Simon Was Used To Being In Control. In Every Aspect Of His Life And Especially In The Bedroom—he Dictated

Welp, since absolutely no one asked

Here are the types of bodies I think the 141 have ✨

TF141 x Female Reader

Tags: cum eating, blow jobs, oral (fem receiving), cumming in pants, multiple orgasms

Warning: NSFW imagery beneath cut

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

As far as sheer beauty goes, Gaz might top them all. I head canon Kyle as being pretty lean, body composed of sculpted, sheer muscle. He's got a slim frame, like a runner or boxer.

Graceful. Strong. Built for endurance and agility.

What's more? It's fucking effortlessssss. Like, legitimately. When he was a middle schooler, he might have been told he was skinny once or twice. But the minute he hit his growth spur and shot up like a bean stalk, no one could say shit.

Why?

Because Gaz looks like a goddamn male model and he doesn't even have to do anything to maintain it.

Perfect skin? Yep. He uses five dollar lotion.

Legs like a ballerina? Uh-huh. The only training he does is for work.

Sculpted, mouth-watering abs? Check. They were built by McDonald's fries, Netflix, and the grace of God himself.

Let's face it. Gaz looks like he walked off the cover of a magazine purely because the lord has favorites. Let's move on.

Now, Gaz might only go the extra mile when it comes to work training...

But those muscles didn't just come from anywhere.

And the first time Gaz gets you underneath him, cock pounding into you for what feels like hours, you finally fucking understand.

Gaz's body—slick, strong, and slim—is built for agility. For endurance.

It's built for trapping you beneath the length of his covetous frame until you're too exhausted to struggle. For holding you down until he's dripping with sweat, until every muscle in his shaking body screams for a break.

Until his long, aching cock is slowly dripping semen onto the flat of your stomach.....for the third time in the past hour.

Gaz might loathe running the track, but he'll have you fucking like bunnies until you manage to buck him off.

The man has stamina that could rival a racehorse, and god help any woman that found herself in his grasp.

"Sit still, baby," he pants loudly, wrenching the globes of your ass in two of his model-esque hands, "M'not fuckin' done yet. One more...I just—need one more."

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

Now Soap? probably the exact opposite of Gaz.

When body building became popular online, Soap jumped right on the bandwagon. Perhaps he grew up as the youngest brother in a horde of boys...or perhaps he was just tired of being the shortest boy on the football team...

But the minute he was old enough to afford a gym subscription, he was there. From dusk 'til dawn, practically. To Johnny, the gym is more than just a hobby. It's a lifestyle, and one that he enjoys immensely.

Soap is bulky, built of bulging muscle, broad shoulders, and thin hips. Every inch of it, from his plush chest to his cut abs, was painstakingly earned by hours of pumping iron.

He goes lifting six days a week, tracks all of his nutrition down to the last calorie. Everything he puts into his body is tracked and monitored--and that's the way he likes it.

He'd never say it aloud, but if it were up to him, I think he'd be the type to participate in those fitness/body building competitions.

In simple terms though? Without all those fancy words? "Macros?" "BCAAS?" What the hell is that?

In layman's terms...

Johnny has arms like tree trunks and ass for fucking DAYS. With the bulk and cut cycle, he oscillates between beautifully fatty in the thighs....to shredded like a piece of paper.

You can't help but watch him go back and forth, mind reeling with the change.

In the winter, you rest your head against the soft plains of his stomach while you lap at the head of his cock, soft and squishy from holiday cookies and hot cocoa. You like him like this.

Full. Rosy cheeked. Cock leaking strings of slick in the dip of his belly button, semen thin and stringy in your mouth.

In the summer? God help you.

In the summer, Johnny's out more than he's in, running himself ragged between his diet, work, and the gym. When he comes home, he's grumpy and agitated, balls achingly full, and semen thick after months of careful water intake.

His caloric intake might be down...but he prefers a different type of eating, anyway.

Good thing he has all those muscles. All the better to hold you down while he fucks you on his tongue.

"Johnny—" you mewl, shoving at his head when his tongue curls around your clit again, "It's past five already—aren't you ready for dinner?"

His lips pop when he pulls off of your swollen clit, eyes glazed over while he watches the way your pussy leaks.

