Simon Riley, who is so used to moving around quietly that he seems to appear out of nowhere. So he lets you put a bell collar around his neck so you can hear him when he enters a room.
Simon Riley who is a good kitty. He always comes when you tell him to and he only knocks stuff off of tables so he can bend you over them.
sfw + nsfw. this is just an amalgamation of all my ideas
könig has never been one for putting his face on social media. even before the scars that pull at the skin of his cheek, reshaping his expression in ways he’s never fully grown used to, the idea of being seen, really seen, has never sat right with him. there’s a certain comfort in anonymity, in keeping the world at arm’s length. easier that way. safer.
that unease, paired with what some might consider his more nerdy interests, means he gravitates toward spaces like discord rather than the highly curated feeds of instagram or facebook. there, he doesn’t have to worry about photos or videos— just a username, and a presence in text.
his handle is simple: king 👑. a nod to the name he’s carried for so long, stripped of rank, stripped of weight.
even in the server where he’s most active, he keeps things vague, blending into discussions about games, military history, or whatever niche interest has caught his attention that week.
every now and then, he’ll let something slip— a mention of deployment, an offhand comment, disappearing for months at a time, only to return with a sudden burst of activity. some put the pieces together. most don’t. and könig prefers it that way. it’s easier to let them think he’s just another guy with spotty internet.
your first interaction is rather simple in retrospect.
he’s back after weeks of recon, shaking off the mission like dirt from his boots, easing into the familiarity of a gaming server he’s called home for years.
it’s not a small server, so new people come and go. he does his usual routine— an automated, slightly impersonal welcome but what he doesn’t expect is the sheer enthusiasm in return.
“hi!!!!”
he stares at the message for a second, counting the exclamation marks. three. four. five? a small smile tugs at his lips before he even realizes it.
it doesn’t take long before you’re at his metaphorical side, sending a friend request before the conversation even shifts from your college courses.
the older members tease him. something about his last deployment scrambling his head enough to take a newbie under his wing. he lets them talk. he doesn’t mind.
soon enough, you’re in his private messages, dramatically lamenting your latest loss in a game he’s only vaguely familiar with. könig listens— well, reads— as you rant, words spilling out at a rapid-fire pace, interspersed with keyboard smashing and increasingly incoherent frustration.
he’s not much for new releases, preferring to sink his teeth into a single game for months on end, grinding away until mastery is muscle memory. still-
one evening, without preamble, he sends you a link. his profile. in your game.
the response is immediate. ‘king!!! 🥺’ you type, followed by an onslaught of keyboard mashing that takes up half his screen.
he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. he wonders if you know how easy it is to make him grin like an idiot.
the calls are… an unexpected development.
könig doesn’t make a habit to join server calls. ever. it’s not even about anxiety, not really, just preference. too many voices, too much noise. he never expected to be comfortable enough with anyone to want to be in a call, let alone initiate one.
but when you start gaming together, it becomes a necessity. typing mid-match isn’t exactly efficient, and you’re the first to point that out.
“okay, listen, king, i am not about to lose another ranked match just because you take five years to type ‘behind you.’” he huffs, amused, but relents.
soon enough, calls become second nature— no longer tied to gaming, no longer requiring an excuse. you always ask first, polite thing that you are, and könig always agrees. sometimes it’s an unspoken invitation, a simple “call?” sent in the quiet hours of the night. sometimes he beats you to it, pressing the button before he can think too hard about it.
one time, it’s you who calls. he answers on the first ring.
“are you- wait.” you pause, listening. there’s a distinct, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the background. not footsteps, but something heavier, more controlled. “are you on a treadmill?”
“mm.” his voice is steady, unaffected. a quiet confirmation.
you gasp, and he can practically hear the amusement brewing in your tone. “oh my god! you actually work out? i thought you were lying.”
he snorts, breath hitching slightly as he adjusts his pace. “why would i lie about that?”
“i don’t know! you just- i mean, you sit at your desk all day, playing the same game for hours, and you’re always online at weird times-”
“you are describing yourself,” he points out.
“shut up.”
there’s a pause, and then, with the kind of mischief that only comes from knowing exactly how to push his buttons, you add, “prove it.”
he slows to a walk, swiping open his phone. a moment later, you receive a picture. him, flexing. the lighting is dim, but you can still make out the cut of his forearm, the solid shape of his bicep. just to humor you, he throws up a peace sign.
