at his name in the server list—dark grey. Offline. Like a light had been switched off.

He’d gone dark before. Missions, spotty signal, sleep. But never this long. Four days with no update, not even a vague emoji or one of his weird, dry messages.

Your chest had that familiar ache. The one that crept in when you worried too much about someone who hadn’t promised you anything. He wasn’t yours.

But God, you missed him.

⸻

Tonight – 11:37 PM | Ping

König is online.

Your hand shot out like it moved on instinct. Mouse click. Open chat.

König has joined the VC.

No message. No warning.

Just his name lighting up the voice channel.

You scrambled for your headset, heart thudding.

You:

“König?!”

A pause. Crackle. Mic fuzz.

Then—his voice.

König (quiet, hoarse):

“…Hallo.”

One word.

But it hit you in the chest like a punch. Low, deep, exhausted. And something else. Like all the energy had been drained from him, leaving only that voice and the breath it rode in on.

You (softly):

“Where have you been?”

Silence.

You heard a sigh. Long, tired.

König:

“Mission. Remote. No contact. Sorry.”

He never said sorry.

Not unless he meant it.

You:

“Could’ve left a dramatic goodbye. A ‘if I die, delete my search history’ kind of thing.”

A dry chuckle through the mic.

But it didn’t reach his voice fully.

König:

“I didn’t want to leave.”

Something in you froze.

It wasn’t a flirt. Not a tease.

Just honesty.

You (quiet):

“You okay?”

A longer pause.

König:

“…No.”

Your breath caught.

There were layers to that word. Fatigue. Pain. Guilt. You waited, giving him space to speak. He always came to things on his own time.

König (muffled, low):

“Two men. Squadmates. Dead.”

You:

“König…”

You didn’t know what else to say. What could you? “I’m sorry” felt cheap. And he’d already heard that enough.

He exhaled hard, like he was trying to push something out that wouldn’t move.

König:

“I hesitated. I… was too slow.”

You:

“That’s not your fault.”

König (strained):

“It is. I froze. I’ve done this job for ten years. That doesn’t happen.”

You could hear the anger in him now—not at you. At himself. His voice trembled, a low, hot undercurrent of shame.

König:

“I was thinking of you.”

Your breath hitched.

You (carefully):

“Me?”

König:

“I was pinned. Behind a crate. Shot ringing past my head. And all I could think was—”

He cut himself off.

Static filled the silence.

Then:

König (quietly):

“All I could think was, if I die now… I’ll never hear you laugh in person.”

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t.

Your throat was tight. Fingers frozen over your keyboard.

König (softer):

“I’ll never get to… see you. Not through a screen. Not in pieces. You’d never even know.”

You swallowed hard.

You:

“I’d know.”

A pause. Heavy.

You (softer):

“I would’ve noticed. I would’ve waited. And waited. And known something was wrong.”

Another long silence.

König:

“I didn’t think this would happen. You. Us. This… feeling.”

He sounded raw. Stripped bare. No mask. No walls.

König (almost ashamed):

“I think about you too much.”

You closed your eyes. Your chest ached from how real it all felt.

You:

“I think about you too.”

A quiet, shaky breath from his mic.

König:

“You make me slow. Careful. Soft. I can’t afford to be soft.”

You:

“Maybe you can.”

He let that hang in the air for a while. Then:

König:

“Come to Austria.”

Your eyebrows shot up.

You:

“What?!”

König:

“Not now. Not yet. But one day.”

You (smiling faintly):

“You sure you’re ready for my chaotic energy in real life?”

König (warmly):

“I’ve fought wars. I can survive you.”

A laugh finally slipped from your lips.

König (low, softer now):

“I just… I needed to hear your voice.”

You held your mug of cold tea and let the warmth in your chest fill in the rest.

You:

“Play a match with me?”

König:

“Even if I lose on purpose to impress you?”

You:

“Especially if you do.”

⸻

VC — Late Night

Your voice was soft through the headset, almost whispering now. You’d both been gaming for hours, long after your teammates logged off, until it was just the two of you — König, still wearing his mask, slouched on his bed at base, and you, curled under a blanket in your room with only the monitor lighting your face.

He had gone quiet for a while. Just the sounds of you sipping tea and the game lobby music.

