Rizz Em With The Tism :)

You shouldn’t have said it.

Shouldn’t have called him cold.

But it was too late now.

The hotel room door slams shut behind you and König’s voice slices the air before your back even hits the wall.

“Wanna say that again?”

Low. Threatening. Controlled only by sheer force of will.

You try to respond, but he’s already closing the space—six foot ten of raw, coiled fury. His jaw ticks as he presses a palm flat against the wall beside your head, caging you in.

“I said,” he growls, “say it again. Call me cold.”

You stare at him, heart thundering. His mask is still on, only his eyes visible, ice blue and burning. The sharp scent of sweat and gunpowder still clings to his gear. There’s tension rolling off of him in thick waves.

“I didn’t mean-” you begin, but his hand wraps around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Don’t lie to me.” His voice is velvet-edged steel. “You meant it. You think I don’t feel anything?”

You shake your head. “I just… I wanted a reaction.”

“Well, you’ve got one.”

His grip tightens, not cruel, but punishing. His other hand snakes between your thighs, fingers brushing over your panties, slow and deliberate. His eyes-those bottomless, haunted eyes-watch every flicker of your reaction.

“You want warmth?” he sneers, slipping his fingers under the fabric. “Earn it.”

You gasp as two thick fingers shove inside you, rough and merciless. He pumps them without warning, curling them to strike deep, mean spots that make your legs quake.

“No prep, no patience, just like you wanted, right?” His lips brush your ear. “You poke the monster, don’t cry when it bites.”

Your moan is swallowed by his mouth crushing against yours, brutal and possessive. His free hand releases your throat and tangles in your hair, yanking your head back to bare your neck. He licks a stripe up your throat, then bites down—hard. You cry out, wetness flooding his hand as he continues to fuck you with his fingers.

When he pulls away, he licks his fingers clean, then wipes the rest across your cheek like war paint.

“Strip,” he commands. “And kneel.”

You do, hands trembling. König paces as you bare yourself, tossing your clothes aside. When you drop to your knees, he stops in front of you, towering and impassive, his cock straining against his pants.

“Look at you. All mouth earlier. And now you’re quiet.”

You glance up at him through your lashes. “I’m sorry.”

“Too late for that.”

He unzips, pulls himself free. He’s thick, veiny, heavy in his hand.. and already leaking for you. You barely have time to adjust before he grabs a fistful of your hair and guides your mouth to him.

“Open.”

You obey. He slides in deep, forcing your jaw wide. The burn makes your eyes water. His pace is punishing, relentless, each thrust forcing you to take more, gagging on him until tears stream down your cheeks.

“You wanted real,” he grunts, thrusting harder. “This is what it looks like.”

You gag again, nails digging into your own thighs to anchor yourself. He’s merciless, head thrown back, groaning like thunder. You think you catch the faintest tremble in his hips before he pulls out and hauls you up.

“On the bed. Face down, ass up.”

You scramble into place, heart racing, legs trembling. You don’t see him shed the rest of his gear, but you hear the belt. The low hiss of leather sliding through loops. Your breath catches.

Then, crack.

The belt lands across your ass, fire blooming across your skin. You whimper, but he’s already winding it around your wrists behind your back, tying it tight.

“Still think I’m cold?” he murmurs.

“No,” you breathe.

He lines up behind you, nudging your legs farther apart. The tip of his cock drags through your slick folds, slow and deliberate.

“No safeword tonight,” he says, voice raw. “You want me soft? Beg for it.”

He slams into you, hard enough to make the bedframe slam the wall. You cry out, but he doesn’t let up. Each thrust is deep and punishing, every inch of him dragging fire through you.

“Louder,” he demands. “Let the whole fucking hotel know who you belong to.”

You scream his name, broken and sobbing, body stretched to its limits. He pounds into you like he’s trying to leave bruises on your soul. Your body shakes, sweat mixing with tears. You feel split open, ruined-and then, suddenly—

His hand slides under you, finds your clit. Starts rubbing fast, ruthless circles. You wail, legs buckling, orgasm ripping through you like lightning.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Come for me. Come on my cock, slut.”

You do.. clenching, sobbing, trembling. But he doesn’t stop. He grabs your hips, keeps thrusting, deeper, harder.

“Not done.”

It’s too much. You’re crying now, begging without words. You feel raw, used, broken open, and then he comes too, with a hoarse growl, spilling deep inside you, burying his cock as far as it’ll go.

For a long, shuddering moment, he stays there.. chest heaving, hands gripping your hips like they’re the only thing anchoring him.

Then slowly, he pulls out, unties your wrists. You collapse onto the bed, wrecked.

And then, his hand brushes your hair back. Gentle. Careful.

You feel the weight of the covers pulled over you. Arms gathering you against a broad, bare chest. A heartbeat thundering in your ear.

König exhales. “You drive me fucking insane.”

You nuzzle into his chest, dazed. “Sorry.”

He doesn’t answer at first. Then you feel his lips against your temple.

It slapped against the roof of the safehouse like a slow, bitter drumbeat, a constant reminder that they were cut off. No extraction. No comms. Just waiting.

You sat on the edge of the narrow cot, fingers trembling as you rewrapped the gauze around your ribs. It was soaked through with blood again. Not fresh. Not fatal. But persistent enough to make your teeth grit with every movement.

Across the room, König hadn’t moved in hours.

He stood near the window, his massive frame outlined by the gray light filtering in through the blinds. He hadn’t spoken since you got back, hadn’t looked at you. Just stood there in that silence he wore like armor. You knew he was angry. You also knew he wasn’t angry at you. That didn’t stop the silence from cutting.

“I didn’t mean to screw it up,” you said finally. Your voice barely carried over the storm outside.

He didn’t answer.

You looked down at your hands. They were shaking. Probably shock. Maybe fear. Or maybe it was the way König had barely touched you since dragging you out of that collapsed building. He’d carried you through the smoke and gunfire without a word, his hands steady and sure, even as you faded in and out of consciousness.

Now, you were alone with the aftermath. The blood. The pain. And the silence that filled the space between you.

“Say something,” you whispered.

Nothing.

You stood, too fast. The edges of your vision went white, but you pushed through it.

“Look at me, König.”

He didn’t turn.

Your voice rose. “Why won’t you look at me? What did I do? Was it that bad?”

He flinched.

That was all it took. That tiny twitch of his shoulders.

You took a step forward, pressing a hand to the wall to steady yourself.

“You saved my life. You got me out when no one else would’ve made it in time. But you haven’t said a single word since.”

His voice, when it came, was rough. Broken.

“I should’ve gotten there sooner.”

You froze.

He turned finally, and it hit you like a gut punch. The way his eyes looked underneath that mask. Not cold. Not hard. Just tired. Devastated.

“I saw the blood,” he said. “I thought you were already dead.”

Your throat tightened. “But I wasn’t.”

“I didn’t know that.”

You took another step. “But you got me out.”

He shook his head slowly. “You screamed for me. I heard it, and I couldn’t get to you fast enough. I heard your voice and I…”

He stopped. Something cracked in his voice that made your chest ache.

You crossed the distance between you slowly, pausing in front of him. He wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“I didn’t die, König.”

He laughed, but there was no joy in it. “No. But you could have. Because I hesitated.”

You reached up, fingers brushing against the fabric of his sleeve. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t move either.

“You didn’t hesitate. You risked your life to come back for me.”

“I should’ve known better,” he said. “I should’ve checked the perimeter. I should’ve cleared the northeast hallway. You trusted me and I failed you.”

“Stop.”

His mouth snapped shut.

You pressed your forehead against his chest. “You didn’t let me die. That’s what matters.”

For a long time, he stood frozen. Then slowly, his arms came up and wrapped around you. It was a hesitant kind of touch, like he was afraid he’d break you if he held on too tight.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered. “I kept thinking, if I just moved faster, maybe you wouldn’t have screamed like that.”

You closed your eyes. “I screamed because I was scared. Because I didn’t want to die alone. And then you came. You heard me. That’s what saved me.”

His grip tightened. This time there was no hesitation.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so sorry.”

You felt it then. The tremor in his hands. The way he buried his face in your shoulder. The weight of his guilt. The pain of someone who always bore the cost of survival.

“I’m right here,” you said, voice trembling. “You didn’t lose me.”

But part of him didn’t believe that. You could feel it in the way he held you like you were a ghost that might vanish if he blinked.

That night, you woke up gasping. Your ribs ached. Your skin was slick with sweat. You couldn’t remember the dream. Only the feeling of being crushed under the rubble again. The smoke. The fire. The scream caught in your throat.

You stumbled to your feet, disoriented.

“König?”

You found him in the other room, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. His helmet sat beside him. His mask was pulled up just enough to show his mouth and chin. His hands were curled into fists against his thighs.

He looked up when he heard you, eyes wide.