"M'not hungry, doll," he mutters, "Got more than enough to eat here, anyway..."

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Simon Riley....

Now, he's just a big fucking boy. Like, 6'4, over 250 lbs type of big.

Hear me out. Contrary to popular belief, I think Simon has more trouble keeping weight on than keeping it off. I wholeheartedly believe that when he was a teenager he was a thin guy.

Like, he'd fully grown into his height, but just didn't have the nutrition to support it. Simon doesn't cook, and...for lack of a better description, he's not great at taking care of himself. When he was a teenager, still trapped in his parents house, he probably skipped more meals than he ate. And before he joined the army, I think it's safe to say he was a lanky, underweight kid.

But the minute that man starts eating three meals a day?

GODDAMN DOES HE GROW. Like, I'm pretty sure by the end of basic training his drill sergeants were terrified of the monster they'd created.

Simon's fucking heavyyyyyy. Built equally of fat and muscle. He likes the gym, but his body isn't built for the magazine. It's built for utility. For war. For fucking blood. He doesn't care about appearances. He needs strength than can kill.

Barrel chest. Biceps bigger than your head. Stomach muscled and heaving. A trail of wispy, blonde hair leading down from his belly button into the hefty bulge at the front of his pants....

Simon's a behemoth, and anyone whose fought him on the mat knows better than to stand within his arms' reach.

Now, his weight fluctuates pretty heavily, too. A rough few months in the field could see his weight dropping quickly, in which case his hard earned muscle would show through.

But when he's on leave?

...homeboy sustains himself on granola bars and ramen noodles. He gets soft around the middle and also should probably drink more water but...good luck trying to get him to eat more than convenience store junk. He’ll set the kitchen on fire if he tries to boil some water.

Simon's big.

And he's big everywhere.

The zippers on his jeans are remarkably tight. His fatigues look almost like lingerie on his thick thighs. And if he's wearing grey sweatpants?Simon's a lethal fucking weapon at that point.

Why am I telling you this?

Because the first time you see him naked, you might be tempted to reconsider opening your legs for a man like him...your cervix will be bruised to hell and back--not to mention your ass and thighs, too. His hands aren't kind like Kyle's, nor are they careful like Johnny's.

He'll rough you up, pound into you like any reasonable woman could ever manage to take the full length of him without crying.

He'll bite his identity into your collarbones, burn his fingerprints into the fat of your ass cheeks. And when it's all said and done, he'll bully the fattened head of his ruddy cock between your lips and watch the tears drip from your eyes, swollen mouth quivering when you try to swallow his cum.

And if it's all too much to handle? Good luck getting out from under him. Because once you're there, you're not leaving unless you can push him off, match his strength, or make him cum fast enough to leave before he's hard again.

Though, nobody's ever managed it before...not like they'd ever want to.

"Mm—Simon, you're—“

"Shhhh, love," he grunts, your body shoved flat to the mattress beneath his massive frame, "Don't move. Don't fuckin' move. I'm almost there, just....fuck, sit still and let me fill you up, yeah? Then I'll let you go...I promise this time."

Captain John Price

Now, if there is anyone in the 141 that actually enjoys the food they eat, it's Price.

HEAR ME OUT HEAR ME OUT

okay so, Price, as a Captain, probably makes substantially more than the other three. That, and he's a good bit older too. He's past his prime (or so he thinks), and whether or not he has a perfect six pack when he looks in the mirror is the LAST thing he could ever care about.

Price isn't one for keeping up appearances--at least not as it concerns his body shape.

Is his beard trimmed and oiled? Always. He's damn near neurotic about it.

Is he always freshly showered, groomed, and cologne-d? Without a doubt. It's a point of pride.

Does the watch he's wearing compliment his clothing? he spends a STUPID amount of time thinking about it.

Will he gain another pound if he eats the Oreo cheesecake at the end of the night? Yep. And he'll enjoy every. Single. Second of it.

Price is as close to a foodie as a purebred military man can get. He loves cooking, and he recently remodeled his kitchen. He has GREAT taste in wine and spirits, and has spent a significant amount on amassing a good collection in his house.

If there's one word that describes Price, it's this: DECADENCE.

This man drinks, smokes, and eats as much as he pleases because he's lived long enough to learn the value of hedonism.