“not stolen from pinterest.”
you burst into laughter so sudden and bright that he finds himself smiling before he can stop it.
you learn what it means to miss könig pretty early on.
it happens suddenly. one day, he’s there, active as usual, sending the occasional meme, idling in voice chat even if he’s not talking. the next? radio silence. not even a ‘typing…’ indicator.
at first, you don’t think much of it. maybe he’s sleeping in. maybe he’s busy. time zones are weird. it’s fine.
but then a whole day passes. then another. you check his status— nothing. not offline, not do not disturb, just… gone.
curiosity turns into concern, and before you can think better of it, you ask in the server.
“hey, anyone heard from king?”
the response is casual. unbothered. “oh, dude’s probably deployed again.”
you blink. reread the message. “deployed?”
“yeah, king’s military.”
there’s no warning for the way that statement knocks the air from your lungs.
military? as in, real-life combat? as in, war zones and danger and actual life-or-death situations?
you stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, unsure what to even say to that.
he doesn’t resurface for weeks.
you don’t realize how much you’ve come to rely on his presence until it’s gone. his absence is loud in the quiet moments of your day, in the spaces where a message from him would normally be.
you check the server out of habit, catching yourself before you can search his username. it’s stupid, you think. you barely know him. he’s just some guy from a discord server.
but the worry lingers.
and then, one day, just like that— he’s back.
his return is as unceremonious as his disappearance.
no dramatic entrance, no fanfare. just a simple “hello.”
you see it the moment he sends it. your stomach flips.
before you can stop yourself, you send a private message. “you’re alive.”
a moment passes. then— “yes.”
you frown. “you were gone for weeks.”
“i know.”
frustration bubbles up. “you could’ve said something.”
“i couldn’t.”
you hesitate, fingers tightening around your phone. you don’t know what you were expecting. an explanation? reassurance? but it’s clear you’re not getting one.
but then, a follow-up message. one that feels heavier, more careful. “i’m sorry.”
and just like that, the irritation dissolves.
it’s strange, the way things slip back into place after that.
he doesn’t talk about it, and you don’t ask. but something shifts. after that deployment, könig starts telling you when he’ll be gone. nothing in detail, really. just a simple, “i’ll be away for a bit.”
(it means everything.)
slowly, you get used to it. the rhythm of his presence and absence, the way your conversations pick up right where they left off, as if no time has passed at all.
it goes on for months. this… thing between the two of you. könig doesn’t hesitate to call it friendship, though he knows, knows, it’s something else entirely.
something with edges softer than companionship, something that lingers in the pauses between conversation, in the way you had whispered his real name under your breath when he revealed it to you.
he doesn’t rush to name it. doesn’t push. he lets it simmer until it feels inevitable.
in the end, it’s you who breaks first. technically. not that he’s keeping score. not that he would ever rub it in your face, especially when he was a mere day away from asking the very same thing.
it starts with a message. no preamble, no buildup. just a simple: hey, what are we?
könig sees it and reacts before thinking. presses the call button so fast his thumb practically smashes the screen. it rings once, twice—
“you didn’t even ask.” your voice comes through, half exasperated, half amused.
“didn’t want to give you time to unsend.” his own voice is steady, but his heart is anything but.
you huff. “bold assumption.”
“not really.”
a pause. he hears you shift, fabric rustling, the sound of you settling in. something warm and slow uncoils in his chest at the familiarity of it.
“so,” you start, hesitant. “what’s your answer?”
könig exhales, tipping his head back against his pillow. “do you want the truth?”
“obviously.”
he hums, considering. in reality, he’s known the truth for a while now. probably before you even realized it yourself.
“i like you,” he says, simple, sure. then, because he knows you, because he knows your deflections, your habit of teasing when you get nervous, he adds, “and i’m very aware you like me back.”
you sputter. “that’s a bold assumption-”
“not really,” he repeats, smug this time.
you groan, but you’re laughing, and it sends something bright flickering through him.
könig doesn’t ask for nudes. not once. he flirts, he teases, but never pushes. he knows your boundaries, respects them, never even hints at wanting more. if anything, he’s careful. too careful, sometimes. like he’s afraid of crossing a line you haven’t even drawn.
so when you finally send something, it’s your choice.
the first picture is tame. barely anything. it's a shot of your thighs, soft and warm in the low light of your room. nothing scandalous. nothing too revealing. but the second you hit send, your stomach twists with nerves.
könig sees it immediately. you watch the typing bubble appear, disappear, then appear again. and then— “fuck.”
you grin. “good?”