“I… I didn’t mean to wake you,” you mumbled. “I just… needed to see you.”

“You’re not supposed to be walking yet.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

He stood slowly and came to your side, guiding you gently by the elbow. “Come here.”

You let him lead you back to the bed. You sat, wincing as your side twinged.

He knelt in front of you and pulled the blanket around your shoulders.

“Are you cold?”

“No.”

He hesitated.

You reached out, fingertips brushing his jaw. “Can you stay?”

He didn’t speak. Just nodded once and sat beside you on the narrow cot.

You curled up against him. He moved stiffly at first, then relaxed and wrapped an arm around your waist. His body was warm. Solid. Steady.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he said again, almost to himself.

“I’m still here.”

“I keep replaying it. Your voice. The sound of the building coming down. I thought… I thought I was too late.”

You turned toward him, your face pressed into the curve of his neck.

“You were exactly on time.”

His voice cracked. “I can’t stop seeing it.”

“You don’t have to protect me from your guilt,” you whispered. “You can let me carry some of it too.”

König didn’t answer right away. Then he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“I don’t deserve that.”

“Yes, you do.”

Another silence stretched out, but this one wasn’t empty. It was full of the sound of breath, of closeness, of warmth.

He stayed with you until you drifted off, and when you stirred again, he was still holding you.

⸻

Days passed. The rain stopped. Supplies dwindled.

Your ribs started healing, but König’s eyes never did.

One afternoon, you found him outside, standing under the stripped branches of a tree. The light caught in his hair where his hood had fallen back. You watched him from the doorway for a long time before stepping out.

He didn’t turn, but he heard you.

“Do you believe in redemption?” he asked.

You hesitated. “Sometimes.”

“What if you keep failing the people you’re supposed to protect?”

“You didn’t fail me.”

He looked at you, and you saw it. The tears he hadn’t shed. The ones he was still holding back

“I need you to stop saying that,” he said. “Because I want to believe it. But I don’t.”

You crossed to him, slowly.

“I need you to believe it. Because I do.”

He turned away, and you reached for his hand.

“I don’t think you’re broken,” you said. “I think you carry too much alone.”

“I don’t know how not to.”

“Then let me help you.”

He looked at you like he’d never heard those words before. Like no one had ever meant them.

Then he leaned in and rested his forehead against yours. No pressure. No masks. Just skin and breath.

“I don’t want to hurt like this anymore,” he whispered.

“Then let’s hurt together. Until it fades.”

König exhaled. It wasn’t a sob, but it was close.

And then he pulled you into him, and this time, he didn’t hold back.

⸻

Healing wasn’t linear.

He still woke from nightmares, sometimes with your name on his lips. You still flinched when doors slammed. There were days when he wouldn’t speak at all, but he let you hold his hand.

There were nights when you couldn’t breathe through the ache in your chest, but he would sit beside you and rub slow circles into your back until the world came back into focus.

You both carried ghosts.

But in that quiet safehouse, with no orders, no missions, and no more masks, you started building something out of the rubble.

Something that felt like peace.

Not perfect.

But real.

He kissed you for the first time without armor, without fear. Just König. Just you.

And it didn’t feel like a victory or a confession. It felt like forgiveness.

Rough, damaged König learns to be soft for her.

You knew better than to provoke him like this. But maybe that was the point.

The silence between you had stretched for days. König had grown colder, rougher, harder to read. Not that he was ever gentle… but something in him had shifted. Something jagged lived behind his eyes now.

You missed him. Missed the version of him that held you close afterward, even if only for a few minutes. Missed the way he would pause with his lips against your spine, breathing you in like a man starved. Lately, he barely looked at you when he fucked you.

So you pushed.

You mouthed off. Rolled your eyes. Wore that little lace set he hated, the one that made him call you a whore for attention. You teased and defied and bit at the chain until it snapped.

Now you were paying for it.

Your wrists were bound behind your back. His belt cinched tight around them, rough leather biting into your skin. You were bent over the bed, face buried in the sheets, ass in the air. Your panties were shoved to your knees, and he was behind you. Silent, seething.

His hand cracked across your thigh, and you jerked, letting out a cry.

“You want to be treated like a slut?” he growled.

Another slap. Your legs buckled. His voice was venomous.

“I’ll treat you like one.”

You choked on a moan as his fingers forced their way between your thighs. You were soaked already- of course you were. You hated how your body responded to this, how much it loved the pain, the power, the filth.

“Fucking dripping,” he hissed. “Of course you are.”

You flinched as he spread you open with one hand, the other still gripping the belt like he wasn’t done with it.

“Please,” you gasped. “Just- just fuck me.”

“I said you’d earn it.”

The belt came down across your ass again. You cried out. He hit you again. Again. You were shaking by the time he finally dropped the belt to the floor.

The sound of his zipper felt like a warning. You tensed, body taut as wire, trembling with anticipation.

Then he pushed into you—no warning, no patience, no words. Just the sharp, brutal stretch of him filling you in one vicious thrust.

You screamed.

He didn’t stop.

His hands gripped your hips like they were handles. He used you. Slammed into you like he was punishing you. No kisses. No tenderness. Just raw, relentless fucking.

You bit the sheets to muffle your sobs. It felt so good, and it hurt so bad, and you didn’t know where the two sensations split anymore. All you knew was that you weren’t okay.

And that he didn’t seem to care.

“König,” you whimpered. “Why are you-why are you doing this-?”

He growled low in his throat. “You wanted this. You made me.”

“No-no, I didn’t-”

“You always want it rough,” he snapped. “Don’t pretend you don’t love this.”

He pounded into you harder, rougher, until your arms were screaming from the tension and your breath hitched into something close to a sob.

You tried to breathe. Tried to keep control. But your body was splitting in two-one half of you begging for more, the other screaming for something softer. For him.

He pulled out, only to flip you onto your back like you were weightless. The belt twisted your arms behind you, chest heaving, eyes glazed.

He climbed on top of you, one hand pressing your bound wrists into the mattress, the other sliding between your thighs again. He forced you open and slid back inside, watching your face as he filled you.

You cried out, your body arching up against his chest. He didn’t kiss you.

“König,” you gasped, voice cracking. “Why do you hate me?”

He froze.

“What?”

You stared up at him, eyes brimming with tears. “You… you must hate me. To do this. To treat me like.. like I don’t matter.”

His breath caught. His hips stilled.

“Do you hate me?” you asked, voice trembling. “Do you hurt me because you don’t love me?”

His mask twitched. His hands softened just slightly, but his grip didn’t loosen.

“I-I know I wanted this,” you said. “But sometimes I think… maybe you do it like this because it’s easier. To treat me like a body. Like something you don’t have to care about.”

The room was deathly quiet except for your sobbing.

“I just… I want to matter,” you whispered. “Even if you only ever touch me like this. Even if it’s always rough. I can take it. I just want to know that I’m not nothing to you.”

He stared down at you, chest heaving, his cock still buried deep inside you—but now he wasn’t moving.

He said nothing for a long moment.

Then, softly:

“I don’t hate you.”

Your breath caught. His voice was ragged.

“I hate myself,” he said.

You blinked through tears, lips trembling. “Then why?”

His hands trembled on your body.

“Because I don’t know how else to be,” he muttered. “Because when I touch you like this, I don’t have to think about what I am. I just… take. And you let me.”

He lowered his head, forehead pressing against yours through the fabric of the mask.

“You should hate me,” he whispered. “I’m a monster.”

You stared at him-broken open, heart bleeding.

And then you whispered, “If you’re a monster… then I’m your monster.”

His breath hitched.

You leaned your forehead into his, tears sliding down your cheeks. “Hurt me all you want. Just don’t leave.”

He didn’t answer. Just held you there-still inside you, still trembling-and for the first time in weeks, he didn’t pull away.

The room was too quiet.

König hadn’t moved since you whispered those words-Hurt me all you want. Just don’t leave. He hovered above you, cock still buried deep, his chest heaving with something that wasn’t lust anymore.

You felt his body tremble.

It was the first time you’d ever seen him hesitate.

He pulled out gently, too gently, like he thought he might break you further if he didn’t. You whimpered at the loss, at the emptiness between your legs, and at the cold that followed once he was no longer touching you.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t untie your wrists.

Just stood beside the bed, towering and silent, the black mask hiding the man-but not the shame radiating off him like heat.

“König,” you whispered, your voice hoarse and wet with tears.

His back was to you.

“König… say something.”

His head dropped. You watched his shoulders rise and fall in deep, uneven breaths. When he finally spoke, it was quiet. Flat. Broken.

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

You stared up at him, tears still drying on your cheeks. “But you always do.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

He turned slightly, just enough for you to see the angle of his jaw beneath the mask- tight, clenched, like he was holding himself together with sheer will.

