shackled to sylus and stuck in the N109 zone with no way of leaving until you figure out how to remove the aether core bond between the two of you, you take up his offer (and begrudging help) to try and blend in with his high-stakes, high-rewards life. how? by learning struggling to be his wife
ᄫᥠsylus x fem!reader
ᄫᥠfem!reader, wife!reader, arranged marriage, contract marriage, fluff, crack, eventual s/mut, angst, close proximity, cuffed together trope, illegal stuff (it's sylus we're talking about), suggestive, luke and kieran try to play cupid, language, tension, enemies to friends to lovers, heavy illusions to the myth of hades and persephone, pregnancy mention, more tba...
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So, some time ago, someone posted that Astarion prepared a picnic in the woods for meeting with Tav. We all have seen where they eventually ended up entangled in each other and let me say this: if they had moved a few feet, they would've enjoyed their tumble on a soft blanket instead of dirt and leaves.
Blue arrow: the blanket
Orange arrow: our pale elf
I used the free camera tool from Otis_Inf to check where exactly it is and it's actually pretty sweet that Astarion even prepared candles.
Pegging Your Vampire Boyfriend: A Beginner's Guide
A/N: This is exactly what you think it is.
Kudos to @kittenintheden & Shaurbox for teasing this pegging idea with me over a month ago. It hasn't left my head since.
Rating: E, a very hard E
Words: 5.3k
Pairing: Spawn!Astarion/Fem!Reader
Warnings: 18+, pegging, bdsm- soft!Dom Tav & sub!Astarion, bottom!Astarion, praise kink, ear play, size kink if you squint, inappropriate use of magical scrolls, oral sex - fellatio, anal fingering, anal sex, trauma mention, intimacy issues, verbalized consent, blood warning
Summary: Astarion has been on the receiving end before, but not since he's gotten with you. Wanting to try it again, he propositions you in a rather intimate way.
âDarling?â
A soft, questioning voice calls out from the living quarters of your shared home.Â
âI'm in the kitchen, love,â you respond. You're standing before the countertop, fileting a roast of beef into smaller portions for easier storage.
Wisps of bergamot fill your senses as the inquisitor reveals himself, arms wrapping gently around your waist. His nose dips into the crook of your neck, cool lips planting chaste kisses upon your skin.
âOh, that smells divine,â he comments. Of course it does - it's a blood-soaked slab of beef. You laugh and lean your head into his, carefully slicing another steak from the meat. He covers the hand holding your knife and brings it carefully to his face, tongue lolling out to drag across the flat of the blade. He sighs in contentment as the blood soaks into his tongue, lavishing the flavor.
You wince as he releases the grip on your hand, gently placing the knife off to the side. Iâll need a new one, now, you comment to yourself.Â
âIs there something you needed, Astarion?â you ask him.
He hums low in his throat. âHmm, yes, there was something I wanted to ask you.â He peels himself away from your back and stands straight. His hands are still on your hips and you feel his forehead fall against your back.
In a whisper, he asks, âHow do you feel⊠about taking the reins?â
You turn your head to the side, cocking an eyebrow as you ask, âWhat do you mean? I was on top last time.â
Astarion laughs against your back, a puff of cool air passing over your clothed skin. âI know, love,â he begins. âI mean to suggest that⊠you play the part of me. And I⊠well, you.â
It takes your brain a few seconds to interpret his words, but once it finally comes together, you feel a blush beginning to creep up your chest.
âOh!â you exclaim, now with full understanding. âA-are you sure? I'm not opposed to it, but I have to admit⊠I've never done it before.â
Astarion chuckles lightly, tightening his grip around your waist, placing soft kisses along the side of your neck. âNeither have I, my dear.â
You peel yourself out of his embrace, turning your whole body toward him. A scowl lines your face; you know of his history.
âWell, I-â he stammers. âI've been with men, yes; laid on my back a number of times for them.â Astarion casts his eyes to the floor before continuing, âI have never done⊠this, though. With a woman.â
Expression softening from his explanation, you turn your body again toward the counter, moving yourself over to the sink to begin washing your hands. âAre you sure you want to explore this?â you ask, concern evident. âThat it won't bring back⊠memories?â
He leans against the opposite end of the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. âThere's no way to truly know unless we try,â he explains. âThough, I must admit, it's been on my mind incessantly, as of late.â
It's your turn to laugh, grabbing a hand towel to dry your hands. âReally?â you ask. âYou've been thinking about me fucking you?â
Astarion scoffs, a scowl forming on his face. âMust you be so vulgar?â
You smile, moving toward him to place a soft kiss on his cheek. âI'd be your first?â
He sighs with an eye roll before saying, âProverbially speaking, yes, you would be my first.â Astarion's hand comes up to hold your chin fast as he captures your lips in a chaste kiss. âMy second first.â
You hum in satisfaction, wrapping your arms around his waist. He releases your chin and you rest your head against his chest. âSo, how do we do this?â you inquire. âI wouldn't even know the first place to start.â
Leaning his cheek against the side of your forehead, he replies, âNot to worry, I've taken care of that already.â
âAstarion!â you exclaim, lifting your head from his chest.