You glanced over at his username.

Still connected.

Still breathing.

“Hey,” you said softly. “You good?”

A pause. A long one.

Then, finally, König’s voice came through. Rougher than usual. Tired. Small.

“Ja… just thinking.”

You waited. Didn’t push. You’d learned to be gentle with his silences.

After a minute, he spoke again.

“Do you know how long it’s been since someone touched me?”

Your heart stuttered.

You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He filled the space instead.

“I don’t mean like… sex or whatever,” he mumbled, embarrassed. “I mean like—hug. A hand on the shoulder. Even a pat on the back. I don’t think anyone’s hugged me in… over two years.”

That hit you like a punch to the chest.

You sat up straighter. “Konig…”

“It’s fine,” he said too quickly, like he regretted saying it. “Sorry. Forget it. I don’t want to be weird.”

“No. No, hey.” Your voice softened. “That’s not weird. That’s… awful.”

“I think I forgot what it feels like,” he said quietly. “Warmth. Pressure. Another heartbeat. Everything I touch is tactical. Weapon. Trigger. Door. Steel.”

You bit your lip, feeling something sharp and tender bloom behind your ribs.

“Well,” you said, trying to keep your voice light but honest, “if we ever meet, I’m hugging you so long you’ll beg me to let go.”

Silence.

Then:

“…Really?”

“Really.”

A beat.

“I’d hold you for hours,” he said, voice raw, chest deep. “And I’d never ask you to let go.”

⸻

The Next Day – Discord Messages

König is Online.

He’s quiet today, but present. You’re in another Discord voice chat, casually chatting with a couple people you game with now and then. One of them, a guy from another server, keeps jokingly flirting with you during the match.

You laugh him off — as usual — but König’s gone dead silent.

After the match, you check your DMs.

König [Typing…]

Then he sends:

König:

That guy from the match. He does that often?

You blink.

You:

Who, Levi? He’s just messing around. He flirts with everyone, lol.

König:

Still.

Didn’t like it.

You:

Oh? You jealous, big guy?

The typing bubble appears.

Then disappears.

Then reappears.

König:

Do you want me to take care of it?

Your brows lifted.

You:

Wait—what??

König:

Not like that.

Just… let him know to back off.

You:

König… you’re being protective.

König:

Maybe I am.

Is that bad?

You felt your chest tighten. He wasn’t teasing. He meant it. You could practically see his furrowed brows through the screen, his knuckles tight where they rested near his mouse, his jaw clenched behind that mask.

You typed slower this time.

You:

No.

I like it.

But only if you’re protective of me… and not just anyone else.

A pause.

Then:

König:

Only you.

⸻

Three Weeks Without König

The Discord call had gone silent three weeks ago.

He left one last message.

König:

Mission time. I’ll be back soon, ja?

Stay safe, meine Süße.

And then nothing.

He’d told you once, offhandedly during a sleepy 2 a.m. VC, that missions could stretch long. That there were places he couldn’t bring his phone. That when he was deployed, he shut the world out to survive.

You tried to wait patiently.

You really did.

But three weeks felt like a lifetime when the one person who made you feel seen—safe—was just gone.

You found yourself staring at your phone. Re-reading old messages. That awkward selfie he sent once from the gym—his shirt clinging to his body, face cropped out, only his sweaty jawline and chest visible. You remembered teasing him for it, and how he stammered so much in the VC afterward he accidentally muted himself.

Your chest ached.

And that ache turned into something restless. Something reckless.

So, you did the only thing your heart screamed at you to do.

You booked a flight.

⸻

Austria – König’s Apartment

The city was colder than you expected. Brisk wind, gray skies, but beautiful—stone buildings with old wooden shutters and narrow streets that echoed when you wheeled your small suitcase down them.

You had the address. You’d sent him that limited-edition energy drink once, the one you both joked was probably radioactive. He never forgot it. Called you “his supplier” like it was a spy mission.

He once joked about hiding his key under the mat.

“Classic, I know,” he’d laughed over voice. “But no one ever checks, eh?”

Except you did.

And there it was.

A plain silver key under a faded old mat that read “Möge das WLAN stark sein” (“May the Wi-Fi be strong”).

You stepped inside.