“Because I thought you wanted it,” he said. “Because I told myself you needed it. And because if I gave you what you actually deserved…” His voice cracked. “I wouldn’t know how to live with it.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

He faced you fully now, but didn’t come closer. His hands opened and closed at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“You think I don’t care,” he said quietly. “But you’re all I think about.”

Your heart twisted.

He swallowed hard. “And that’s the problem.”

You waited.

“I was trained to kill,” he said, eyes locked on you now. “I was shaped into something that doesn’t know how to hold anything without hurting it. You look at me like I’m capable of more. Of love. Of softness. But all I know is how to destroy.”

“You haven’t destroyed me.”

Hollow laughter, bitter. “Not for lack of trying.”

He turned away again, pacing now. Rubbing his face like he could scrub the guilt off with his palms.

“I meant to scare you,” he said. “Meant to take control. But when you asked if I hated you..”

He broke off.

“I’ve never felt so ashamed in my life.”

You watched his chest rise. Fall.

“I felt like a fucking animal. Not even that-less. Like a weapon too dull to do anything but ruin what it touches.”

You shifted on the bed, twisting your arms behind you.

“Please,” you whispered. “Untie me.”

He turned, saw you still bound.

His expression shattered.

He crossed the room in two strides and dropped to his knees beside you. His fingers were too big for the buckle-he fumbled, cursed under his breath, finally tearing the belt loose with a rough jerk.

You winced, your wrists aching as the leather slid off. He reached for them with trembling hands.

“Don’t-” you started.

But he didn’t hurt you.

He cradled your wrists in his palms like they were glass, eyes scanning the angry red marks circling your skin. His touch was feather-light, reverent. And then-he leaned down and pressed a kiss to each one.

You froze.

His breath was shaking against your skin. His hands still trembled.

“I never meant to make you cry like that,” he whispered. “I didn’t think-I didn’t feel.”

He looked up, and for the first time, you saw the man through the eye slits. Not the soldier. Not the monster.

Just a man.

A scared, lonely man who’d never been taught how to love without pain.

“I don’t know how to want someone without hurting them,” he whispered. “But I swear to you, I don’t hate you.”

You looked down at him. Kneeling, wounded, raw.

“I know,” you said softly.

He leaned his head against your thigh, forehead pressing to your skin through the mask. His arms wrapped around your waist like he was holding on for dear life.

You ran your fingers through his hair, gentle now. “You’re not a monster.”

He didn’t answer.

But he held you tighter.

For the first time since you met him, König didn’t want sex. He wanted stillness. Warmth. Forgiveness he didn’t know how to ask for.

You curled into him, both of you naked and exposed in the worst ways, and for a long time, neither of you said a word.

But you both felt everything.

The air between you had shifted.

König hadn’t moved from where he knelt, arms still loosely wrapped around your waist, head bowed as though in prayer. His breath warmed your thigh. His mask scratched your skin. But his grip-tentative now-had none of the violence it held before.

You ran your hand through his hair again, slower this time, more deliberate. You could feel his heart racing against you like he’d just stepped off a battlefield.

Because maybe he had.

“König,” you said gently.

He tensed.

“König, look at me.”

He didn’t move at first. Then slowly—like it hurt—he raised his head, eyes meeting yours through the holes in his mask.

What you saw there nearly undid you.

He looked ruined.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to make you ask if I loved you. I didn’t mean for you to ever wonder.”

Your throat tightened. “But I did.”

His head dropped again. “I know.”

“I do wonder,” you whispered. “All the time.”

He slid his arms up your sides slowly-still trembling, still terrified you’d recoil-but you let him. His hands cupped your face like he was holding something precious. His thumbs brushed your cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Tears burned behind your eyes again.

“I just…” he shook his head, voice cracking, “I didn’t know I was capable of love until I met you. And by the time I realized it, I’d already done too much damage.”

You swallowed. “You could’ve told me.”

“I thought if I stayed distant, if I kept it all rough and cold, it’d protect you. From me. From what I am.”

“You think I needed protection?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer.

“I thought you hated me,” you said, tears spilling freely now. “I thought you used me to get off. I thought I was nothing.”

König’s breath hitched.

“I thought I didn’t matter,” you sobbed. “And I loved you anyway. I loved you every night you left me alone. Every time you touched me like I was just a thing.”

He moved closer on his knees. “Don’t say that-”

“It’s true,” you cried. “You made me believe it. You didn’t tell me otherwise. You let me sit in that silence and rot.”

He stared up at you, completely unraveling.

And then-quietly-he said it.

“I need you to forgive me.”

You blinked through the tears. “What?”

“I know I don’t deserve it. But please,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Please, Schatz. Forgive me.”

The rawness of it split something open in both of you.

He reached up, pulled his mask up over his mouth and nose, exposing the trembling curve of his lips. They were chapped. Pink. Vulnerable. Real.

You’d never seen him like this.

“I’ve never begged for anything in my life,” he said. “But I’ll beg for this. For you.”

Your heart clenched so tightly it hurt. “König…”

But he wasn’t done.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he whispered. “I’ll stop. I’ll learn. I’ll never touch you again unless you ask me to.”

You shook your head slowly, voice cracked. “I don’t want you to stop touching me.”

He blinked, stunned.

You reached forward, pressing your palms gently to his chest.

“I want you to touch me like I matter.”

He let out a broken sound-half relief, half agony. His hands hovered in the air, like he was afraid to lay them on you, like he didn’t trust himself.

“You’re not off the hook,” you said, voice steady now, firmer. “I just want you to care. To touch me like I matter.”

He nodded. “I don’t want to be off the hook.”

“But I want to move forward,” you said, softer. “I want to believe that you can love me without violence. That you can hold me and not crush me.”

“I can,” he said instantly. “I swear, I can.”

“Then show me.”

König reached for you slowly- so slowly-and when his fingertips touched your waist, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. He trailed his touch upward, along your ribs, over the curve of your shoulder, then down your arm to your still-marked wrist.

He kissed it. Gently. Twice.

Then he climbed into the bed beside you, his body trembling as he settled in behind you and pulled you into his chest. You let him.

He wrapped his arms around you like a man afraid to fall asleep. His nose pressed to your hair. You could feel his heart hammering against your spine.

“I love you,” he whispered, so soft you almost didn’t catch it.

But you did.

You turned your head just enough to see his face, still half-masked. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” he repeated, firmer now. “I love you. Not your body. Not your submission. You.”

You exhaled shakily. “I need to believe that.”

“I’ll make you believe it,” he said. “Every day, if I have to.”

You turned fully and laid your head on his bare chest. He cradled you there. Your breath slowed. So did his.

His fingers brushed your thigh, tentative again. “May I?”

You nodded.

His touch trailed up your inner thigh—not for domination, not to bend you—but just to feel. To remind you that he could be soft. That he could choose it.

When he pressed his lips to your temple, something in you loosened for the first time in weeks.

You weren’t healed. Not yet.

But you weren’t afraid anymore.

It was hours before either of you moved again.

You laid together in silence, wrapped around each other like a battlefield truce. His arms stayed curled around you, but looser now-no more bruising grip. No more hands made to break.

Just the weight of his body warming yours.

The soft brush of his fingers down your spine. The slow, heavy breathing that let you feel every inch of him pressed against your back.

But even now, you knew he was waiting for permission. König-terrifying, enormous König-had spent the past hour touching you with the caution of a man handling sacred relics.

And you needed that. God, you needed that.

But you needed more too.

You rolled over slowly, facing him. He flinched slightly-still expecting rejection. Still braced for pain. But you lifted your hand to his face, dragging your knuckles over the edge of his jaw. His mask was still half-up, exposing just his mouth and chin.

He looked more naked like that than he ever had before.

You whispered, “Take it off.”

His eyes locked on yours. “The mask?”

You nodded.

He hesitated… then pulled it off, slow and unsure.

And then he was there. All of him.

Sharp jawline. Faint stubble. That long scar at the corner of his lip you’d never seen up close. His mouth looked kiss-starved. His eyes were ocean-dark, raw and unguarded.

You sucked in a breath.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered.

His lips parted, stunned. Like no one had ever said that to him and meant it.

You leaned in and kissed him. Soft. Careful.

It was the first time a kiss between you didn’t feel like a threat.

He kissed you back with aching restraint, hands tightening around your waist, but not pulling—not controlling. Just holding.

You climbed into his lap and straddled him, your thighs bracketing his hips. You didn’t say anything when your bodies brushed together—just pressed your forehead to his and let your lips trail his jaw.

“Will you let me?” you whispered. “Will you let me take you in without being afraid?”

He looked like he might break.

“Yes.”

And he meant it.

You reached down and guided him inside you, slowly, sinking onto him like your body was made to hold him. He was big, but now you welcomed the stretch, the fullness. You moaned into his mouth as you slid down all the way.