He smiles as he meets your gaze. âI already told you I've been thinking about it!â
You lightly tap on his chest in a scolding manner before asking, âHow did you know I'd even be okay with this idea?â
âI didn't,â he explains, shrugging his shoulders. âBut even if you weren't, I'd still have something to play with later.â
Your face burns at his bold admission, images of him sinking said something into himself flooding your vision. You've never thought of him in that way before, but you quickly admit to yourself just how much it excites you.
âHello?â Astarion asks innocently, waving his hand over your face. âAre you still with me? Have I given you too much to think about?â
âYou're terrible,â you tease, peeling yourself from his embrace in a huff once again. Your face is as red as hot coals, head swimming. âWhen did you want to try this?âÂ
Astarion cocks his head to one side in thought. âI was thinking tonight?â he answers. âOr sometime soon. Whatever works for you, love.â
Nodding your head in agreement, you say, âAlright, then. Tonight it is.â
Evening has fallen and you're fresh from the bath. You walk out into your shared bedroom, bathrobe wrapped snugly around your form as you dry your hair with a towel. Astarion bathed earlier as you cleaned the kitchen, telling you he would use the opportunity to prepare for your night ahead.
âAh, there you are!â he exclaims in joy. âI've been waiting for you.â Dipping down into the drawer of the end table next to the bed, Astarion says, âThere are a couple options we can choose from, darling.â
Astarion is dressed in nothing but his ruffled white shirt with the front laces undone, and his favorite pair of baby-blue and gold underwear. The hem of the shirt covers his underwear, giving off the illusion of wearing nothing underneath.
Standing up straight, he's now holding a tube of rolled parchment in one hand and a phallic toy in the other. âWe have a scroll of Mystical Phallus,â Astarion explains, âor, your more traditional approach.â
You smirk as you run the towel through your damp hair, letting your bathrobe fall to the floor. Lifting your chin toward the direction of the parchment, you ask, âWhat's the deal with the scroll?â
Astarion clears his throat as the robe falls off your form, eyes quickly roaming over your newly exposed skin. He turns to place the toy back in the drawer, returning to meet your gaze before saying, âThe shopkeeper explained it as âgranting the caster a temporary phallus that's as close to the real thing.â Not quite sure to what level it goes, but I'll admit - I am curious.â
âAlright, let's go with that one, then,â you decide, walking over to take the scroll from his hand.Â
You're not too familiar with magic, being a soldier and all, but you've used scrolls before. Opening the paper tube, you're relieved to find that the spell is a rather simple one.
As you recite the incantation etched within the scroll, a faint blue light envelops the room for a mere moment. The light fades, the scroll disintegrating, and you can't help but notice an unfamiliar heaviness between your thighs that wasn't there before.
âOh,â Astarion comments, shifting his weight onto one hip, accompanied by a hand. âWell, that's rather generous.â
Looking down, your eyes drink in the source of your discomfort. Glowing blue, and well endowed, lay a cock. Your cock, at least for tonight. It juts up proudly in the air from between your thighs, seeming like an extension of your clitoris. Other parts, thankfully, have remained unchanged.
â...Oh,â is all you manage, continuing to survey the mystical length. âThis⊠this is mine?â
Astarion walks over, lowering himself onto his knees in front of you. âIt would appear as such,â he states. âAnd my, oh my, how beautiful it is.â
You scowl, meeting his gaze. You're suddenly uncomfortable, his eyes flitting between yours and your newly summoned appendage. âI don't know what to do, Astarion,â you admit in a hushed tone.
He chuckles lightly. âTouch it, love,â he says, reassuringly. âDonât be afraid. It's your cock.â
Nodding your head, you bring a hand up hesitantly to brush over your new addition. âAh!â you exclaim in shock, your fingertips passing over the bulbous tip. A familiar pulling sensation in your groin begins to stir as you bend slightly inward.
Astarion, looking up at you with wide eyes, asks, âSo? How does it feel?â
You can feel everything, as if this has always been part of your anatomy. Each feathered touch sends sparks of electricity up and through you, snagging behind a peculiar spot in your lower stomach.
âReal, Astarion,â you sigh in disbelief, giving yourself a few more tentative touches along the shaft. âI feel like this is my cock.â
âDo you, now?â he quips in a sultry tone. âIs it okay if I do this, then?â
Your mind barely has time to register what he might be implying before Astarion drags the flat of his tongue up the underside of your ethereal summon. Your vision blanks from the sensation, nearly toppling over had Astarion not been bracing you.
âWh-what was that?â you yell, nearly breathless.
Concern outlining his face, Astarion asks from below you, âToo much? We can stop, if you want.â
You shake your head in disagreement. âN-no,â you respond. âNo, that's not it.â Placing a hand on his head, you brush his fallen curls out of his eyes, meeting them with yours. âIf this is even remotely close to how you feel when it's me doing this,â you explain, âthen I appreciate the level of self-control you maintain over yourself.â
Astarion hums in satisfaction, placing a quick kiss along your shaft before rising to his feet. âIt's a lot, I'll admit,â he tells you. Your length jumps in response, and he smiles. âEspecially how you suck my cock.â
You're barely able to respond before Astarionâs kissing you; soft, but passionate. His hands grab hold of your hips, drawing you in closer until your centers meet. You moan into his mouth as he repeats the motion a few times, your jaw going slack under his ministrations.