Why skip the cigs for the cigar when you could smoke both? Why stop at popping a just a single bottle bottle? Why not order the most expensive steak on the menu? Or the thickest slice of chocolate cake you've ever seen? What, like he'll regret it?

Price doesn't regret anything, and his body reflects that.

Of course, due to his profession, he never truly falls out of athletic shape (he's ready to be called away at a moments notice, after all). But he's LONG SINCE ditched his glory days. Like the others, his body fluctuates between highly cut to soft around the edges.

Price is thick around the ribs and plush in the chest. His weight settles around his hips and arms, making his biceps fluff up if he eats enough. His stomach is soft and sweet. So are his thighs.

The only thing that doesn't change?

The hair. Holy shit this man has a lot of chest hair.

All in all, Price likes a good meal, but he's still in elite fighting shape. Though, unlike the other three, his age stops him from being purely athletic. If anything, he looks more like a construction worker or landscaper. Someone who spent a long time building things with their hands instead of running laps around the track.

Now, what was that about decadence? Drinking, smoking, eating...

Price was indulgent in every sense of the word. Indulgent to himself, to his friends, and to his family.

But in bed?

The way Price fucks makes you understand why people let their teeth rot for another bite of Halloween candy.

Price wouldn't know moderation if it hit him in the face. And when it comes to your pleasure, to your body in and of itself, Price will be damned if you walk away without a smile on your face.

He's a service Dom through and through. Hell, just feeling your cunt clench around his fingers, your voice crying through another orgasm, is nearly enough to make him cum in his pants.

He'd done it before, too.

Was he embarrassed about it?

Not at all.

"John," you gasp, watching his length twitch rapidly beneath his jeans, a wet spot appearing at the top of his bulge, "Did you just..."

"Yeah," he groans between kisses, "So what?"

"It's—It's just that...isn't that a little—"

"Embarrassing?" he chuckles, "Hardly...Not if you'll go as red as I think you will when I let you lick me clean."

To John, watching you lap at his softening cock--and enjoy it too--is more than enough to get his blood pumping.

He'd always give you exactly what you want...even if you didn't have the guts to ask for it aloud.

Estranged Husband Nikolai

Inspired by @pricegouge 's post about ex husband Nikolai (they're different I promise)

You got married young, too young but he was a stability you needed at the time. A financial stability - within the first year of marriage you had a nice house, a nice car, a nice allowance to go shopping for whatever you wanted and a very, very nice ring to tie it all together.

It wasn't until you realized you spent more nights alone than with Nikolai that all those nice things lost their sparkle. Between arguments you stowed away your allowance to save up for a divorce. You knew he'd fight it out just to be petty.

And he did. You moved out into your own flat and within an hour he flooded your phone with texts and calls. An attorney you called had to decline due to Nikolai contacting them first. You watched as your savings slowly drained.

One night you finally broke and called him back for the first time in months, begging for him to just sign the papers. You'd return everything; the car, the clothes, the jewelry, your ring. You just wanted to move on.

"No."

He agreed to give you an allowance again, let you live in your "little flat" and live how you wanted but the two of you had made a promise and he was a man of his word. Until death.

Several years later and your ring sat at the bottom of your jewelry box. You had a career, friends, a few dates here and there - all the stability you craved in your youth. Nikolai still loomed over you.

His visits were infrequent and random. He still acted like the two of you were in the honeymoon phase. Making you breakfast in the morning, bringing flowers with him, making you come over and over.

You almost fall for it. You think about letting him back in your life, trying this marriage thing again. You're older now. You have a life outside of him.

He thinks about it too. Lips against your ear as the head of his cock brushes against your womb, "maybe a baby will fix us?"

DISCORD BOYFRIEND KÖNIG

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

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

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

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

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

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

your first interaction is rather simple in retrospect.

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

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

“hi!!!!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the calls are… an unexpected development.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you are describing yourself,” he points out.

“shut up.”

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

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

“not stolen from pinterest.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“hey, anyone heard from king?”

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

you blink. reread the message. “deployed?”

“yeah, king’s military.”

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

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

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

he doesn’t resurface for weeks.

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

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

but the worry lingers.

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

his return is as unceremonious as his disappearance.

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

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

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

a moment passes. then— “yes.”

you frown. “you were gone for weeks.”