His breath left him in a shudder. “Scheiße…”

You rolled your hips once. His head fell back, mouth open, jaw tight. You kissed his throat.

“Is this okay?” you asked softly.

“Ja,” he breathed. “Yes. Yes, please—don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

You moved gently, grinding against him, both hands on his chest. He let you take the lead. Let you ride him slow and deep while he watched you with something like worship in his eyes.

There was no belt.

No restraints.

Just his hands on your waist, guiding you like he was afraid to break the spell. Like he wanted this to last forever.

Your pace stayed slow. Intimate. His cock stroked places inside you that had never felt tender until now.

You gasped. “Feels so good, König…”

He held your face. “You feel like heaven.”

Your hands found his. Interlocked fingers. He let out a guttural moan, so full of emotion it almost made you cry again.

“Kiss me,” you whispered.

He did. And it was real this time.

You came like that, his mouth on yours, his arms around your back, your bodies moving together like two broken halves finally meeting at the seam.

And when you did, he followed with a hoarse groan and a whispered curse in German, burying his face in your shoulder.

After, he didn’t let go. Not for a long time.

You collapsed against him, flushed and trembling. He pulled a blanket over both of you and wrapped himself around you like a shield.

“I’ve never done that before,” he whispered.

“What? Had sex?”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Had that kind of sex.”

You smiled into his chest. “We can do it again.”

He brushed his lips over your forehead. “We will.”

There was silence, soft and heavy.

Then:

“Will you stay?” he asked. “After tonight. After all of this.”

You looked up at him.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded slowly.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I want to learn how to love you right. Even if it takes me the rest of my life.”

You kissed him again.

And this time…

König x reader

Seriously. Don't read it if you're not sure.

This is not an example of healthy sex. This is me safely writing about fantasies in a fictional format.

TW: Extreme rough sex, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, reader isn't ready but he does it anyway, crying, pain, punishment, fear, emotional whiplash

You knew the look.

That hard, dark stare behind the mask. König didn’t speak when he was like this—he didn’t need to. The silence stretched thick across the room as he stood in the doorway, one gloved hand gripping the frame like he was holding back a storm.

You had crossed a line.

He had warned you—don’t provoke him tonight.

But you couldn’t help it. The brat in you needed to see how far he’d go.

So you tested him. Again and again. Teasing, mocking, even walking out mid-sentence just to watch the way his jaw tensed. You pushed and pushed, and now the door’s shut behind him, locked, and you’re cornered like prey.

You wanted this.

But not like this.

Not with that kind of quiet.

König steps forward. You back up instinctively, bumping into the edge of the bed. He doesn’t stop. You can hear his breath through the mask, the low rasp of it like a growl. His shoulders are tense, that hulking frame barely restrained.

“You don’t get to run now,” he mutters.

The accent is thick. Cold. Different from the warm timbre he uses when he praises you, when he makes love to you.

This isn’t that König.

This one is furious.

He yanks your wrist so fast your breath catches in your throat. You’re spun around, bent over the bed before you can gasp his name. The sting of the first slap lands across your ass, open-palmed and vicious, dragging a scream from your lips.

“Lauter,” he growls. Louder.

Another slap. Then another. Your vision swims.

“You think you’re funny?” he snaps, his voice low and brutal in your ear. “Walking away from me. Talking back. You think I won’t do anything?”

You shake your head, but he grips the back of your neck, shoving your face into the mattress.

“Answer me.”

“No,” you choke out.

“Nein, what?”

“No, sir!”

The belt comes off with a hiss.

You brace yourself.

The first lash of leather across your thighs has you jerking up with a scream, but he holds you down, one giant hand pressing into your upper back. It comes again, and again, each strike cruel and calculated. No rhythm, no pattern—just punishment.

You're sobbing within minutes.

He doesn’t slow.

“Stupid girl,” he spits, striking low. “You know I hate being disrespected. You wanted this? You wanted to cry for me?”

You’re beyond words now. Your tears soak the sheets as your legs tremble beneath the force of it all.

He pulls you up by your hair, dragging you to your knees.

“Open your mouth.”

You obey, lips shaking, jaw barely able to hold open.

He shoves two fingers deep, gagging you instantly. You cough, but he doesn’t let up, fucking your throat with them like you’re nothing but a hole.

“Gonna scream for me, huh?” he growls, eyes burning behind the fabric. “Then scream. Cry. Let them hear.”

You choke again, tears streaming down your cheeks, soaking your flushed skin. He finally yanks his fingers out and smears the spit across your cheek like it’s a trophy.

“You look so pathetic like this,” he sneers.

Then he’s shoving you back down—rough, relentless.

He doesn’t prep you. He doesn’t ask if you’re ready. The stretch when he pushes in makes you scream out in pain, your hands clutching the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping you grounded.

You hear him moan low. A shudder.

“So fucking tight,” he pants, driving in to the hilt. “You beg for it and you’re never ready, are you?”

You can’t answer. You can barely breathe. His thrusts are merciless, his hands gripping your hips so hard you know there’ll be bruises. He’s not chasing your pleasure. He’s punishing you with every inch.

You cry harder.

You scream.

And he fucks you through all of it.

Your throat is raw from the sobs that tear out of it. You don’t even know what you’re saying—please, stop, no more, over and over, but you never say the word that matters. Because you asked for this.

You wanted to see how far he'd go.

Now you're breaking.

The moment it hits you—when you collapse under him, unable to hold yourself up, a sobbing mess of pain and overstimulation—he finally stills.

It’s like something in him snaps.

You feel his weight lift off you instantly.

Then silence.

You’re left gasping, trembling, sobbing into the sheets.

And then his hands—those same cruel hands—are suddenly gentle. Stroking your hair. Wrapping a blanket around you. Lifting you as if you’re made of glass.

“Schatz…” His voice is hoarse. Barely audible. “Nein… no, no, no…”

He’s cradling you now.

Sitting against the headboard with you in his lap like a wounded child. He presses your head to his chest, murmuring apologies in German, over and over. You can’t make them out. You’re too far gone.

But his hands don’t stop moving. He touches every part of you like he’s trying to undo it all.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were that close. I should have stopped.”

You cry harder.

And he holds you tighter.

You’re shaking, your entire body pulsing with leftover pain and exhaustion, and still—he doesn’t let go. He rocks you slowly, kissing the crown of your head again and again.

“You were so good,” he whispers. “So brave. I’m sorry, Maus. I went too far.”

You can barely nod, but you don’t pull away.

He tucks the blanket higher around you, lifts your chin gently so he can see your face. His gloved hand wipes the tears from your cheeks, and when he takes the mask off—finally—you see the guilt written in every line of his face.

You’ve never seen him look so wrecked.

“You’re not okay,” he murmurs.

You sob again.

“I hurt you too much.”

You nod this time.

His hands clench into fists.

“I’ll fix it,” he swears. “I’ll take care of you. For as long as it takes.”

You curl into his chest, body still heaving with quiet sobs, and he rocks you again, as if time could reverse and take the pain away.

No more harsh words. No more punishing grip.

Only soft whispers. Only careful touches.

“Don’t leave,” you mumble.

“Never,” he breathes. “Never, Schatz. I’m here.”

And this time, when you cry, it’s not just from pain.

It’s from everything—the vulnerability, the surrender, the feeling of being completely destroyed… and completely held.

By the only man who could break you like this.

All acts in this smut are consensual.

———

The air in the cabin was too still.

Too quiet.

Too watched.

She’d been alone for hours—or at least, she thought she had. The sun had long since vanished, swallowed by thick mountain pines and a sky so black it made the windows look like mirrors. The power was out. The fire had gone low. And still… her skin tingled.

She wasn’t scared. Not really.

But her body? Her body knew.

It knew he was close.

She pressed her back to the wall, fingers gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, her breathing slow but shallow. The thick hoodie she wore felt suddenly too hot. Her bare thighs prickled. Somewhere out in the dark, the forest groaned—and then a twig snapped.

It wasn’t a deer.

It wasn’t the wind.

It was him.

She turned her head slowly toward the door. Locked. But it wouldn’t matter.

Nothing could keep him out when he was like this.

König had been patient.

Too patient.

Days of watching her move around the cabin. Watching her stretch, cook, bathe. Knowing what she was doing—what she was asking for—every time she lingered a little too long near the window, skin damp from the shower, mouth parted in boredom or expectation.

She wanted him to break.

And now?

Now she was going to pay for it.

He moved silently through the trees, massive frame melting into the shadows, blood humming with anticipation. His cock was already hard, aching in the tightness of his pants. His mask clung to his face like a second skin, catching the heat of his breath, feeding the beast in his chest.

He’d warned her.

Told her what would happen if she kept teasing.

Told her what he’d do once he finally stopped holding back.

Run, he’d said.

She didn’t.

Not yet.

But she would.