His arousal is evident through the fabric of his undergarments, though not quite there just yet. Slipping your tongue into his mouth, you roll your hips into his with vigor, a bolt of pleasure pulling behind your pubic bone. He groans, tangling his tongue with yours, and begins walking you back until you hit the wall behind you.
Astarion asks, âDo you want me to do that to you, darling?â breathily, breaking the kiss. A hand winds in your hair, pulling your head to the side as he licks a stripe up the side of your neck.Â
You shudder under his touch, grinding your length against his clothed erection again, searching for friction. âO-oooh-nly,â you groan, âi-if you want.â
Astarion pulls himself back entirely, tapping a finger lightly on your chest. âAh-ah-ah,â he chides, âI asked you. I already know what I want.â
You close your eyes in frustration, hips involuntarily lurching forward in an attempt to catch more contact. You feel how heavy your cock is - painfully hard between your legs, desperate for release. It throbs in time with your clit, and you feel the wetness of your arousal beginning to gather at the apex of your thighs.Â
âY-yes, please,â you gasp, thighs rubbing together in a hopeless quest for relief.
Satisfied, Astarion plants a kiss along your jaw, placing his hands on either side of your shoulders. âGood girl,â he purrs as he begins to kneel again. Tracing a line of kisses down your body, starting between the valley of your breasts, his hands move down to cup each within his palms.
Rolling the sensitive peaks of your nipples between his fingertips, your body jerks again, cock brushing ever so lightly against his chest as he continues kissing down the plane of your abdomen. Astarion, now sitting on his heels, braces his hands against your thighs.Â
He looks up to meet your eyes through full lashes. âPlease tell me to stop if it becomes too much,â he tells you, genuine concern lacing his tone.
You hum in agreement, a hand coming up to tangle within the silver locks atop his head. Watching as he closes his eyes, Astarion licks again at the underside of your cock, base to tip. You shudder as his hand wraps delicately around your shaft, peeling the foreskin back. He takes a few tentative passes with his tongue along your frenulum, meeting your eyes momentarily to gauge your reaction.
Your hips buck and stutter under his tongue, a string of pleasured gasps and guttural moans slipping past your lips. The hand in his hair tightens as he takes the head of you past his lips, suckling softly on the sensitive gland.Â
It takes a world of restraint not to shove the rest of yourself into the inviting cavern of his mouth. Astarion must know this, however, as the hand still planted on your thigh moves to your hip, holding you still. He doesnât leave you wanting for long, passing as much of your length into his mouth as he can manage, his hand following you down to the base. He flattens his tongue on the way back up, hollowing out his cheeks as he reaches the tip, only to do it all over again.
Knees growing weak, you push your back into the wall behind you to hold yourself steady. The hand in his hair slips, pads of your fingers passing just over the tip of his ear. Astarion moans at the faint touch, the vibration shooting up through your cock and spreading like wildfire throughout your abdomen. You perform the same motion again, and Astarion begins craning his head into your touch.
âA-ah-â he gasps, pulling himself off of you. âDarling, if you keep doing that, I-â
His mouth falls open in a delicate pant, eyes flitting closed as he works his spittle over your length with his hand. You continue toying with the outer shell of his ear, intrigued at this new discovery, and he rests his forehead against your hip.Â
âI never knew you had such sensitive ears,â you comment as you look down, watching him rub his thighs together as his hips buck up and down into the air.
With a drawn out groan, Astarion explains, âIâm an elf, my love. We all have sensitive ears.â
âNoted,â you respond, shakily bringing a hand down to join him along your shaft. You softly peel off his touch, lacing your fingers together. âI-I think I want to try something else, now,â you admit.
Smiling, Astarion slowly rises to his feet, cradling your jaw within his hand. His lips, swollen and soft from his prior activity, find yours; his kiss is desperate - hungry. âWhat do you have in mind?â he questions between quickly stolen breaths.
A fire swells within your core, and you're suddenly met with the same raging intensity and desire displayed in Astarion's kiss.
Hand tangling within his mess of moonlit curls once again, you pull Astarionâs head back, exposing the marble column of his throat. He groans when you drag the flat of your tongue over the apple of his throat, hips jerking into yours.
âI want to try fucking you,â you whisper into his skin, grinding your conjured length against his concealed erection to punctuate your intent. The coiling in your core winds tighter, but not enough to snap just yet.
As his weight presses into you, his hands grip your biceps for stability. Another roll of his hips and he sighs, dropping his head down to catch your eyes. âAre you sure?â he questions, breathless. âBecause I'd really like that.â
With a nod of your head, your hands travel up under the hem of his shirt to settle on strong, narrow hips. Your lips meet again, the kiss just as ravenous as before, and begin walking you both toward the bed. When Astarionâs knees hit the edge of the bed, he gently falls back, with you quickly closing the distance above him.
âYou neednât worry about preparation,â he reveals as you lavish attention on his neck. âI took care of that earlier.âÂ
He shudders beneath you as you mouth his scars. âIsnât that part of this whole process?â you ask while hooking your hands into the waistband of his underwear, slowly tugging them down.