“i know.”

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

“i couldn’t.”

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

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

and just like that, the irritation dissolves.

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

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

(it means everything.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you huff. “bold assumption.”

“not really.”

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

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

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

“obviously.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you grin. “good?”

“you have no idea.”

it only escalates from there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you like?” he texts after a minute.

you swallow hard. “yes.”

“good.” and then— “more?”

you bite your lip. “please.”

könig gets bolder after that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“yeah? you like it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“alone?” you send back, teasing.

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

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

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

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..”

fuck, you're so polite.

Nah that bluecollar!simon au except he knows the exact moment your relationship with your fuckass bf starts going downhill cause the lunches aren't quite so catered to your bf's tastes anymore. He doesn't open the bag to begin with, so how would he know that you've started packing them for Simon and he's just doing the hard part and delivering it?

Idk I just think the most loving thing you can do for someone is cook for them. What does that say about me.

Simon who’s into cuckholding lame men but instead of fucking their girlfriends he’s eating their cooking like a starving animal. He’s like lol look at the fuckin idiot being my free post mates boy.

Also I lied. He’s fucking the girlfriend also. But to him there is a vast difference between “I fucked your girl” and “your girl cooked me dinner and I asked for thirds”. Any guy can fuck a girl. But a girl will not spend her precious time making a lovely warm meal for just any man.

Underground Fighter!König X Rich!Reader IV

A/N: aw shit here we go again. This chapter is much longer than usual and has a slightly different format, but I think it turned out great! I'm also posting this fic on AO3 if you prefer it.

Psst, their relationship is progressing 👀

Part I - Part II - Part III

From the earliest he could remember, König was drawn to solitude. He wasn't sure if it was a byproduct of the alienation he’d faced since childhood, the solitude was always preferable to beatings after all. But regardless if it was learned behavior or simply part of his genetic making, he just knew he liked being alone.

He never missed people, a part of him was even glad for his imprisonment, since it meant every interaction he has had a clear and defined purpose. No nonsense and no need for pleasantries. The people around him were either fighting him, taking care of his basic needs, or paying him. Which brings him to his current, urgent dilemma.

You.

He missed you.

In every fight he has had for the past three months, he would scan over the entire crowd, searching for a glimpse of red and finding none that held your warmth. There was no trace of you anywhere, and the only answer he got from people he had threatened asked was that you were “Busy running a business”

With more patience than he knew he possessed, he waited. He sat in his cell, anticipating the sound of your heels clacking against tiles in the hallways. Sadly all he heard was the buzzing of the lights and agitating sound of the guards' boots stomping about. Nothing, not a glimpse of you to be seen for three months. As the fourth month crawled along. He could feel his mind working against him.

What did you get up to when you weren't with him?

He could feel his hands clench around nothing, knuckles white with irrational anger.

König is not a stupid man, he knows he has no right to you from the start. You were his employer, he was an investment, a cog in a multimillion dollar industry. Your father drew the lines clearly and was happy to provide, especially since he made a pretty penny and lived in relative comfort. He had such few concerns since then, as he could provide for his mother consistently, he was...Not happy, but content, which was a rarity in his turbulent life.

And then his boss passed away, and you walked into his life, with your well practiced smile and gentle voice. Speaking to him as if he was a new hire and pissing him off.

He could deal with your naivety for a while until you learned how this world works, he can't deny how endearing he found your terrified eyes and warbling lip, it helped ease the guilt he felt needling at his consciousness.

He knew he was yours when you proved to have a backbone, you occupied his every thought since. He marked you as his as soon as the opportunity presented itself, it wasn’t enough, he wanted more. He wanted to spend his every waking moment pushing every button you had, making your brows furrow and see your pathetic attempt at a glare melt away into a scared, fawning look as he put you in your place. 

He both cursed and thanked the bars between the two of you. He knew he would chain you to the bed if he had the chance, giving you a necklace of bite marks and keeping you dumb and docile.

Such a spoiled little thing... Have you ever had to beg for anything? He could feel his dick strain against his pants at the thought.

He’d have to properly train you if he had you. 

Forcing you to sleep on the cold floor until you got on your unscuffed knees, pressing your tear stained cheek to his thigh as you plead for him to allow you to sleep with him and borrow some of his warmth. How cold and uncomfortable the ground is for someone like you. 