His apartment was quiet. Still. Like him.

Big, but sparse. Clean. A little too clean. Just essentials.

Military-precise.

His mask hung on a hook by the door. His boots, muddy and massive, rested nearby. You walked around slowly, taking it all in — the way his couch had an indent shaped exactly like his body, the small pile of books in German and English, the little Post-It note stuck to his fridge with a scribbled reminder in his messy handwriting:

Call her when you’re back.

Your heart clenched.

You dragged your suitcase into his room.

Then curled up on his bed to wait.

⸻

Hours Later – The Front Door Opens

You heard the jingle of keys.

Then heavy boots. A grunt. A sigh.

The soft clink of his gear being dropped by the door.

Your heart pounded in your ears. You pressed your hand to your chest to steady it.

You heard his footsteps come down the hall.

He paused outside his bedroom door.

A beat.

Then—

Click.

The door opened.

You leapt.

He barely had time to react.

“Was zur—?!”

You threw yourself at him, arms around his neck, legs wrapping around his waist as you tackled him back a step. He staggered under your weight—though not much—and instinctively caught you, huge hands gripping your thighs.

“Hallo?!” he barked. “Who—?!”

Then he saw your face.

“…Schatz?”

You grinned. “Surprise, soldier.”

König just… stared.

You saw his expression shift through five stages of confusion before settling on stunned disbelief. His blue eyes wide under messy hair, fresh stubble shadowing his jaw, lips parted slightly.

“You—bist du verrückt?!” he whispered hoarsely. “You flew to Austria?!”

You nodded, still holding him tightly. “Yep.”

“And broke into my home?!”

“Technically, I used the key you hid under the mat.”

König blinked, mouth open.

Then he dropped his bag.

And crushed you into his chest.

He didn’t speak for a moment. Just held you. Arms like steel. Like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

You could feel his heart pounding against yours.

“…I thought I was dreaming,” he finally muttered. “This feels like a dream.”

You leaned back to look into his face, your hands cupping his jaw. “It’s real, König.”

He just stared at you like he couldn’t believe it. Then, softly:

“…I missed you.”

⸻

You were curled up on the couch, his oversized hoodie swallowing your small frame. König sat beside you, unusually quiet, rubbing the back of his neck while avoiding your eyes. The air between you felt heavy — but not uncomfortable. More like… electric.

“So,” you said softly, nudging him with your foot, “how does it feel having me here, crashing your place like a wrecking ball?”

His gaze finally flicked to you, and you caught the faintest blush coloring his cheeks. He cleared his throat, trying to act casual but failing spectacularly.

“I—I wasn’t prepared for this.” His voice cracked just a little. “You… surprised me.”

You smiled, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. His eyes widened for a moment at the gentle touch.

“Yeah? You look like you’re about to combust.”

He rubbed the back of his neck again, eyes darting down to your hand then back up. “Maybe I am. You—uh—you’re not just crashing the place. You’re… you’re crashing my defenses.”

You laughed softly, heart fluttering.

“Are you saying I’m making you shy?”

König’s lips twitched into a small, embarrassed smile. “Maybe.”

You scooted closer, your knee brushing his thigh. “Good. You’re adorable when you’re like this.”

He swallowed hard, face still pink. “Adorable? I’m a soldier.”

“And yet here you are, blushing like a schoolboy.” You winked.

His eyes flicked to the floor, voice low. “You’re dangerous, you know that?”

“Only to you,” you teased.

He let out a short, breathy laugh, still shy but somehow more relaxed now. You both sat like that for a while, the quiet between you filled with something warm — a new kind of closeness neither of you had quite dared to explore before.

You stayed close to König, the warmth from his body still lingering after your surprise hug. The quiet between you felt charged, the kind of silence that buzzes softly with things left unsaid.

You swallowed nervously, then looked up at him with a small smile.

“Hey, König…” you began, your voice softer than usual. “Can I… share your bed tonight?”

He blinked, eyes flickering away for a moment, cheeks tinting just the faintest shade of red beneath his mask.

“Äh… I—uh… sure,” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck like a shy teenager caught off guard. “If you want.”

His voice was low, hesitant, almost shy—so unlike the confident soldier you knew. You found it endearing.