Astarion lifts his hips up and laughs, providing enough space for you to slide the cotton fabric down and off his form. âIt is, but I figured it was gracious enough of you to entertain this idea,â he explains. âPrep for this is⊠well, intimate.â He averts your gaze for a brief moment, drawing a large breath in before continuing, âI would understand if it didnât appeal to you.â
Removing yourself from his reach, you sit back over your legs. His face shifts uneasily at your sudden withdrawal. âAstarion,â you begin to tell him, âIâm not ashamed of your body. I want to explore this as a couple.â Heâs drawn his legs together in a likely attempt at covering himself. You place a hand atop one knee, rubbing soft circles as you say reassuringly, âAll of it, together. So, please. Let me?â
Astarion sits up with a smile, and rests his forehead over yours. âIf you keep being this nice to me, I may just return the favor,â he says, light-heartedly.
âYou already do, Astarion,â you tell him with a laugh. âAlways the gentleman.â
His kiss is a quick peck over your lips as he tells you, âThere's a bottle of oil in the bedside drawer. Grab it, and I'll show you what to do.âÂ
You nod, sliding off the mattress and doing as instructed. Astarion moves himself higher into the center of the bed, sinking into the comforter and pillows. The bed dips below him as you climb back on, bottle of viscous liquid in hand.
âPour some into one palm and rub your hands together, love,â he instructs. âThis helps warm the oil.â
Popping the stopper off the bottle, you pour the cool, thick, opaque fluid out into your hand. You reapply the cork, placing it face up on top of the bedside drawer, rubbing the palms of your hands together. It takes a bit, but inevitably your body heat begins to seep into the oil.
Astarion lay before you, eyes beginning to hood over as he follows your hands. His legs fall silently open as his breath hitches for a mere moment. âGood,â he says encouragingly, his voice an octave lower. âNow, come here. Between my legs.â
You move in closer and note how the hem of his shirt is obscuring his cock from view. You can just make it out, though - it pushes against the fabric of the shirt, tenting it slightly and you swear you see a small darkened spot right where the tip of his cock lay hidden. Looking up, your eyes drink in how his collar has fallen to one side, sliding down and off his right shoulder, exposing his collar bone. Astarion normally wears this shirt with the sleeves rolled up tight, yet today, he's chosen to wear them loose.
His hands, half covered by the cuffs of his sleeves, envelop yours in a gentle embrace as he guides your slickened fingers to his core. Astarion stills for a moment, and you look up to find him staring back at you.Â
There's an expression on his face that youâre not immediately familiar with - it's not fear, excitement, or lust, really. Yet, the longer you study him, recognition begins to dawn over you.Â
It's the same look you've given him countless times before on this very bed, having thrown caution to the wind as you entwine the very fabric of your souls together.
Astarion is⊠submitting himself. To you.
Something majorly delicate, knowing his past.Â
You know of what he was forced to endure while being compelled into submission.Â
The barrage of lovers who cared not for the person below them; who saw him only as a means to an end. A quick pump, a cheap lay, a tool to scratch a nagging itch.
âSome people refer to the moment of climax as âa little death,ââ heâd once told you. That was before you knew just how many he'd lead to their actual deaths.
True to form, Astarion's words are often double-edged blades. His mind dances constantly on the edge of pleasure and shame. You see it in his face, now. Heâs standing on that precipice, knowing not whether to jump head first or step back.
You swallow thickly and stare back at him, unblinking, before saying, âYou can always tell me if it becomes too much, and I will stop.â You pause for a brief moment before adding, âPleasure is my only intent, Astarion.â
A smile graces his lips as he welcomes your fingers to make first contact with his entrance. âOh, my dear,â he says with a sigh, âIâve never doubted that about you.â
Leaning over him as you press the pads of two fingers teasingly against his tight ring of muscle, you kiss him. Astarion groans softly into your mouth, his hands coming up to cup either side of your face as he arches into the kiss. Heâs grinding down lightly into your fingers, meeting each of your chaste touches against him.
âHow many should I start with?â you ask softly, breaking the kiss for a brief moment.
âTwo,â he answers, voice but a whisper against your lips. âWhichever ones you want.â
Humming into his mouth, you begin pushing your fingers into his entrance. Astarionâs breath hitches as you breach the perimeter, shoving his head back against the pillows. He instinctively tries closing his legs around you, though you hold one open with your free hand.
You still your movements, giving him a chance to adjust to the intrusion. âIs it alright?â you ask him.
Astarion nods his head as he moves a hand under his shirt to toy with a nipple. âYes,â he huffs out. âI'm more than fine, love.â
Emboldened to the task at hand, you move, gently pushing and pulling your fingers within him. You feel his muscles contract around you and you briefly wonder if this is what he feels when he's inside of you. The thought sends a bolt of pleasure to your cunt, reverberating as a twitch of your cock.Â
You look down to watch your fingers as they work him open, and finally see his cock laying against the plane of his abdomen. Compared to the pallor of the rest of him, his length is flushed pink and red, and you can make out the labored beating of his undead heart as his cock thumps softly against his stomach. Pre-fluid seeps from his tip, gathering in a small puddle just below his navel. Bending down, you catch a small rivulet rolling off his hip with your tongue, tracing it back to the source. Astarion shudders under you, threading his free hand through your hair as he pushes down onto your fingers.