He snakes a hand into his boxers and tugs at his hardening cock as he thinks about how graciously he would warm you up. He would run his hands through your hair before gripping it and dragging you to the bed as you mewl and whimper little thank yous to him. Maybe you would be a polite little thing and call him sir too.

He would reward you, of course, you have been so good and pliant for him. Wrapping his arms around you, warming you up by pressing you against his body and groping your ass.

He bites back a groan at the memory of how addictively soft you felt in his hands. His hand strokes faster, a frenzy of images flash through his mind as he dives head first into this fantasy.

Images of him grabbing your head with both of his hands as he fucked your throat, your eyes filled with tears as wet, slick sounds reverberate through the room. Your undoubtedly expensive mascara running down your cheek while he fucks your face. 

Images of him taking you from behind, your loud moans only spurring him on and making him thrust faster. He reaches under his pillow for the silken panties you had left behind. Your scent long since faded, but the softness of the fabric reminded him of how pretty and soft your skin felt in his rough, calloused hands.

He wraps it around his aching dick, the feel of delicate fabric on his skin almost sending him over the edge. He imagines it's you, straddling his lap and bouncing on his cock.

The image of your pretty eyes rolling to the back of your head as you feel your orgasm approaching, his name falling from your lips as you tell him that you want him, you need him, you lov-

His abdomen muscles tighten as he cums, coating his stomach and hands.

König leans his head back and breathes heavily, slowly coming down from his high. A cooling sheet of sweat covers his body, it makes him feel oddly filthy.

He really thought he outgrew the shame that comes after such activities, but it seems that the guilt was only laying dormant until now. He is not a stupid man, he never was. He knows this shame like an old blanket, the way it settles over him and suffocates him, muffling any cry threatening to escape. 

It's intimate, it is a shame that came from feeling stupid, naive, too trusting. He truly thought he understood how to curb this feeling, the rose colored glasses crushed under a jackboot since he was 17. 

With a sigh, he wipes away his cum and steps into the shower, hoping to wash away both the sweat and uncomfortable thoughts. But the sound of the water only spurs him on. The tightness in his chest is more uncomfortable than any bruising he had earned in the ring. You became more important to him than he should have allowed, he should have kept you at arms length or at least just enjoyed your touch without getting attached.

Maybe this was a mercy on your part, forcing him to confront the massive chasm that separates the two of you. Maybe that's why you stayed away from him, not wanting to feed him any more delusions. 

Thinking back, have you ever…? You never promised anything, the only thing that solidified any kind of relationship between you two is his skills in the ring. He thinks back to your meeting when he injured his leg, your words morphing from a declaration of affection to empty words meant to subdue him until he could get better. He reaches down and rubs his now heeled knee. ‘an investment’ he thinks. He leans his head against the cool wall, letting the water wash over him as he continues to wallow. 

He steps out of the shower and slowly dries himself, not bothering to put on any clothes as he plops onto the bed, The musk and sweat coming off the mattress is a reminder of how long he spent in this facility.

As sleep tugs on his eyelids, lets his mind wander and imagines what a life with you would be like, allowing himself a moment of respite this evening. Waking up in a bedroom decorated with whatever style your graceful tastes would prefer, having a warm body lay next to him and urging him to wake up so the two of you could eat breakfast.

The thought makes him smile, you seem like the type to get fussy about waking up early, maybe you would drag him to a morning jog. He wouldn't mind, he would probably drag you to a woody area nearby and eat you out against a tree. He indulges himself in a multitude of domestic fantasies as he wraps himself in the thick blanket you had provided for him, promising himself that tomorrow, he would move on.

His eyes flutter open when the door hinges screech, a cursory look at the window high above on the wall tells him its dark outside. He groans and rolls to his stomach, assuming it is a doctor or guard coming to check up on him.

The cell door is open and an angelic voice calls out to him;

"König...?”

You step into the dark cell, eyes still not adjusting to the dark. Buzzing with energy, you can’t believe how much you missed him while you were away. You only stayed in your house to shower and freshen up after a flight, putting on a light weight, earthy red colored dress as you rushed to see him.