•

The knock at the door was soft.

Too soft for someone his size.

Her stomach dropped. She didn’t breathe. Didn’t move.

A second knock. Slower. A scrape of something heavy along the wood.

“König,” she whispered, more to herself than anything. “Don’t.”

She didn’t mean it.

The silence that followed was louder than thunder.

And then—

CRACK.

The door burst open, splinters flying as the hinges snapped and König stepped through like a god from some old nightmare. All black. All muscle. Mask shadowed. Breath hard and uneven. He said nothing.

She ran.

She darted for the hallway, bare feet slapping against the wooden floor, heart crashing in her chest. She could hear him behind her—those heavy, deliberate steps. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. He knew he’d catch her.

She rounded the corner and felt an arm like a steel beam wrap around her waist, dragging her backward with a grunt. She screamed—half-laugh, half-moan—as he threw her against the wall, body caging hers, heat pouring off him like fire.

“You made me wait,” he growled, voice thick and low and utterly feral. “You wanted this. Didn’t you, mädchen?”

Her breath caught. “Yes.”

“Then take it.”

He kissed her like he wanted to drown in her, teeth grazing her bottom lip before he bit it, hand already between her thighs, finding her slick and soaked.

“So wet,” he hissed. “You like being hunted.”

She whimpered when he yanked the hoodie up over her head, eyes devouring the curve of her breasts, the arch of her neck. His hand wrapped around her throat—not tight, just a warning—and he leaned down until their lips nearly touched.

“Next time,” he whispered, “run faster.”

Then he bent her over the table and shoved his pants down, no pretense, no gentleness, just the thick, heavy pressure of him pressing against her entrance—and thrusting in with one brutal, claiming stroke.

She cried out. He groaned.

And the beast inside him roared.

The stretch of him filled her to the edge of pain.

Not sharp—deep.

Slow, searing, perfect.

König didn’t move at first. Just stayed inside her, letting her adjust to his size, his heat, the weight of his hand on her back holding her down. She trembled, cheek pressed to the wood of the table, breathing ragged.

“I missed this cunt,” he growled in her ear, accent thicker now, voice hoarse with restraint. “Missed the way you fight it at first. Always so fucking tight.”

She whimpered.

He drew back an inch—then slammed back in. Hard. Unforgiving.

She cried out.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Scream for me.”

He set a brutal rhythm—hips snapping against her ass with a pace that made the table creak and the walls shake. One hand fisted in her hair, the other snaked around to rub her clit, rough fingers circling with ruthless precision.

Every thrust made her rise onto her toes.

Every breath came out a moan.

Every second, he pushed her closer to unraveling.

“You wanted me wild,” he gritted. “This is what that means. No mercy, liebling. Not tonight.”

“Fuck,” she gasped. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

König barked a low, dark laugh. “You think I’m stopping before I breed you?”

He flipped her over in one smooth motion, lifting her like she weighed nothing and slamming her back onto the table. He tore the panties down her thighs and spread her wide, grabbing her knees and bending them back until she was helpless beneath him.

His cock slammed back inside—deeper this time, hitting her in places no one else ever had. Her nails raked down his back. She was shaking. Babbling.

“Already cockdrunk,” he sneered, watching her eyes roll. “You fucking love this.”

She did. God, she did.

Her orgasm hit like lightning—white-hot, shattering. She screamed, clenching around him, her whole body going tight and twitching. But König didn’t let up. He fucked her through it—relentless, punishing.

“Too much,” she gasped. “I—I can’t—”

“You will.” He grabbed her throat again, gently this time, thumb stroking her jaw. “One more. For me.”

And he didn’t even let her catch her breath.

He dragged her off the table, pushed her onto all fours on the floor, and took her again from behind—deeper, rougher, as if chasing something inside her. The slap of skin on skin echoed in the cabin. Her moans turned to sobs. Her body gave in.

And still—he didn’t come.

He was waiting.

She collapsed halfway through her second orgasm, legs shaking too hard to hold her up, face flushed and wet. König gathered her against his chest, sat on the floor with her in his lap, cock still hard and buried deep inside.

“You still want more,” he murmured, brushing the hair from her face.

She nodded, weakly. Barely conscious.

His smile under the mask was wicked. Satisfied. Starving.

“Then I’ll give it to you.”

He shifted, still fully seated inside her, and started moving again—slow, thick, grinding strokes that made her sob into his neck. Her pussy was so sensitive, her whole body trembling from aftershock, but he kept going.

She was already broken.

Now he would own her.

She didn’t know how long he kept going.

Time dissolved into a blur of pressure and heat—of trembling thighs and tear-slicked cheeks, of whispered curses in German and the low, possessive growl of a man gone entirely feral.

König was everywhere. Inside her. Around her. Under her skin.

He held her like she might disappear, wrapping those massive arms around her middle while he fucked her slow and deep from behind, their bodies slick with sweat. Every time she started to come down, he found a new way to push her back up—thumb on her clit, hand around her throat, teeth on her shoulder.

She was ruined. Shaking. Raw. And still, she whispered, “More.”

And he gave it.

God, he gave.

He shifted her into his lap again, thick thighs bracketing her hips, and let her ride him—his hands on her waist, guiding her, while he sat back against the wall and watched her fall apart.

“That’s it, bunny,” he murmured, voice low and strained. “Fuck yourself on it. Show me who you belong to.”

She whined—desperate, overstimulated—and moved her hips in tight circles, clenching around him. Her cunt was so swollen, so soaked, it made obscene sounds every time she sank back down. His cock throbbed inside her, thick and relentless, stretching her open again and again.

“König—” she gasped.

“I know.” He grabbed her jaw, made her look at him. “You feel full, ja?”

She nodded. Couldn’t speak.

“Gonna make you mine, liebling. For real this time.”

He surged up, catching her in his arms mid-thrust and flipping her onto her back—pressing her into the floor with the weight of his entire body, hips grinding against her clit as he started thrusting again, faster now, harder.

She was crying. Moaning. Saying his name like a prayer.

“Please—please, come—inside me—”

He growled like an animal.

“You want that? Want me to fucking breed you?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—”

He snapped.

He slammed into her, once, twice, and on the third thrust he came with a roar, cock pulsing deep inside her as his hips locked against hers. She felt it—every drop—warm and thick and endless, spilling into her like she was made to take it.

König didn’t stop moving. He rocked into her slowly as he came, hand pressed over her belly like he needed to feel it, to mark her from the inside out.

“So good for me,” he rasped. “Took it all. Just like I knew you would.”

Her nails dug into his back. Her legs wrapped tight around his waist.

And finally—finally—the tension drained from his body.

He collapsed over her, heavy and warm, chest rising and falling like a man finally at peace.

They lay there in silence, bodies tangled, breath mingling. His cock still inside her. Her body still trembling.

Then, softly—

“I’ll never let anyone else touch you.”

She blinked up at him, dazed. “I don’t want anyone else.”

He cupped her cheek. Pressed his masked forehead to hers.

Not the kind that made him stop — but the kind that made him linger longer than he should’ve, tongue sliding against hers with something bordering on desperation. He had her pinned to the wall of the apartment, one hand braced beside her head, the other wrapped tight around her hip like he was holding her together — or maybe holding himself.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, even as her legs parted to let him step between them. Her voice was breathless, her mouth swollen, but her hands were already clawing at the hem of his shirt.

“I know.” His voice was low. Rough. Mask still on. “Tell me to leave.”

She didn’t. She never did.

König buried his face against her throat, letting the warmth of her skin drown out the screaming in his head. He could still smell the blood from earlier. Still see the way her body had crumpled behind the barricade when she saw him storm in, his hands soaked, his breathing wild. He’d almost lost her — again.

Now she was here. Now he could touch her.

And he was going to ruin it.

He slid his hand up her thigh, palm rough, calloused, possessive. She gasped when he squeezed, when he ground into her, slow and hard, like he wanted to crawl inside her and stay. She reached for his mask — not to take it off, just to feel him through it.

He grabbed her wrist, firm. “No.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she breathed. “I just wanted…”

“Don’t look at me like I’m human.”

She looked anyway.

“Too late,” she whispered, leaning forward until their foreheads touched, cloth to skin. “You always bleed like one.”

That broke something.

He lifted her then — effortlessly, like she weighed nothing — and walked her backward until her spine hit the bedroom door. Kicked it open. Laid her down on the bed like a man preparing a sacrifice. His movements were sharp, almost angry. He needed to feel something real, something that didn’t come with orders or targets or graves.

She looked up at him, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling like she was scared — not of him, never of him — but of what came next.

“Take it out on me,” she said.

And just like that, his restraint shattered.

He dragged her panties down and shoved her knees apart, growling something low and German under his breath. His fingers slid between her thighs and she arched with a cry — so wet already, so ready, and God, she always took him like she’d been made for him. He pushed two fingers in, hard, curling them just right, and her moan went straight to his cock.