You reached out, lightly brushing a hand over his massive forearm. “Thanks,” you whispered.

He gave you a small, shy smile that made your heart skip.

⸻

“Let’s go then. What are you waiting for?” you said with a teasing smile.

König stood up, a bit stiff and awkward, clearly shy but trying to keep his composure. His tall frame moved quietly behind you as you led the way to his bedroom.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, you began changing out of your clothes without a word. König’s eyes widened immediately, and he quickly turned his gaze away, a faint blush creeping across his cheeks. You caught the shy flush and chuckled softly, amused by his obvious embarrassment.

You slipped into something comfortable—soft pajamas that contrasted with his military precision—and then crawled onto the bed, pulling the blankets up around you. König didn’t say much but carefully started changing too. He peeled off his shirt, revealing the hard, defined muscles beneath. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, the fabric stretched tight over powerful thighs.

You couldn’t help but glance at him. Your breath hitched at the sight—his broad chest, carved pecs shadowed by faint scars; the washboard abs you’d only seen in pictures, now right in front of you; thick, veined biceps and triceps that spoke of strength and endless discipline. His skin had that rugged, worn look from years in the field, but there was softness in his shy eyes that completely contradicted his tough exterior.

Caught staring, König’s gaze flicked to you, eyes wide and vulnerable. Without thinking, your fingers traced lightly over the ridges of his abs. The moment your skin touched his, he gasped softly, a sharp intake of breath that sent a thrill straight through you.

He remained unusually silent, cheeks flushed a deep pink, and you could tell your touch caught him off guard. Encouraged, you continued to explore slowly, letting your hand drift lower, tracing the line where his sweatpants met his hips.

A soft, unexpected moan slipped from his mouth, making both of you freeze instantly. König’s blue eyes locked onto yours, wide and unguarded.

You smirked gently, your voice teasing but warm. “Looks like someone’s a little more sensitive than he lets on.”

König swallowed hard, clearly flustered, but there was a spark in his eyes—something tender, something hungry—and you both knew this was just the beginning.

Your hand lingered on his hip, tracing delicate circles as König’s breath hitched again. You felt the heat radiating from his skin, his body tense beneath your touch. His usual calm, controlled demeanor was slipping away, replaced by something raw and vulnerable.

Then, you noticed it—the unmistakable bulge pressing against his sweatpants. Your eyes widened slightly, and you bit your lip to hide the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

König’s cheeks deepened into a rich crimson, and he quickly shifted his hips away, as if trying to hide what was obvious to both of you now.

“Uh—” he stammered, voice thick, eyes darting anywhere but yours. “This is… unexpected.”

You chuckled softly, the teasing warmth in your tone impossible to hide. “Sensitive, huh? Didn’t think the mighty König would be this easy to rattle.”

He swallowed hard, jaw working as he fought the flush spreading down his neck. “You’re… dangerous.”

You reached out again, fingers brushing over the top of his abs, tracing down to his hip, your touch slow and deliberate. “I could say the same about you.”

The tension between you thickened—the room shrinking until it was just the two of you, breaths mingling, hearts pounding in sync.

König’s lips parted, eyes searching yours, vulnerability flickering with something else—desire.

You smiled softly, leaning in just a fraction closer, letting your hand rest lightly on his thigh, the promise of more hanging in the air between you.

Your fingers hesitated just a moment before drifting lower, brushing along the edge of the bulge pressing against his sweatpants. König’s breath hitched sharply, eyes wide but unable to pull away.

You smiled softly, the thrill of his reaction sending a warmth straight to your core. Slowly, carefully, you began to rub the length of his hardness through the fabric—light, teasing circles that made him shift under your touch.

A low, involuntary groan escaped his lips, and you felt the vibration beneath your palm.

He was so tense, so sensitive—like every nerve ending was awake and aching.

König’s eyes flickered between yours, filled with a mixture of surprise and raw want. His usual composed mask was gone, replaced by a shy vulnerability that made your heart pound harder.

“D-Don’t stop,” he murmured, voice rough and breathless.

You chuckled, your touch lingering as you rubbed more boldly now, feeling him grow even harder beneath your palm.

His hips shifted closer, seeking more contact, but you held back just enough to keep him on edge.