You see him stir, awake and likely recognizing your voice, the thought of him just as excited to see you as you were him makes your heart swell.

“Are you awake?” you say, smile evident from your tone. 

“I am now,” he grumbles, his voice still hoarse. 

“I’m sorry, I just came back and couldn’t wait” You giggle and place a hand on his back, he is a furnace and it only reminds you of how cold you were, the flimsy dress offering no warmth. 

‘Fuck it’ you think, getting on the bed and laying on top of him. Resting your head on his back. You almost melt into him, the warmth seeping into your bones. You don’t miss the way his breath hitches when you lay on him, still making no attempt to push you away

“I missed you” you sigh into his shoulder blade, the exhaustion from the long flight and constant work making you less reserved with your feelings, you can’t remember a time when you were this docile and cuddly with any of your previous boyfriends. You were always cautious with other men, a wall built solid around your heart. You knew what most of these men wanted was money, it was always a fact that lingered whenever you lay next to them. Despite the fact that he was nowhere near as rich as any of your ex boyfriends, there was something about him that felt…transparent? There is a strange, almost caveman quality to him, what he wants, he gets. He has been misogynistic, violent, perverted, and he has never once been deceitful. It’s refreshing, having grown up knowing only prim and proper men doing a hell of a job of covering up those exact same qualities. You appreciate him so much more now, having dealt with these people exclusively for months. 

“Where were you?” he blurts, he sounds hurt. 

You lift your head from his back, reaching out and scratching gently at his scalp, the prickle of his buzz cut hair pleasantly rubbing against your finger pads. He hums, his body relaxing more with each gentle swipe of your thumb.

“I had some business to attend to, since my father passed away there were a lot of deals left hanging, so I had to tie some loose ends with business partners” you whisper softly, leaving out the grueling schedule of meeting after meeting after flight after fake smiles after email. 

“Just business partners, ja?”

You blink. 

Oh?

You lean in and press a kiss to the base of his neck, you know he could feel you smile against his skin. He is unbearably cute when he’s pouting.

“Just business partners,” you whisper, he hums unenthusiastically. You move and lay next to him, he turns his head away from you and reaches for the nightstand, grabbing his mask. It is too dark to make out what his face looks like, you only got a glimpse of prominent cheekbones before he turned. 

You prop yourself up on your elbow as he turns to face you, features now concealed behind the mask.

Unexpectedly, he wraps an arm around you and pulls you close, only then do you realize he’s naked, his erection pressed flush against your thigh, of course he’s hard. You wrap your arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his masked cheek. 

“Are you jealous?” you tease. Not bothering to hide your glee. He only huffs in response, it’s not needed when it's this obvious. You push him on his back and lay next to him, using your arm to press his head to your chest.

“You don’t have to be” you purr, snaking a hand under his mask and rubbing his stubbled cheek, making him sigh and nuzzle more into your breasts as you pepper his temple with kisses. 

You trace a nail down his neck as he shivers, his breath is choppy and he closes his eyes tight. You glance down, his dick is twitching against his abdomen, pearly droplets of precum coating the trail of hair running down his abs. You reach down, having to maneuver your body lower so you could comfortably wrap your hand around his cock.

Your head now rests on his chest, rising with each deep breath he takes. You start to pump him slowly, relishing the way his cock throbs in your palm. You lift your hand from his crotch and spit on it, earning you a sinful whine and a muttered ‘fuck’ as he grips the sheets tight. 

You stroke him faster, the filthy sounds coming from both your actions and his mouth sending a bolt of heat down your core.

You lean in and bite his pec, just around his areola. He sucks in a breath through his teeth as his hips stutter upwards, you can almost hear the cogs turning in his head as to why he enjoyed that. 

You flatten your tongue over his nipple before wrapping your lips around it and sucking on them while rubbing the tip of his shaft at the same time, making him moan loudly. He turns his head away from you, you can feel the heat of his flush flowing down his chest. 

“Look at me” you say breathlessly, the hand on his dick slows, stroking lazily. Soft, blown out pupils make contact with yours, his head still turned away. 

“You want to cum, don’t you?” Your voice sounds sinful even to your own ears. You feel his cock twitch, begging for release. He nods slowly, you can barely make out tears wetting his lower lashline. 

Your hand stills just under the crown of his cock. 