You're beginning to understand that this isn't too different from your usual sexual encounters with one another. It's truly just a mirroring of your typical positions. Out of curiosity, you curl your fingers upward in one particular pass, and his entire body spasms beneath you.
âFuck, darling, yes⊠You've found it,â Astarion groans out, labored. The grip in your hair tightens and he begins fucking himself in earnest on your fingers, a string of moans falling from his lips as he passes that same spot over and over again.
Your cunt aches and your cock throbs watching the scene before you. To see him unraveling before you, submitting himself to the pleasure of the moment is intoxicating. His legs have fallen open again and you watch, diligently, at how easily your fingers glide in and out of his core.
âI- I need more,â Astarion suddenly chokes out. You meet his gaze and through lust-hooded eyes, he says, âPlease⊠let me ride you.â
He's pleading, you notice. Begging. Your eyes travel down his form again, drinking in the wanton display of him splitting himself open over your fingers. Your cunt throbs; you think of nothing else in that moment but pulling out your fingers and replacing them with your cock.Â
To hear the delicious whines, the sobs, the cries that would surely tumble freely from Astarion's lips as he came undone around you. You want this, just as much as he does.
Pulling your hand free from his entrance, Astarion sobs as you crash your lips into his. âI'd love that,â you tell him, honestly.
Astarion begins to sit up, concentrating on never breaking the kiss you share as he aids you both in switching positions. You lay back, him straddling your lap mere moments later. He grinds his taint against your conjured appendage, your shafts brushing, and he cries out in a gentle moan against your lips. He breaks the kiss, reaching for the bottle of oil on the bedside table, dribbling some onto your cock.
With a few languid strokes of your mystical length to spread the oil and he lines himself up over you. Your eyes meet and you hiss through clenched teeth as your tip kisses his entrance, feeling the pressure slide over your glans as he slowly begins to take you.
âA-ahh,â Astarion pants from above you, still holding your cock steady in one hand. You sigh as you feel yourself push past the first ring of muscle, throwing your head back against the pillows. Your hands grip at his thighs as the sensation threatens to overwhelm you, fingertips likely to leave bruises that will be gone come morning.
Once he feels confident that you're nestled far enough inside, he releases his hold on your shaft, resting the palms of his hands against your lower stomach. He continues to slowly take you further in, words in a language you're unfamiliar with spilling from his mouth, until he's flush against your thighs.
Both of you freeze in that moment - you struggle to control your ragged breathing as he flutters around you, Astarion taking a moment to adjust to this foreign, but not unpleasant, sensation.
âH-how do I feel?â he asks in a hushed voice.
Truthfully? He feels⊠astounding. Tight, wet, and warmer than you would have thought for a vampire. When he lifts his hips, you feel the air being pulled out of your lungs. His walls drag deliciously along your shaft, and a nagging pull starts to build behind your navel.Â
Your mouth drops open in a silent gasp as your eyes meet his through hooded lids. âA-amazing,â you pant out. âYou feel so good, Astarion.â
He moans above you, his head falling to one side as he rolls his hips over your cock. His shirt hangs off one shoulder, the hem obscuring his cock again from view. Though, you feel its weight slap against your stomach with each lift and drop of his hips.Â
Astarionâs voice comes out strained when he says, âTell me again⊠please.â
You feel your cock twitch within him; he clenches around you as he locks eyes with you, waiting patiently for a response. Strands of sweat-soaked hair stick to his face, and on one particular stroke of his hips, you brush up against that place inside of him that forces his vision to blur at the edges. His mouth begins to salivate.
âPlease, please, please,â he begs impatiently, voice an octave higher now. He's practically sobbing, spearing himself over your cock so each roll is angled to hit his prostate. You meet his thrusts from below, coil winding tighter within your abdomen as his walls continue to massage your cock.
You're not going to last much longer.
âYou're so good for me, Astarion,â you say, obliging him. âYou're being such a good boy.â
Astarion's mouth drops open as he bows his head forward, his entire body dipping down over you as a shudder passes through him. âYes,â he whines, rocking back on your hips with renewed vigor. You feel his cock lay flat against your abdomen in this new position. It drags over your stomach, pre-fluid dripping from his tip and onto your skin providing an easier surface.
I am! And beautiful - not enough people mention that.
His words from long ago echo in your mind as you drink in his expression. He's gorgeous above you; handsome to begin with, but as he slips further toward toppling over the Cliff's edge, his beauty is quickly becoming amplified as he continues to lose composure.
âYouâre beautiful like this,â you coo to him, lifting a hand from his thigh to rub over an ear.
Astarion's body is wracked by yet another tremor as he cries, âDarling, if you donât-, I will-, I'm going-!â His head nestles into the hand toying with his ear and his hips pump erratically over your cock, having lost his prior rhythm.
You suck in a sharp breath, jaw clenched as Astarion becomes impossibly tighter around your shaft, and you groan. You're so close, so very close that all you need is one more thing to push yourself over the edge.