“Louder,” he growled. “Let them hear what you do to me.”

And she did — crying out his name like a confession, while he fucked her with his fingers and kissed her like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Giorno Giovanna x Reader x Bruno Bucciarati

The hideout was quiet, and you should’ve been asleep.

But sleep never came easy anymore—not since the missions got messier, not since the tension in your body had grown too thick to burn off during daylight hours.

Your room was dark save for the dim orange glow of a streetlight outside. You’d just rolled onto your back when the doorknob turned. You froze.

A voice—low, smooth, unmistakably composed—broke the stillness.

“You’re still awake.”

Giorno. And behind him, another shadow. Broader. Slower to enter.

Bruno.

They didn’t knock. They didn’t ask. They just… stepped inside like they’d already decided something. The door clicked shut behind them.

Your heart jumped. “Everything okay?”

Bruno’s eyes met yours, and you saw it. The tension. The restraint. The heat.

“We’ve had a long day,” he said. “And so have you.”

Giorno moved closer to your bed, his golden hair catching the faint light. “You’ve been patient for so long,” he murmured, gaze trailing over your body like a slow caress. “You’ve earned something, don’t you think?”

You sat up slowly, pulse thudding in your neck. “What are you talking about?”

Bruno stepped beside Giorno now. “You. Us. This.” He reached out, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers, and it felt like a lightning strike.

“You’ve been waiting,” Giorno said, voice like silk over fire. “So have we.”

There was heat blooming low in your belly, but you still hesitated. “Together?”

Giorno smirked, a rare edge of mischief on his tongue. “Would you like that?”

You couldn’t answer fast enough.

“Yes.”

The shift in the room was immediate. Bruno leaned down, kissing you without warning, slow at first but firm. He tasted like coffee and something darker, like restraint unraveling. His tongue slid against yours, deliberate and searching. You moaned into his mouth.

When he pulled back, Giorno took his place,hands on either side of your face, lips softer but hungrier, more possessive. He kissed like he needed you.

You reached for both of them, and they let you, Giorno’s hand threading through your hair, Bruno’s palm pressing to the small of your back.

You felt caged. Owned. Worshipped.

And you loved it.

“Lie back,” Giorno whispered. You obeyed.

He and Bruno moved like they’d done this before—like they’d choreographed every touch, every breath. Bruno’s fingers slid under your shirt, dragging it up, baring you inch by inch. Giorno’s hands followed, cool and reverent against your skin.

“Look at you,” Bruno murmured, voice rough as his hands cupped your breasts. “So good for us already.”

You arched into his touch. “Please…”

“You don’t have to beg yet,” Giorno said, crawling between your legs and hooking a finger in your waistband. “But we’d like it if you did.”

You let out a breathless laugh.. half nerves, half arousal, and lifted your hips so he could strip you.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, dragging your panties down slowly. “Strong. Loyal. We see how hard you fight. We want to reward you.”

Bruno’s fingers were at your throat now, just enough pressure to keep you present.

“You don’t need to think tonight,” he said, lips grazing your ear. “Just feel.”

And then Giorno leaned down and felt you.

His mouth was heaven and sin. Soft lips, clever tongue, every flick and suck designed to pull pleasure from you like silk from skin. You gasped and grabbed at the sheets as Bruno whispered praise against your cheek.

“That’s it. Let him hear how good he’s making you feel. You’re such a good girl for us, aren’t you?”

You whimpered. Nodded. “Yes—yes—”

Giorno moaned into you like your pleasure fed him, and when he pulled back, his lips were wet, his eyes darker.

“Ready?” he asked.

You didn’t answer with words. You reached for him, dragging him up and crashing your mouth to his.

“Fuck me.”

Giorno growled. “Bruno?”

Bruno was already undressing—methodical but fast, stripping away his control layer by layer until he was naked and impossibly hard, his gaze sharp as a blade.

“I’ll hold her,” he said.

He knelt behind you, wrapping you in his arms, pulling you flush to his chest. You could feel his cock pressed against your lower back, heavy and hot and restrained—for now.

Giorno lined himself up, guiding the head of his cock through your folds, teasing you open slowly. You were so wet you heard it.

“You’re ready for this,” he said, voice low. “Say it.”

“I’m ready.”

And he thrust in.

You cried out, not from pain, but from fullness. He was thick and long and buried to the hilt in a single motion, and it was too much and not enough and perfect.

“God—Giorno—”

“You feel incredible,” he groaned, starting to move. “So tight. So warm. You were made for this.”

Bruno held you tighter, his hands on your breasts now, rolling your nipples between his fingers until you cried out again.

“Take it,” he whispered. “Take all of it. We’ll take care of you.”

Giorno thrust deeper, faster, eyes locked on yours as your mouth fell open in a silent scream.

“So perfect. Look at you falling apart for us. You’re such a good girl.”

Your orgasm crashed into you like a wave, ripping through your body as you clenched around him and gasped his name.

Bruno was right there, praising you through it. “That’s it. Let go. You’re safe. We’ve got you.”

Giorno slowed, then pulled out, panting.

“Switch,” he said.

Bruno growled low in his throat and flipped you gently onto your knees, guiding you back against him.

He didn’t tease. He didn’t ask.

He just filled you.

You shouted his name as he sank in—slower than Giorno but no less intense.

“F-fuck—Bruno—”

“You’re mine now,” he growled against your throat. “Ours.”

Giorno knelt in front of you, still hard, eyes blazing.

“Open for me,” he said.

You did.

And the moment his cock hit your tongue, you moaned. So full, so overwhelmed, so owned.

They moved in sync, Bruno’s thrusts timed with Giorno’s gentle, commanding grip on your hair. You were floating. Spiraling.

Bruno slapped your ass and growled, “You take us so well. Fucking perfect. You like being used like this?”

You nodded, tears stinging your eyes from the stretch and the praise.

Giorno pulled back, letting you breathe, then leaned down and kissed you.

“Good girl.”

And you shattered again.

Your throat was sore, your thighs trembling, and your mind had dissolved into a haze of sensation and submission, but they weren’t done with you yet.

Bruno still had you on your knees, his cock buried inside you to the hilt, hips grinding hard as his hands bruised your waist. Giorno’s taste lingered on your tongue, your lips swollen and wet, your cheeks streaked with tears you didn’t remember shedding.

And you still wanted more.

Bruno’s thrusts grew ragged, faster, less restrained. His control, so pristine, was breaking.

“You feel that?” he panted. “You feel how much I want you?”

You moaned, helplessly clenching around him, and he cursed against your shoulder.

“You’re gonna milk me dry, dolcezza. Keep squeezing me like that and I’m not gonna last.”

But he slowed suddenly, drawing back just enough to keep you wanting. His lips brushed your ear.

“You don’t get to come again until Giorno’s inside you too.”

Your breath caught.

“W-what?”

Giorno was already behind you again, stroking himself slowly, eyes drinking you in like art. His golden hair was messy now, his chest heaving.

“We want to feel you together,” he said. “Can you take it?”

Bruno pressed a kiss to your temple. “You want that, don’t you? You want both of us?”

You were shaking, but not from fear.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please—yes.”

They didn’t need any more convincing.

Bruno stayed where he was, deep inside you, as Giorno eased in beside him. Slow, so achingly slow, stretching you wider than you ever imagined possible.

You cried out, fingers clawing at the sheets, eyes wide.

“Too much?” Bruno asked, voice tight.

“No,” you gasped. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

They filled you completely. One slow thrust from Giorno, another from Bruno, back and forth in a rhythm that made your whole body quake. You couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began, just heat and friction and praise.

“You’re taking us so well,” Giorno groaned, lips brushing your spine. “So perfect for us.”

Bruno’s hand found your clit, and he didn’t go easy. He circled it firmly, deliberately, watching your head fall back with a broken moan.

“That’s right. Come for us again. Come with us inside you.”

And you did.

The orgasm hit like fire: violent, beautiful, devastating. You screamed their names, your body locking down around them as they groaned in unison, their own peaks ripping through them as they filled you.

Hot. Deep. Claiming you.

You collapsed onto the mattress, every limb shaking.

But they still weren’t done.

You didn’t know how much time passed. Minutes. Hours. An eternity.

But they kept going.

Touching you. Worshipping you. Testing how far they could push you.

Giorno kissed your neck while Bruno fed you water. Giorno whispered in Italian as he spread your legs open again, his voice silk-soft but relentless.

“You’re glowing,” he said, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “You’re made for this. Made for us.”

You reached for him. “I can’t, I’m too sensitive—”

Bruno kissed your palm. “You can. Just one more. Let us give it to you.”

They held you in place. Giorno between your legs again, Bruno kneeling behind your head, stroking your hair as you whined with every stroke.