“Do it then” You grin, “Fuck my hand, make yourself cum” 

His eyes widen, darting around your features before he starts to thrust into your hand, making you grin wider. 

“That’s it, keep going, you're so good for me aren’t you? You wanna be a good boy for me don’t you?”

He doesn’t respond. Just groans and continues to thrust upwards. You lift three of your fingers, your thumb and index barely touching him. He whines, his voice high pitched as German curses spill from his mask-covered mouth. 

“Don’t you?” you repeat with more authority now, he nods vigorously, too horny to be concerned with something as trivial as shame. 

“Ye-yes! fuck, bitte liebling, I want to cum, please let me cum” He whimpers, his voice breaking as he moans. He rolls his hips, trying to get any friction he can. 

You oblige, wrapping your hands around his shaft tightly and pumping him as he sings your praises in a mix of english and german, he thanks you repeatedly before his muscles pull taut, rope after rope of white cum coats his stomach and your hand. Neither of you moves, only your heavy breathing filling the room. König is the first to break the silence. 

“I…Missed you too” 

You smile and nestle into his chest, his arm wraps around you, gently petting your hips. 

“I like your dress” he mumbles into your hair. You roll your eyes and kiss whichever part of him you could reach, such a silly man you've gotten yourself tangled with. You hardly settle into the bed before you hear a soft snoring. You have to bite your lips to suppress a giggle. 

Slowly, you try to lift yourself up to leave the bed without disrupting the sleeping giant. 

The muscular arm around you tightens and you are secured against Königs side. His mass then rolls and lays on top of you. You groan as you feel his semen smearing over the dress he supposedly liked. 

The weight of him pins you to the mattress, making you unable to move with the exception of your hand which was tapping at his side repeatedly, you curse the fact that he isn’t ticklish. 

“König”

“Mmm?”

“Get off”

He gives you a kiss on your cheek. 

“Nein” 

I hope you guys like this chapter! I had a lot of fun writing it ^^

Reblogs and comments much appreciated, please let me know what you think <3

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Nikolai being on vacay with the ex wives and their kids and wife 8 (reader) asks why he’s there and one of the other wives responds with “oh he’s an honorary ex”

He's terribly charming. That's the first thing you notice about him, and it sets you on edge. John had been charming at first too. There's a warmth to him though, it clings to his sun kissed skin, caught in the thick pelt of hair that knots down his chest between the edges of the open placket. Something John would never have worn, light blue and white stripes matching the trunks he wore, thick around the middle in a way that spoke to strength as much as age. So different from your ex-husband that you can't help thinking of him.

"Nikolai," He whispers in your ear, his voice low and sonorous, "but you can call me however you want." And you do, desperately, want to call him something. Want to call him something when you trace fingers over the white lines in his beard, when he places his sunglasses over your eyes, when he rubs sun lotion into your back and you feel the tickle of his fingers at the hem of your bikini bottoms. You want to have something to cling to between the two of you, something that feels solid and real, something that isn't just a man's passing fancy.

But maybe you should take this as an opportunity to have a passing fancy of your own. If John can have so many wives, surely no one would fault you having a little vacation fling after your divorce.

It feels more than indulgent when Nikolai puts his mouth on you, it's sinful. John never made your back bow like this, never crooked thick fingers inside you while sucking at your clit, never had you gasping and pushing at his head for a moment's reprieve, certainly never raised his lips from you to tell you, "You are so beautiful moya milaya" with a tortured look in his eyes, as if he couldn't decide between fucking you and keeping you here in this ecstasy.

Similarly John never wrapped his arms around you afterwards, kissing your forehead and murmuring soft words of praise. He certainly didn't keep you held in his arms all night, or kiss you awake with the offer of breakfast.

John did embarrass you. Though perhaps not as thoroughly as when you walk out of your little cabana with Nikolai and hear another ex-wife exclaim, "Oh Nik! We were wondering where you'd run off to."

Worse still when you give her a confused look and she explains, "Nik's the reason John's got the money for all of us, he's practically an ex-wife himself."

and Nikolai chuckles, his fingers lingering on your waist, sheepish as he half-asks, "Ah, you are, most recent Mrs. Price then."