The room felt electric—charged with anticipation, with unspoken promises, with the weight of everything you both wanted but hadn’t yet dared to say.

Your fingers traced slow circles, and König’s breath came faster, his muscles tensing and relaxing with each stroke.

“Sensitive,” you teased again, voice low and sultry. “You’re so damn sensitive.”

He groaned softly, the sound vibrating through your skin.

You both froze for a heartbeat—his reaction undeniable, your own desire flaring in response.

König’s breath hitched again, his hips shifting instinctively toward your hand, desperate for more contact. You let your fingers glide slowly, teasing him with just enough touch to make his pulse race without fully satisfying him.

His eyes darkened with need, flickering between wanting and holding back—just like you.

Without thinking, you leaned in, your lips brushing lightly against the shell of his ear. Your breath was warm, your voice low and husky.

“Do you want more, König?”

He swallowed hard, a soft groan escaping before he nodded almost imperceptibly.

Slowly, deliberately, you pulled your hand away—just enough to build the tension even higher. Your fingers trailed down his chest, feeling every ridge of muscle under your palm.

Then your gaze locked with his.

“Come here.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

König crawled toward you on the bed, each movement careful, almost shy—like he wasn’t used to letting someone see this side of him.

Your hands found his face, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the rough stubble that made you want to kiss every inch.

He leaned into your touch, eyes closing briefly as if savoring the moment.

Then, slowly, your lips met—soft at first, exploring, tasting.

His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and the heat between you exploded.

His kisses deepened, urgent and hungry now, his body pressing into yours.

Every nerve ending was alive, every inch of skin craving connection.

König’s hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. His breath was ragged, warm against your skin as his lips traced a slow path down your neck. You felt the fire ignite beneath his touch—soft, deliberate, full of promise.

You tilted your head back, giving him better access, feeling the heat pool low in your belly. His fingers trailed lightly down your sides, exploring curves he’d only ever seen from afar. Every touch was electric, sending shivers down your spine.

He paused, eyes searching yours, asking without words if this was okay. You nodded, heart pounding with anticipation.

Slowly, he eased his hands under your tank top, skin meeting skin. His touch was gentle but hungry, memorizing every inch, every delicate curve. You gasped softly as he traced the swell of your breasts, fingers light but knowing.

König’s lips found yours again, this time more demanding, more urgent. You melted into the kiss, your hands threading through his hair, pulling him closer, needing to feel him even more.

Every sensation heightened—the rough scrape of his stubble, the warmth of his breath, the press of his body against yours. Time slowed down, the world shrinking until it was only the two of you tangled together, exploring, learning, savoring.

His hands roamed lower, sliding beneath your sweatpants, fingers teasing, coaxing.

There was a tenderness beneath the urgency, a careful worship of each other’s bodies that made everything feel sacred.

⸻

König’s fingers drifted lower, slipping beneath the waistband of your sweatpants, his touch light but deliberate. You caught the slight smirk playing on his lips—the kind of confident, knowing smile that sent a thrill straight through your core.

He pressed gently, just enough to make you shiver. The warmth beneath his hand was undeniable, his arousal growing despite the barrier of fabric. His breath hitched slightly, betraying how much he wanted you even now.

You couldn’t help it—a soft, unexpected moan escaped you. The sound was new, raw, and it seemed to surprise both of you.

König froze for a moment, eyes wide as if realizing for the first time just how much your reaction affected him. Then his smirk deepened, amused and captivated all at once.

“So… that’s your sound,” he murmured low and husky, his fingers never stopping their teasing dance. “I like it.”

Your cheeks flushed hotter, heart pounding wildly, but the heat pooling between your legs only grew stronger. The quiet room filled with your mingled breaths, the tension thick and delicious.

He leaned closer, voice a breath against your skin. He teased you just how you did earlier, “You’re so sensitive, aren’t you?”

⸻

König’s teasing fingers continued their slow, deliberate movements, his touch light but purposeful beneath the fabric. Suddenly, he paused, a subtle change in his expression—his eyes flickered down, sharp and curious.

His fingertips pressed a little more firmly, and then he stiffened.

“Hmm…” he murmured, voice low and thick with surprise. “You’re… wet.”

The word hung in the air, charged with meaning.