âLet go, Astarion,â you say, somehow finding the rhythm in his desperate rutting. The sound of skin slapping roughly fills the room as your hips meet his on his downstroke. You wrap a hand around the outline of his cock tenting his shirt, and jerk him in tempo with your thrusts.
Heâs sobbing, loud and unabashedly. With one particular pass of your fingers over the outer tip of his ear, Astarion suddenly unwinds. He yells his pleasure above you, collapsing onto your chest as wave after wave overcomes him. You feel his spend seep into the fabric of his shirt and onto the skin of your abdomen in a small warm pool.Â
It doesn't take long for the involuntary spasming of his core over your cock to send you spiraling into your own completion. Moans slip freely past your lips and you feel your folds become soaked, drippinh down the cleft of your ass as your relief washes over you. You bury your face against Astarion's hair, breathing in his soft silver curls and the signature cologne you know so well.
As you both begin to come down off your highs, you wrap your arms around his back and hold him tightly against your chest. You feel the spell of the phallus lift, Astarion whimpering softly as it vanishes from within him. You both lay on the bed, panting, trying to catch your breath for what feels like ages.
Astarion is first to lift up his head and say, âThat⊠that was amazing.â
âMm,â you hum in agreement. You can barely open your eyes as fatigue begins to set in.
Taking a finger, Astarion traces circles absentmindedly into your skin as he rests his head back down over your chest. âDarling?â he asks softly. âMay I tell you something?â
Sleep almost has its claws in you when you jolt back awake, forcing your eyes to snap open and find Astarion. âHmm?â you groan in question.
With a quick huff, Astarion says, âI just wanted to thank you for doing this with me.â He places a quick peck below your jawbone before adding, âIt was really nice.â
You sigh audibly, and say âIt was, we should do this again.â Your eyelids are impossibly heavy; sleep is threatening to claim you and will do so in mere moments. âI love you,â you manage to mumble out before slipping gently out of consciousness.
Astarion smiles into your skin as he says, âI love you, too,â
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Description: You and your boyfriend broke up, luckily Carmy is there and ready to show you just how much better he'd treat you.
TW: NSFW under the cut
He knew he could treat you better, knew that your boyfriend couldnât take care of you properly. So, when you called him saying you and him broke up? Carmy didnât hesitate to offer his shoulder for you to cry on.
Now he's looking at you, heated half lidded eyes, one hand sneaking up to your breasts, the other sliding under the hem of your thin pajama shorts. This is what heâs been waiting for, ever since he first saw you, hanging onto your jagoff of a boyfriend, lookinâ all neglected and sad.
âWe-we shouldnât my boyfriend is right outside, he said heâs here to apologize.â You stutter, head tilted to the side as Carmy trails his lips down the skin of your neck, his knee between your thighs, your back pressed against the wall.
âYou just gotta be quiet then, pretty girl.â He says, giving you a mischievous smile that he knows will make your stomach flip.
âBut CarmyâŠâ You pout, gasping when he replaces his knee with his cock and pushes past your entrance, his free hand toying with your clit. You sound so pretty for him, his cock twitches, and he bites back a groan.
âJust gotta feel you sweetheart, canât let you go without fuckinâ you, itâll kill me.â He says, starting out slow, his thick cock dragging against your walls. âCanât send you out to him all needy like this, he doesnât know how to take care of anybody, âspecially not you.â
You shake your head pitifully. âNo, he doesnât, I never got to finish.â
He bites down on your pulse point, warm tongue soothing the sting. âPoor princess, you need me to take care of you, finally fuck you the way you deserve?â
âYes, yes, but Iâisnât it wrong?â Your voice is so hesitant, but you melt into him, hips shifting, perfect pussy sucking him in, your nipples hardening through the soft material of your sweatshirt. âHeâs coming to apologize; he wants to get back together.â
He doesnât answer you, instead he hikes your legs up, wrapping them around his lower back and plows into you, strong arms keeping you in place, the force of his thrusts pinning you to the wall.
âNo, no, this is wrong, I canât.â You cry out as Carmy dismantles you, your head falling back against the wall as he hits that sensitive spot inside you.
You clench around him, velvet walls caressing his cock, and he groans.
âYes, you can, he doesnât have to know sweetheart, itâll be our little secret.â He coos, sucking on your pulse point as he spears you on his cock. Youâre so tight, so small, your pussy like a vice grip on his fingers, but on his cock? Heâs slightly worried you might snap it off.
You writhe in his arms, mewling for him as he continues his rapid pace. âBut, but, if you keep fucking me like this, Iâll never be satisfied by him again.â
He could cum on the spot, eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head. âYeah?â
âYeah.â You pout, pupils wide, your puppy dog expression broken by the lewd moans that escape your lips.
âHow come? He donât fuck you good? He doesnât know how to make you cum, even a little?â Heâs being mean, he knows your ex-boyfriend is a prick, but he wants to hear you say it.
âYouâre justâso much bigger, and feel so good, even your hands, itâs embarrassing, just thinking about you Carmy, about your fingers, your tongue, always gets me so wet, and I donât know what to do, he couldnât fix it.â
âGuess youâll just have to keep calling me, let me fix it for you.â He smirks, circling your clit with a debauched rhythm that makes your hips buck against him, his name falling from your lips like a prayer.