Fuck, marry kill with: the concept of Willem Dafoe, the smell of a bandaid floating on a pool, and an oil painting of George Washington jorkin’ it to the movie “National Treasure”

every word had my jaw dropping further, anon

I guess I’d fuck the Washington painting since he’s already going at it(??? lmfao), I refuse to marry the smell of a pool bandaid so I’m killing it and I’m buckling up and saying my vows to the concept of Willem Dafoe

My tattoo artist told me his teenage son came out to him as trans by giving him a bunch of blue cupcakes and a greeting card that said "it's a boy!"

"That's cute," I said.

"It was NOT cute!" he snapped. "I thought he was pregnant."

When you blow johnny and just keep gagging and choking he'll most likely laugh at you. But because you don't just let things slide–that man needs to be put in his place anyway–you pull out one of your dildos, and tell him to suck it. He laughs incredulously at first, though not totally opposedto the idea. But once he saw the expression on your face he knows you're serious. And he was never one to turn down a challenge.

Safe to say he's gagging like a bitch. Can barely take half the thing without tears stinging at his eyes. And if you're mean you tell him, "well, that's pathetic, baby." In a mocking tone. (lt makes his cock twitch dw) and if you're even meaner you decide to 'help out'. Forcing the toy down his throat with your hand. Do it over and over. Like he does when fucking your throat without consideration. He's a mess by the end, sweaty, eyes red with tears flowing from them, drooled all over the toy, down on himself like some mutt. But some time during it he came without even being touched.

He doesn't make fun of you again.

Cw: handjob, pillow talk, casual sex but not in the “no strings attached” kinda way more in the “wanna quick wank before work?” Kinda way. gn reader x soap smut!!!

Had this brain worm where you are giving Johnny the best handjob in his entire life while you lay next to him and vent about your day…

“I just don’t get it, you know?” You lamented to him, your head propped up by your hand as you laid on your side. “Like, I’m not trying to be greedy, I just wish I could be acknowledged for the work I’ve put in.”

All while, your other hand was lazily stroking up and down his length, using the slickness of his precum to smooth the friction between his hard cock and your fingers. And he’s trying his best not to throw his head back and cry out into the wind but you make it really hard to concentrate when all the blood in his skull has rushed down into his balls.

“Aye…” he strained out between gritted teeth. The only word that was able to escape his lips without releasing the throaty moan building up in his lungs.

“So, should I say something? I want to be acknowledged but it’s so hard to rock the boat.” You continued to vent as if you weren’t single-handedly (literally) ruining this man.

“Do…what…you need to…luv…” he choked out, feeling your hand glide up to rub over his red needy tip, the bulbous head leaking out desperately as you caress it.

“Are you sure? I don’t know…”

he bit his knuckle as you mused, trying not to let out the deep guttural cry that was threatening to bubble out of his throat.

“Mhm…yeah…oh fuck yeah.” He had no idea what he was agreeing to anymore, so lost in the pleasure of your touch his mind had gone foggy.

He felt his balls tighten eagerly as your angelic hand continued it’s assualt on his cock. He felt his release impending like a tidal wave, legs shaking with anticipation and pure overstimulation.

You said something to him but it didn’t quite reach his ears, his body flushed hot against your welcoming palm as it jerked him, fast and tight. He could feel that familiar bubble of warmth in his pelvis, the chase of a release close to come.

“Fuck…gah, fuck!” He groaned out, his head thrown back and his mouth forming an O in a silent scream. The tidal wave of his orgasm came crashing down, his sensitive dick pulsating and spitting hot white strips of cum across his shirt.

He was left panting on the bed, entire body a rosy red as his hips jumped as even the slightest brush of your fingers was enough to keep him sensitive and aching. His entire body felt weak and boneless, all the energy he has left now a stain on the front of his shirt.

“Okay, I think I’ll try that.” You said, almost triumphant and pleased in your decision. “I’ll say something to her once I get to work. Put myself out there.” You leaned over his flushed body to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek, a rather tame and loving moment compared to what had happened seconds prior. ”I’m gonna wash my hands and leave for work. you want to me put your shirt in the wash before I head out?”

He shook his head weakly and raised his hand to usher you away, in a sort of “I’ll be fine” gesture.

You smiled, giving him one last kiss on the cheek before standing and leaving the poor weak man on the bed