It shouldn’t have been possible to feel so much. To want so much. But they gave it to you, over and over—each orgasm building on the last until you weren’t even sure who you were anymore.

Only that you were theirs.

Bruno came again with a growl, collapsing beside you and pulling you into his chest. Giorno followed, curling against your back, lips on your shoulder, one hand over your heart like he could feel it racing.

They stayed like that.

Not just sex anymore.

Worship.

“Brava,” Bruno murmured. “You were perfect.”

Giorno nodded against your skin. “We’ll take care of you. Always.”

You couldn’t speak. Just sighed, content and ruined, between them.

“Rest now,” Bruno whispered. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

And you believed him.

Multi part smut with the same premise. This is just filthy, pure smut 😏

——————-

König’s footsteps were heavy—measured but tense. You looked up from the couch, legs tucked under you, and met his eyes just as he unlatched the helmet.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t kiss you hello.

Just stared.

Bruises already bloomed down his neck, fading into the collar of his black tactical shirt. Blood dried at the edge of his temple, wiped but not fully cleaned.

“König,” you said softly.

He said nothing.

But he walked toward you—slow, deliberate.

You rose to meet him. “What happened?”

“I need you.”

That was all.

But it was enough.

He didn’t undress you gently. He tore at your clothes—shirt dragged up over your arms, bra tossed aside, mouth hot and greedy against your neck. You gasped as he spun you around, hand on your shoulder, pressing you face-down over the back of the couch.

“König—”

“Quiet,” he growled.

His hand wrapped around the back of your neck. Not cruel. But firm enough to make you feel it.

“You said I could be myself with you,” he said.

You nodded.

“I need to fuck something until I stop shaking.”

Your thighs clenched.

You whispered: “Then use me.”

He didn’t prep you with fingers. Didn’t tease.

Just yanked your panties down, spat between your thighs, and lined himself up.

You were wet—already—because that was what König did to you. Just the weight of him, the heat of his presence.

He slammed into you in one stroke.

You cried out, fingers digging into the cushions.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “That tight little cunt—every time, like it’s made for me.”

You couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe.

He set a brutal pace—hands gripping your hips, your skin slapping against his thighs. Every thrust was a claim. A purge. A need.

“You take it so well,” he growled. “You fucking love being ruined.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, König—please—”

He bent forward, chest pressed to your back, hand sliding around to grab your throat.

“I could do anything to you,” he whispered. “And you’d beg for more.”

You moaned, body shaking as your orgasm crashed over you.

König didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, chasing his own release.

And when he came—deep, hard, growling against your shoulder—you felt it like a wound splitting open.

When he pulled out, your legs gave out.

He caught you.

Held you against his chest.

And kissed your temple like he hadn’t just torn you apart.

Part 2: Obedience Lessons

Two nights later, you pushed him.

Just enough to trigger that glint in his eyes.

You wore his shirt to bed with nothing underneath—sat on the counter while he made coffee, bare legs swinging.

“I’m not in the mood,” he said when you brushed your fingers down his chest.

You smirked. “You’re always in the mood.”

His eyes flicked to yours.

You pressed your mouth to his ear and whispered, “Or are you scared you can’t handle me?”

You didn’t even see it coming.

He grabbed your wrist, yanked you down, and tossed you over the counter like you weighed nothing.

“I warned you,” he growled.

Then he spanked you.

Hard.

Once.

Twice.

You cried out, arching under the sting.

König held you down with one arm, the other delivering sharp, searing slaps to your ass. By the fifth, your skin was blazing, your breath ragged.

“You like mouthing off?” he snarled. “Try it again.”

You whimpered. “Please—more.”

He growled low in his throat and reached between your thighs.

“So fucking wet,” he muttered. “All from a little punishment?”

He shoved two fingers inside you and grinned when your legs trembled.

You were gasping, drooling onto the countertop, thighs soaked.

König leaned over you.

“You want me to fuck you like a disobedient whore?” he hissed. “Or like a good girl who finally knows her place?”

Your voice broke: “Both.”

He chuckled darkly.

And gave you exactly what you asked for.

Part 3: You’re Mine

He tied you up the next night.

Hands above your head, wrists bound with soft black rope he kept hidden in the closet. You stood at the foot of the bed, naked, trembling—not from fear, but from anticipation.

König circled you like a predator.

“This is trust,” he murmured, trailing one finger down your spine. “You’d let me destroy you if I wanted.”

“Yes,” you breathed.

“But I won’t,” he said. “Not really.”

He shoved you onto the bed. Spanked you again. Spread your legs wide and knelt between them.

And he ate you out like a man starved.

His mouth was hot and rough—tongue curling, lips sucking your clit hard. You tried to buck, tried to close your legs, but the ropes held you fast.

“König—please—please!”

“Stay open,” he growled. “Take it.”

Your back arched. Your screams echoed.

And when you came, he didn’t stop.

He kept licking. Sucking. Teasing until you were sobbing with overstimulation.

Then, finally, he flipped you onto your stomach, untied your hands, and shoved his cock inside you with a brutal thrust.

He fucked you with his full weight. One hand on your throat, the other tangled in your hair.

“Say it,” he panted. “Say who owns you.”

“You do,” you sobbed. “You do.”

And that was when he came—groaning, pressing his face to your neck, shaking from the force of it.

You both collapsed.

He curled around you like a shield.

Part 4: The Mirror

You didn’t expect him to take you to the mirror.

But that night, he lifted you, carried you across the room—and pinned you to the glass.

“Look,” he said, voice low and dangerous.

You did.

You saw yourself, flushed, panting, marked.

You saw him behind you. Eyes wild. Muscles flexing as he slid inside you again.

“Look how pretty you are,” he growled. “Look how you fall apart for me.”

You moaned, tears spilling as he fucked you hard—so hard the mirror trembled.

He grabbed your chin and forced your gaze upward.

“Tell her she’s beautiful.”

You hesitated.

Spank.

“Say it.”

“She’s beautiful,” you gasped.

“Louder.”

“She’s beautiful.”

He kissed your neck. “Good girl.”

He kept going. Faster. Rougher.

You came screaming, legs giving out. He held you up, fucked you harder, chased his own release.

When he came, he bit your shoulder gently and growled your name.

❣️❣️❣️

Afterward, he bathed you.

Held you in his lap. Whispered in German. Kissed your swollen lips like they were sacred.

“You’re not just mine,” he said. “You’re the only person who’s ever let me be mine.”

You curled into his chest.

And whispered:

TW:torture, angsty, smut

Ashes in the Mouth, part 3

You don’t pull away.

That’s the first thing he notices.

He’s waiting for it—flinching at the idea, the image of your body stepping back. But your skin is warm under his fingers, your breathing steady, your hands reaching for him like you want more.

“Tell me to stop,” he says again, voice rough and uneven. You don’t.

Instead, you rise up onto your toes, curl your fingers around the hem of his shirt, and whisper, “Take it off.”

His breath catches. Not because of lust, not yet, but because of fear. Hope. The kind that tastes like hunger and pain all at once.

He doesn’t move for a second.

Then he peels the shirt off slowly, exposing that broad, scarred chest, the one you’ve only seen glimpses of beneath cotton and hesitation.

You step closer.

Your fingers press to his sternum. He’s solid under your touch. Warm. Real. And trembling slightly, like he’s still not convinced this isn’t a dream.

“Hmm…” you murmur, your voice soft, reverent.

His hands hover at your sides.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you say.

And that’s what breaks him.

Not lust. Not the shape of your body.

But the way you say it.

Like he’s worthy of being wanted.

⸻

The first kiss is quiet.

It shouldn’t be. He’s massive, all muscle and shadow, with hands that could crush and a past that almost did.

But when he kisses you, he’s gentle.

Soft.

His mouth trembles against yours, unsure at first—like he’s afraid of his own hunger.

So you guide him.

You tilt your chin, press closer, part your lips slowly. He breathes you in like you’re oxygen. Like he’s been suffocating and didn’t know until now.

Your hands slide up his chest, feeling the tremor in his muscles, the hesitation in his breath.

When you whisper, “It’s okay,” he lets go of a breath that sounds like a prayer.

⸻

Clothes fall away slowly.

You undress each other in pieces, layers of fabric, layers of fear.

When your shirt drops to the floor and he sees you bare for the first time, his hands clench at his sides.

“You’re…” His voice breaks. “You’re beautiful.”

You flush, but hold his gaze.

“So are you.”

He huffs a disbelieving breath, but when you touch his chest again, he lets you.

You trace every scar. Every freckle. Every line he’s spent years hiding.

“You’re not too much,” you whisper. “You’ve never been too much.”

He closes his eyes. His hands finally settle on your waist. Huge, calloused, but tender. Like he’s still afraid he’ll break you.

“Let me show you,” you say.