You look so perfect, all wide-eyed and needy for him, hips rolling against him, lips parted, hair mussed. âI canâtâfuck, itâs too much, CarmyâŠfeelsâfeels too good.â
âYou can take it, come on y/n, be a good girl for me.â He yanks off your sweatshirt, exposing your breasts, and groans before ducking his head and attaching his lips to your nipples. âGood girl with your perfect, pretty tits, wanna cum on âem, wanna see you all sticky for me.â
âYes, yes, please Carmy, I want it, I want it.â You babble, clinging to him for dear life, your fingers tangling in his curls.
âCanât sweetheart, your boyfriendâs outside, canât send you to him lookinâ like a glazed donut.â Heâs being mean again, to you and himself, he really wants to send you out to your ex with his cum on your tits, maybe inside you as well.
âI donât care, donât wanna get back together with him anyways.â You whine, tangling your hands in his hair and kissing him. âI want you, I wanna be with you.â
He moans into the kiss, pressing you further into the wall, his thrusts wild, piercing, slamming against your sensitive spot, as he drinks you in. âI want you too, sweetheart, so fuckinâ bad, hated seeing you with him. So glad when you called me, you know Iâll always come, always come runninâ when you call me.â
You muffle your scream in his shoulder, walls spazzing around him, milking him for all heâs worth, tugging at his hair, sending pleasure pain, shooting through him.
âFuck, fuck, fuck, shit y/n, feel so fuckinâ good, squeezinâ me so tight, not gonna let me go, huh? Wanna keep me inside, got you addicted to my cock already?â He groans, losing all control, pistoning into you, sloppy, wild, swearing under his breath as he cums.
konig x fem!reader (established relationship)
warnings: low self-worth, mentions of war crimes, angst, mentions of smut, comfort, canon-typical violence mentioned
konig would never admit it, but the hardest part of your relationship for him was when you two made love.
you were the opposite of everything he had ever known. you weren't steel or kevlar or bullets or bombs or knives or war paint, you weren't screams in his ear telling him to just kill, nor were you the dead weight in his hands as his dead comrades' bodies were. you weren't the ringing in his ears after alarms went off, you weren't the blood that splattered his clothes, you weren't the empty darkness of his room as he lie awake each night, dreading what he'd see when he'd close his eyes. you weren't the scars on his chest or the bullet wounds in his back. you weren't the words that tore him down and made him look behind his shoulder whenever others were whispering.
instead, you were light. you were the warmth that welcomed him each day, the softness that invited him into yourself. you were the blanket wrapped around him, the warm hugs, the tender kisses. you were the one to bandage his wounds, the one to kiss them away. you were the soft hands that caressed his back, the gentle voice that wished him good morning, the soft hand that wrapped around his own calloused one. you were the one who smiled at him, laughed with him, loved him. you were the sweet words in his ear, playful love bites, a warm meal in somewhere he finally called home. your eyes were the ones that reflected love and comfort, not disdain or fear like everyone else he had known. you were the thing that kept his heart beating. no, even more than that, you were the one who gave his heart life again, long after he ever thought he could feel it beat again.
and that is all the reason why making love was so hard for him. after all the pain, loss, bloodshed, suffering, and nightmares he'd caused, the absolute last thing he thought he deserved was your warm, soft body letting him consume every part of you. your sweet moans in his ear contrasted so much the bloodcurdling screams he heard far more often, the weight he felt in his hands was your breasts and not bodies he dragged back to camp. your wetness guided and invited him in, so different from the wetness he felt in his eyes far too often when he was alone.
he knew he didn't deserve you. how could a broken man like him, one who escaped war criminal conviction for things he didn't want to do, deserve the only angel on earth? the same hands that gripped knives and guns and bombs also caressed the skin of a seraph, his bloodstained hands tainting the most pure, divine thing in existence. some days, konig swore he could see marks from his bloodstained hands on you. the same mouth that screamed and yelled and barked orders was the one that cooed into your ear how beautiful you were, how good you were for him, how he loved you. the same back that had been covered in body armor was the one naked to you, the same skin that he welcomed to be clawed by the least ferocious thing on earth.
konig never imagined how such a broken man like him could ever end up with you, the opposite of everything he had ever known. a broken man did not deserve a woman like you. but there you were underneath of him, moaning and pulling him in and begging for more. a broken man didn't deserve you, but you loved him anyway.
Sweetie i know it's been a long time but i really need more Brahms! Königđ„”đ„”đ„”!!!!
I KNOW! I STILL REMEMBER THE DAY MY FRIEND ASKED ME TO WRITE THE FIRST BRAHMS!KĂNIG. And I still remember how musky and broad Brahms looked like in the movieâŠ.
Brahms!König pt.3
Cw: DARKFIC, kidnapping, imprisonment, possessiveness, tell me if I missed any.