Your breath hitched at his touch, the warmth between you already burning, and now his knowing had set your skin alight. You felt exposed, vulnerable in the best way, caught under his gaze as he traced the slickness through the thin sweatpants.

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing your ear as he whispered, “I can feel how much you want me.”

You shivered, heart pounding hard. König’s fingers didn’t stop; if anything, they moved more boldly, stroking you through the fabric, making your breath catch again and again.

“Does that feel good?” he teased, his voice rough and playful.

You could only nod, lost in the heat of the moment, your moans growing softer but more urgent.

König’s blue eyes locked with yours, shining with something darker, hungrier, as the quiet room pulsed with the promise of what was to come.

Without breaking eye contact, König’s hand slid lower, fingers tracing the waistband of your sweatpants. Then, with a swift, confident motion, he shoved the fabric aside, exposing your wet skin to his touch.

His fingers pressed gently at first, then more boldly, moving with slow precision that sent shivers racing through your body. You gasped softly, clutching his arm as he explored you, every touch igniting sparks beneath your skin.

König’s breath was warm against your neck as he whispered, “So soft. So perfect.”

He teased you expertly, his fingers stroking and circling, eliciting soft moans and trembling gasps. The heat between you thickened, the room growing smaller until it felt like it existed only for this moment—just you and him, tangled together.

His other hand found your jaw, tilting your face up as his lips brushed yours, slow and teasing, the promise of more burning in his eyes.

König’s fingers moved with growing confidence, the pad of one finger tracing over your wetness, teasing you lightly. Then, with a deliberate, slow motion, he pressed one finger inside you.

You gasped, your breath catching in your throat as the new sensation overwhelmed your senses. His touch was careful but sure, moving just enough to make you shiver.

He watched your reactions closely, his blue eyes darkening with desire and concern all at once. “Sag mir, wenn es zu viel ist,” he murmured softly. (“Tell me if it’s too much.”)

You shook your head, unable to speak, too caught up in the way he made you feel — delicate, wanted, and achingly alive.

His finger moved gently, coaxing, teasing, and you felt the heat in your body deepen, every nerve ending alert.

König’s finger moved slowly, carefully exploring, his touch light but deliberate. You bit your lip to hold back a soft moan as the sensation rolled through you, every nerve waking up with delicious heat.

His breathing hitched just a little, his blue eyes locked on your face, reading every flicker of pleasure and hesitation. “Du bist so schön,” he whispered low, the German rough and tender in the same breath. (“You’re so beautiful.”)

You reached out instinctively, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him a bit closer. His other hand found your hip, steadying you as his finger deepened just slightly, coaxing more of that breathless feeling.

Your heart hammered, and your voice was barely a whisper, “König…”

He paused, looking up, searching your eyes. “Ja?”

“I want more,” you said, voice trembling.

He smiled softly, that shy, strong man torn between wanting to go slow and the raw pull of desire.

His finger moved with careful, teasing precision, making you shiver beneath his touch. The warmth spreading through you was dizzying, every nerve ending alive with sensation. You tangled your fingers deeper into his hair, pulling him closer as your breath hitched again.

König’s other hand slid from your hip to cup your face gently, thumb brushing your cheek as he watched your reactions with intense, almost reverent focus.

“You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice thick with something between admiration and desire.

You whimpered softly, desperate for more but knowing this slow dance was building something electric — a tension that promised fire.

His finger pressed just a little deeper, circling slowly, sending sparks of pleasure rolling through you like gentle waves. You arched into him, your hips moving slightly, craving more contact.

König’s eyes darkened, lips parting as he swallowed hard. His hand on your face tightened just a touch, anchoring you as if afraid you might float away in the storm of feeling he was stirring inside you.

“Please,” you breathed, voice trembling with want.

He hesitated for only a moment longer, then leaned down to brush his lips softly over yours — a promise of more, of everything waiting just beneath the surface.

You tug gently at the waistband of his sweatpants, your fingers curling into the soft fabric, sending a clear, silent message. König’s breath hitched, his eyes flickering to yours with a mix of surprise and something deeper—desire, hesitation, excitement all swirling at once.