⸻

When he lays you down, he moves like someone carrying a secret.

Careful. Silent. Intentional.

He leans over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other trailing along your side like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“Still okay?” he asks.

You nod.

He doesn’t just want permission—he wants certainty. Trust.

You thread your fingers through his hair and tug him down for a kiss.

“More than okay.”

⸻

He takes his time.

Worships you.

His mouth maps your skin, hot and reverent. He moans into you. Small, breathless sounds that feel like gratitude.

Every kiss, every touch, is a quiet confession:

I’m still learning how to want without shame.

I’m still learning how to take without hurting.

I’m still learning how to be touched.

When he finally presses himself inside you, he freezes—overwhelmed by the feeling, the intimacy, the gravity of it all.

You cup his face, grounding him.

“Breathe. You’re okay.”

He nods, jaw tight, eyes glassy.

He’s so big. Stretching you wide, slow and deep. You gasp, your legs tightening around his hips.

“I—I’m not hurting you?”

“No,” you breathe. “You’re perfect. Don’t stop.”

He lets out a strangled sound and begins to move.

⸻

It’s not rough.

It’s deep.

Every thrust feels like it comes with a piece of him, buried inside you like he’s trying to carve out a space to belong.

His name falls from your lips like worship.

He drops his head to your shoulder, panting, muttering things in German; soft, desperate phrases that sound like please, like more, like don’t let this end.

You rake your fingers down his back, whispering that you’re here. That he’s not lost. That this is real.

His hips stutter.

The pressure builds between you, unbearable and beautiful.

And when you fall apart beneath him, shaking and gasping his name, he lets go with a raw, broken groan—like he’s never come before. Like this is the first time he’s ever been allowed to.

⸻

After, he doesn’t move for a long time.

You stay curled together, skin slick with sweat, breaths still uneven. His hand cradles your back. Yours strokes through his damp hair.

He doesn’t speak. Just holds you tighter every few minutes like he’s checking to make sure you’re still real.

Eventually, you whisper, “You’re shaking.”

He nods into your shoulder.

“Not scared,” he murmurs. “Just… I’ve never felt that before.”

“What?”

He pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes.

“Loved.”

Your heart cracks open.

You cup his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone.

“You are,” you say. “You are so loved.”

TW: torture, angst, eventual smut

Ashes in the Mouth part 2

The first time you laugh in front of him, König freezes.

It’s not loud—just a breath of air from your chest, light and surprised, barely more than a smile with sound. He’d said something dry under his breath, so unexpected you couldn’t stop it from slipping out.

But he stiffens.

Like a threat just passed through the room.

You watch the change in him—his shoulders pulling back, his throat working as he tries to keep still.

“Sorry,” you say softly, setting your mug aside.

He doesn’t speak. For a second, you think you broke whatever fragile trust had started to form.

Then: “You weren’t laughing at me?”

Your heart cracks a little.

“No,” you say gently. “God, no.”

His hands rest on his knees, motionless.

“I forgot what that sounds like,” he murmurs.

The silence that follows is thick, but not heavy.

You shift just slightly closer on the couch—not enough to touch, just enough to be felt.

And when you smile again, he doesn’t look away.

⸻

He starts coming to your office more often.

At first, he just lingers near the door, standing with that giant frame of his like he doesn’t know how to shrink himself enough to belong. Eventually, he starts to sit.

Sometimes he watches you while you type. Sometimes he stares out the window, mask shifting with each slow breath. Sometimes, if he’s especially tired, he leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes—never sleeping, but resting in your presence like it’s the only safe place in the world.

And once, during one of those quiet spells, you glance up to find him watching you.

His gaze doesn’t flinch when you meet it.

He doesn’t look ashamed. Or startled. Or caught.

He just watches, slow and careful, like he’s learning your face.

It leaves your chest too full for words.

⸻

You find him in the gym one night.

It’s close to midnight. The halls are quiet, lights dimmed. You only went to grab something from the office—but the sound of movement drew you in.

König’s shirt is damp, sleeves rolled up, hands wrapped. He’s not hitting the punching bag. Just standing there. Breathing heavily. Fists clenched at his sides.

You step softly into the room.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

He doesn’t answer.

You move closer, but slow. Always slow with him.

He speaks without turning. “I keep hearing them.”

You stop.

“In the walls. The floors. When it’s quiet.”

You exhale. “Phantom sounds. It’s normal. The brain tries to fill the silence after trauma.”

He turns toward you, and even behind the mask, you feel the weight of his stare.

“They called me a dog,” he says. “Said I’d follow anything if it sounded like a command.”

Your chest tightens. “They were wrong.”

His jaw works under the fabric.

“Were they?”

You cross the room, heart pounding. “You’re not a dog, König. You’re not a weapon. You’re a man who survived something that should’ve killed him.”

He stares at you for a long moment.

Then, almost brokenly: “Then why do I still feel like a thing?”

Your hands tremble before you reach out, brushing your fingertips along his forearm. He tenses—then relaxes under your touch.

“You’re not a thing,” you whisper. “You’re here. And that matters.”

His eyes soften. Just a little.

“Stay,” he says quietly.

You stay. Until the lights flicker off around you. Until you forget what time it is.

⸻

You don’t know exactly when the touches start.

They’re never inappropriate. Never even discussed.

But they linger.

A hand on your back as you pass each other in the hall. His fingers brushing yours when you hand him a coffee. The way his knee sometimes bumps yours under the table and he doesn’t pull away.

And once—just once—you fall asleep in your chair while waiting on a report.

When you wake, your legs are draped over his lap. One of his giant hands rests at the bend of your knee, warm and steady, and he doesn’t move until you do.

⸻

He takes off the mask one evening.

Not in a grand gesture. Not with a warning.

Just lifts it slowly as you read aloud from a worn book. You pause when you realize, heartbeat stuttering.

You’ve seen him without it only once—briefly. But this time, he wants you to see.

His face is all sharp lines and bruised history. Scars—old and recent. A small nick across the bridge of his nose. A healing cut near his lip.

You close the book.

He watches you cautiously, breath shallow.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he says.

You reach out, brushing your fingers against the side of his jaw.

“I’m not pretending.”

He closes his eyes, head tilting slightly into your touch like it aches just to be held.

⸻

There are nights when he paces.

Nights when you find him shirtless at the kitchen table, sweat-damp and haunted, eyes red like he hasn’t blinked in hours.

He never asks you to come close. But when you do, he softens. Slowly. Always slowly.

And one night, while the rain taps gently at the windows, you press your hand to his bare chest.

He doesn’t stop you.

Your palm rests over his heartbeat.

Steady. Solid. Human.

He looks down at you, eyes wide and searching.

“You’re the first person who’s ever touched me like I’m not something to fear,” he says.

You feel that in your ribs.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you whisper.

He swallows hard. Then, almost pleading:

“Stay.”

So you stay. And you sit in his lap, and his arms curl around you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground.

⸻

The discharge comes through two weeks later.

Medical leave. Psychological trauma. Clean record, but clear message: you’ve given enough.

He doesn’t say anything for a full day.

Then he shows up at your door, holding the letter like it’s burning his fingers.

“They’re right,” he says.

You fold your arms. “No. They’re just done taking more from you.”

He slumps into your chair. “I don’t know who I am without this.”

“You’re still König.”

He shakes his head. “No. I’m Aleksander now.”

You kneel in front of him, place your hands on his thighs.

“Then let Aleksander figure out who he wants to be.”

He looks at you like he wants to believe that.

Like you might be the only reason he’s still here.

⸻

He invites you to leave with him.

No plan. No promises. Just raw hope.

You don’t hesitate.

⸻

The place he finds is outside the city. Quiet. Secluded. Safe.

You take a leave of absence. A few weeks at first, then longer.

It doesn’t take long to fall into rhythm.

He’s still restless at night. You still talk him down from nightmares. But there’s laughter now. Inside jokes. He calls you by your first name like it’s something precious.

He watches you when you’re not looking.

And when you are.

And you let him.

You want him to.

⸻

One night, you step out of the shower, towel-wrapped and half asleep, and find him in the doorway. He’s freshly shaven, hair damp, t-shirt clinging to his chest.

He just stares at you for a second.

You stare back.

Neither of you speaks.

Then, he steps forward. Slowly. One hand lifts—shaky, reverent—and brushes your cheek.

You don’t move.

You can feel the heat in his touch. The way his eyes search yours for hesitation. For doubt.

There’s none.

You press your hand over his. Lean into the warmth. Let him see how much you want this—him.

He swallows hard. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth.

You whisper, “Aleks…”

His name hits him like a strike to the heart.

He leans in—slowly, carefully—until his forehead rests against yours. Breath mingling. Heat growing.

But he doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

You feel it building, thick in the air between you.

When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse.

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

Instead, you whisper back:

Angst, eventual smut

TW: Torture