“you have no idea.”
it only escalates from there.
könig never requests more. but when you send it, when you want to send it, his reaction is worth it. he worships you through the screen, tells you how beautiful you are, how much he wishes he could touch you.
“pretty,” he texts once, attached to a voice message.
you press play. his breath is ragged, like he’s just run a mile. “pretty thing,” he repeats, voice tinged with something almost reverent. “you’re going to ruin me, love.”
the first time he sends you something, it takes him forever to work up to it.
you don’t ask for it. wouldn’t dream of pushing him into something he’s not comfortable with. könig isn’t shy, necessarily, but he’s private. you know that by now.
so when, out of nowhere, a picture pops up on your screen, your brain short-circuits.
it’s cropped carefully, but there’s no mistaking what you’re looking at— bare skin, broad shoulders, his stomach flexed just slightly.
“you like?” he texts after a minute.
you swallow hard. “yes.”
“good.” and then— “more?”
you bite your lip. “please.”
könig gets bolder after that.
he sends more. never too much, always teasing, always just enough to leave you wanting. sometimes it’s his hands, sometimes it’s his abs, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the waistband of his sweatpants hanging just low enough to make your mouth water.
one night, he sends a voice message instead. you press play.
at first, all you hear is his breathing. then, slowly, softly— your name, whispered through a noise that makes heat bloom low in your stomach.
“wish you were here,” he murmurs. “wish you could see what you do to me.”
the actual nudes don’t take long. not ar all. you’re both desperate. buzzing. könig’s the one who caves first.
it starts with your text. 10 p.m., the hour where inhibitions slip through grasping fingers like sand.
“wanna see your cock so bad, könig…” you murmur to your propped phone, cheek pressed to your pillow, another one stuffed against your chest like it might replace the hollow ache between your ribs. a distraction. a poor substitute.
on the other side of the screen, he exhales, dragging a hand down his face. fingers tensing, then flexing, like he needs something to hold onto. “love-” your whine cuts through before he can even think. instinctive. needy. his stomach clenches. “okay, okay. as long as you're sure.”
his heart pounds as he opens his photos. he doesn’t exactly collect dick pics, but there are a few kept locked away, private albums, a passcode he suddenly fumbles to enter.
three minutes. that’s how long it takes to choose the best one. the right angle. the right lighting. enough to make your breath hitch when you see it.
he hits send before he can overthink it, then leans back, phone balanced on his thigh, bottom lip caught between his teeth.
your phone buzzes. the photo pops up. you blink, breath hitching sharp in your throat.
“oh my god.” the words spill out of you before you can even think to stop them. “könig…” you stare at the screen, gaze locked on the thick, heavy length of him. the way it curves slightly, resting against his thigh like it’s weighed down by its own sheer mass. your breath stutters.
“you're so fucking big.” it barely registers that you've said it aloud.
“yeah? you like it?
“like it?” you shoot back. “i want it inside me.”
his breath leaves him in one harsh exhale. he shifts, hips rolling involuntarily like he can feel your words on his skin.
“can i see you too?” he sounds so polite. and then, as if that wasn’t enough to twist the knife deeper— “please?”
your stomach flips. you bite your lip, already reaching for your phone camera, the need to show him everything burning through you like wildfire.
your breath comes shallow as you slip your hand lower, phone steady in the other. the need is a pulse under your skin, throbbing, insistent. you pull the covers back just enough, the cool air prickling against the heat between your thighs.
the camera catches everything. your slightly parted thighs, your swollen clit, the wetness gushing out of your hole. it feels like baring a secret you’ve never told anyone. you hesitate for half a second, heart racing, then hit send.
the second the message disappears from your screen, it hits you— you just sent that to him.
on his end, könig freezes. the photo loads slow, torturous, and when it finally pops up, he feels his whole body tense, blood rushing south so fast it’s dizzying. “f-fuck, i need to be inside of you-”
sex with könig, if you can even call it that, at first, sneaks up on you. you never thought you’d be the kind of person who got into this. sending texts that made your face burn, leaving voice messages you could barely listen back to without cringing. but with him, it’s different. easier. less embarrassing because it’s him.
still, going from nudes to actual phone sex takes some time.