Slowly, almost reverently, he slides his hands down to the waistband, gripping the fabric. You hold your breath, heart pounding as he peels the sweatpants down just enough, revealing the hard length you’d been imagining, now fully visible and more real than you’d dared hope.

His cheeks flush a deeper shade of red, but his eyes don’t leave yours, as if searching for permission—or maybe daring you to take the lead.

You reach out again, fingertips tracing the hard line, feeling the heat radiate against your skin, your own breath catching in your throat. The room is thick with tension and unspoken promises as you lean in closer, every inch of you craving more-

König jolted awake, chest heaving, a thin layer of sweat clinging to his skin.

His eyes were wide, confused—disoriented.

It was still dark outside.

For a second, he blinked at the ceiling, heart pounding, trying to remember where he was.

A dream. It was just a dream.

A very… detailed dream.

He groaned and slammed his big hand down to the side of the bed in frustration—

SMACK.

You yelped.

He froze.

“…Was that—?”

You stirred, voice thick with sleep, “König… did you just slap my ass?”

König’s entire soul left his body.

“I—I didn’t mean—I thought you weren’t there—I mean, I thought the bed was empty—”

You rolled over slowly, raising an eyebrow in the dim light. “So, what, you randomly smack the mattress when I’m not here?”

“…No?”

You burst out laughing, burying your face in the pillow. “Unbelievable.”

König groaned and flopped back against the bed, mortified. “Please just let me die now.”

You patted his chest, still giggling. “Next time just ask nicely.”

He groaned louder.

[hitmyvape-deactivated20251006]

Wifeplay where you have sex with your wife who loves you and you love her

[ilium-ilia]

Everything You Touch; masterlist

simon "ghost" riley x fem!reader | originally known as "soft spot" | read on AO3 | pinterest board

Simon Riley lives a fine life. Even despite his gruesome past and his bleak present fighting as a soldier in every corner of the world, he's content with what he has. His small apartment and his weekly visits to the bank might not mean much, but he wouldn't trade it for the world. Except, he finds his world turning upside down when he finds you, his favorite bank teller, battered and torn to shreds by your abusive boyfriend. He suddenly realizes that there's not much in the world that he wouldn't trade if it means he gets to hold you close. But Simon forgets that his hands aren't clean, and everything he touches always ends up stained with blood in the end.

a/n: please heed the warnings on each chapter; overall; angst/hurt/comfort; whump; strangers to lovers; domestic violence

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten

extras:

simon and reader fanart by @iluvcove

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | get early access to chapters here

[simonz-mama-deactivated20260504]

nerdy!virgin!college study partner simon riley 👅👅

his glasses fog, pupils dilating beneath the thin prescription as he stares up through the mess of the haze. he struggles to breathe, pressing his nose between the sweet of your slick folds, breathing and gasping you in like some addiction.

his knees ache, pressed to the hardwood flooring of your kitchen. you’ve hoisted yourself up onto the counter, the arches of your feet settled up onto the ending curve of the marble. poor simon, he really thought you’d invited him over to study, and now he’s here.

his tongue licks sloppy, dousing you in the sticky of his spit, lathering you up under his tongue. he’s desperate, feral, messy in proving himself to you. he can barely pull the pretty, pink swollen bud of your clit into his mouth with his drunken state.

“doin’ so good, babe,” you egg him on, grinning when his cheeks flush further, pulling down onto his neck in a blotchy red. n the poor boy nods, pressing himself further between the open column between your legs. burying his head, grabbing at your thighs to lift you closer.

but his hand slips, lowering to press the heel of his hand against the angry bulge in his pants. his teeth nip, and grab and his eyes roll with the pressure to the locked up, leaking tip of his cock.

“go on, baby,” you breathe low, letting your head hang to watch him carefully. his glasses slip crooked, and his shoulder tenses, fingers fighting with the metal of his belt desperately. good god, he’s falling apart at the seams, and the way you arch and writhe, he just can’t take it…. “touch yourself, si.”

and he’s complying within seconds, gripping at the base of his cock and stroking. dear god, he’s pleading with your weeping pussy, getting himself off on the way you drip down his chin, the way your body begs for more.

his tongue runs messy, losing himself further and further to the point of an absolute drunken fight to let you hit that sweet euphoria. he didn’t even know what the fuck he was doing, letting his tongue play and experiment, and god you were so sweet and patient. letting him find his way, the rhythm your body liked. and soon you were alight, like a match thrown to gasoline.

[hyperprosexia]

18+, mdni | gn!reader

hate fucking your nemesis in a supply closet after a failed op where the bastard nearly got himself killed to protect you.

you shove him inside the crammed space as soon as you leave the tarmac; scruffing him by the collar like a disobedient pup who pissed on the carpet.

it's disgusting and messy as you paw and grope at each other in the darkness with ragged breaths and snarled insults.

you're both dirty and reeking of adrenaline-laced sweat, the smells both causing you to recoil as they bite your nostrils and making you want to press your nose deeper into his stinking armpit at the same time.

blood and grime are still caked into your combat boots as he straightens his stance behind you to bully his drooling cock into your greedy hole while your blunt nails scratch and dig into the rickety supply shelf for some leverage as you take him deep; needing to feel him all up in your guts to assure yourself that he's still there.

still alive. still breathing. still loathing each other.

your walls convulse and squeeze around his throbbing prick when this terribly intrusive thought creeps into your mind, and his thrusts falter with a deep groan; head lolling forward as he rests his forehead against the back of your neck, hips pacing to a slow, sensual grind while he catches his breath.

"killin' me here, sweetheart," he grunts lowly and his breath puffs over your tacky skin before his tongue drags along the curve of your neck, causing your legs to tremble. "fuck."

you know he's trying not to cum yet, even though you need it. need to feel his hot seed filling you up to remind you again that he's really still there.

you push back against his hips, eyes flashing with anger in the dark when he denies you that reassurance.

"good," you hiss, growling low in your throat while his gloved hand comes up to curl around it, pulling you back against his chest. "ngh~ fuck y-you, asshole."

his cock twitches harder inside you with each uttered, slurred insult.

the stupid bastard nearly left you behind on this godforsaken planet.

he hums, all pleased and happy, a gravelly purr vibrating against your back, and he even has the audacity to chuckle before he picks up his pace again; fucking you with sharp, shallow thrusts that leave your toes curling in your boots and your lewd moans come out like pathetic little mewls.

"so sweet, my love," he rasps against your ear, crooked teeth nipping at it while his hand tightens around your throat, needing to feel your pulse thrum through the rough fabric of his tac gloves.

"always s' scared and worried 'bout me, huh? yeah, you love me so much, don't ya?"

your head swims. tears prickle at the corners of your stinging eyes; baring your gritted teeth in another snarl as you cream around his fat cock. frustrated and seething, your bruised hands ball into fists with the overwhelming urge to knock his teeth out while heat of your climax coils rapidly in your belly.

"m'gonna kill you myself next time."

he laughs again and the slick, obscenely wet sound of his cock fucking into your desperate, rippling hole is the last push you need before you cum while he clamps his large hand over your mouth to muffle your pathetic sounds.

"fuck, f-fuck! yes, sweetheart, fuckin' take it," he grunts, panting harshly as he lets the feeling of your fluttering, tight walls pull him right under the surface along with you before his balls throb with overwhelming pleasure and his thick spurts of cum fill you up until you go limp in his strong embrace.

and despite everything, you cling to his forearms while your heart thunders against your ribcage, anger still simmering in your veins while his cock softens and his seed dribbles out of your sensitive hole.

his chapped lips brush over your neck with featherlight kisses. "feel better yet, love?"

you huff and whine as you let your head drop forward, forehead resting against the mean edge of the shelf while it pinches into your skin, though nothing could ever hurt you more than the sheer thought of ever losing him.

"i mean it... fuck you and don't you dare ever leave me."

his arms tighten around you as he shoves his limp cock back inside you with a sharp grunt.

"don't worry," he clucks his tongue then buries his sweaty face into the crook of your neck, muffling his words. "i won't."

[candygirlnsfw]

maybe you should let me kiss along your happy trail for awhile

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

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.”

[starrierknight]

"dick" "pathetic" "moan" "pussy" "desperate" "wet" "needy" "cock"

[perfectdecagon]

Reader: I want to make love with you.

König: your insurance won't cover it.

[machveil]

I’ll pay out of pocket