“gonna sleep,” könig texts you once, attached to a blurry photo of his bed.
“alone?” you send back, teasing.
the typing bubble appears. then disappears. then— “obviously.”
you grin at your phone, satisfied. but then— “but i could use some company.”
you stare at the message longer than you’d like to admit.
didn't tell him that you had woken up panting, arousal between your thighs, könig’s name on your lips too many times. didn't tell him that you had pressed your hand against your clit during your calls, to the sound of his voice, to his laugh, to the quiet, wrecked groans he sometimes lets out when he stretches after a workout.
in the past, you hadn't told him how many times you’d dreamt of him because you thought you'd scare him off, kept your mouth shut about the images that haunted you at night, of his hands pinning you down, his mouth at your throat.
but you wanted to.
and tonight, you would.
the conversation turns slow. lazy. heavy with something unspoken.
“you sound tired,” könig murmurs, voice warm. he’s always like this late at night. soft, unhurried, like he’s sinking into the sound of you.
you swallow hard. your skin feels too hot, too tight. “i’m not.”
a pause. then, lower— “what is it, love?”
you hesitate, pressing your lips together. it’s too much. too embarrassing. but he knows something is different.
“talk to me. tell me what you’re thinking.”
you let out a shaky breath. “i had a dream about you.”
the silence stretches.
you can hear him inhale. you bite your lip. force yourself to continue. “i think about you. when i-” you stop. you can’t say it. can’t admit it.
könig exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to steady himself. “when you what?”
your stomach is a knot of nerves. but you want this. want him. so you take a breath, close your eyes. “when i touch myself.”
his breath stutters.
“fuck.” the word is almost a groan. your pulse hammers, blood rushing through your ear as heat pools in your stomach.
“könig,” you whisper.
he exhales, whispers his next words like a beg, “say it again.”
you swallow. “i touch myself to you.”
“i do too.”
your stomach flips. “what?”
“i-” he cuts himself off with a quiet curse, like he's frustrated with himself for hesitating. “i touch myself to you too.”
your breath catches. heat blooms in your chest, spreading down your spine. “könig-”
“all the time.” his voice is lower now, raw, like he's aching with it. “when i can't sleep. when you're on call with me, laughing, teasing me. when i wake up hard in the middle of the night and can’t stop thinking about stuffing you full.”
your body is burning again, despite the aftershocks still rolling through you. you're about to choke out a reply when you hear it— the rustle of fabric, the faint creak of bedsprings, the wet slide of skin on skin.
“are you-”
a sharp inhale. “yes.”
“let me hear you,” you whisper, thinking about his pretty, pretty cock. uncut, soft skin stretched over the flushed head, the way it would slide back when he’s fully hard, revealing the deep pink of his leaking tip. the veins that wind down the length, standing out against the pale skin
there's a pause, a hitch in his breath. then, slowly— “okay.”
there's a small rustle, könig adjusting himself on the bed. the faint sound of him pumping lotion on his hand. a quiet sigh. and then, a low grunt as the warmth of his palm wraps around his cock.
könig looks down at his hand, eyes half-lidded, hips bucking up in small thrusts. he imagines your pussy instead of his fist, hot and tight and so fucking warm, fluttering around his length as he pushes in, spearing you open with a cock too big for your little cunny.
he knows you’d cry for him, little gasps and hiccupped moans, squirming beneath him as he bullies his cock deeper, past that tight ring of muscle into the slick, warm clutch of your cunt.
“a-ah- fuck, ah-”
your breath stutters at the sounds, hips grinding against your palm. “wish i could see you.”
“on cam?”
you groan, squeezing your thighs around the pillow in-between your legs, grinding your clit against the material softly. “yes, please..”
“why do you like zayne & sylus so much” have you ever considered the possibility that perhaps i want to be taken care of for once because i’m always taking care of others and get nothing in return? in this essay i will
I've been talking with some friends about the psychological effects of love and deep space. I agree that those with the "oldest daughter curse," as I like to call it, often tend to look for partners who can offer them quality time, acts of service, and similar support. Zayne & Sylus match with "Don't worry, honey, I've got this" vibe.
They have this protective, take-charge energy that makes you feel… safe. For someone who’s used to being the pillar for everyone else, finding a partner with that attitude can be both a relief and—almost addictively—comforting.
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