You could hear their voices, the confused and worried tones of your coworkers through the thick, sound-insulating walls of his little cave. Heâd taken you to his home, within the walls of the dilapidated mansion, tying you to his bed and leaving you vulnerable to him and anyone whoâd stumble into your restrained figure. You writhed on his bed, the sheet-covered mattress smelling musky and thick, it smelled of sweat and blood and earth, something too masculine, fitting of his stature and being. Your gag was stinky and crusted, a salty and tangy taste lingering on your tongue that told you enough of the clothâs original use. You wouldâve retched if you werenât gagged so tightly.
Your eyes scoured his room, the dark and dingy basement lit up by a single light of his lamp, left on the small workbench beside every kind of artistic materials, glue, saws, scissors, needles, wool and string organised in their own corner of the wall. Despite the bright light, the rest of the room remained shrouded in darkness, shadows dancing across the walls like demons and monsters coming to haunt you in weakness, coming to join your captor in his fun.
You dreaded the moment he comes back, the silence of your cage a striking contrast to the bustling house you were hidden in. You feared what heâd do to you now that he had you, knowing that he was grinding up against you and rutting your thigh, panting loudly and grabbing at you like a man starved for attention âperhaps he was one. All your training and instincts failed you, stripped from any weapons and your gear, boots unlaced and toes curling in your socks, youâd been left in your undershirt and pants.
In your whimpering and fright, you almost missed the loud, telltale steps of your giant protector, walking down the narrow path to his room. Speak of the Devil and he shall appear. You glanced at him, and caught him staring back at you, your sweat-coated skin and flushed skin, naked to his cool eyes. He smiled through them, roving over your panicked expression, pinched brows and tense shoulders, down the slope of your abdomen and the curve of your hips before he moved, stepping closer and closer to you with a bright and needy gleam.
The bed creaked under his weight, slumping to the side as he sat down, his calloused hands cradling your face and coaxing you to look at him when you glanced away, his thumb rubbing the bags under your eyes. He cooed soft words and praises, as if he was calming down a cornered animal, waiting to hand you treats and praises, little caresses and adoring kisses.
âLook at you, Maus,â he sighed lowly, his auburn hair curled around his porcelain mask, tickling the edge of his ears, âYouâll be good for me, ja? If you behave, Iâll untie you, let you walk around our room.â
If you wanted a chance at freedom, youâd have to play into his hand, eat and drink from his big hand until he trusted you to leave you alone for an undetermined amount of time, hunting and scavenging the area he lived in. Gulping down you fear, you gave him a hesitant nod, eyes closed to accept the life youâd live for a while.
Minotaur!König x Ariadne!Reader
Theseus is dead. Youâre escorting the Minotaur, more beast than a man, out of the Labyrinth. The problem is, he seems to be more interested in whatâs between your legs than in his mission of killing the notorious king of Crete⊠(12 k. Minotaur is not an actual hybrid in this fic. Reader is Hecateâs initiate. Part 1 here.)
Tags/warnings: Shameless smut mdni, dubious consent, extremely possessive behaviour, abduction, first time (König & reader are both virgins), hugs & cuddles, washing blood off your monster boyfriend, awkward flirting, semi-rough sex, shifting power dynamics, sexist insults & slurs (the citizens of Crete do not approve of your choices), implied cannibalism, fluffy ending. Mythical AU.
The candle goes out before you reach the surface.
To someone else, it would be the end of the world: to you, itâs only a hindrance, a nuisance, mostly.Â
Youâre not easily distressed. If you were, you wouldnât be in the service of the greatest goddess of the Underworld. And youâre not mourning losing the sight of your warmly illuminated beast... Youâre only worried about what he will do once the darkness descends. Whether he will forget about his vow, whether the baser instincts take over him once the darkness falls.
And darkness is not capable of making you lost: you can always follow the string in your hand. But without light, itâs difficult to predict the Bullâs moves: whether he decides to maim or fuck you against the wall, you can never tell. He hasnât lived in the real world among people; he doesnât know whatâs right or wrong and whatâs expected of him. Even the best of men can succumb to the demands of the flesh, so what power would a Bull Man have against his animal wants? No one ever taught him to respect the gods, let alone the maidens who serve them...
Then again, if a simple candle was the only thing that kept you alive, then whatâs the point of lamenting the loss of it? Your life was already forfeit when you chose to descend here.
So you let it go: as always, the greatest lesson in life is to simply let go. Of control, of judgment, of fear, of hope.Â
He doesnât say a thing when the light flickers, then fades. The candle goes out in silence, and you let it drop before the remaining wax burns your palm.
And itâs not the absence of light, but strength, that forces you on your knees before even an hour has passed. Thereâs still a long way to go, and the yarn is like a thin string of hope in your hand, but youâre too exhausted, too worn out, too hungry and too tired to go on.
The Bull Man doesnât object to your suggestion to lay down and sleep for a while. He has walked behind you in silence the whole day. Or night⊠You canât tell the difference; you lost count somewhere along the way down here. The air is stale and humid, and thereâs no torch, not a single candle anywhere and even if there were, you wouldnât do anything with them without a flint.Â
The horror is kept at bay only through your numerous exercises with the goddess who introduced you to darkness many, many moons ago. You were initiated during the dark Moon, the new Moon, the blood Moon, introduced to the mysteries of the maiden, mother and crone, to the secrets of both the living and the dead. Youâre not afraid, but your body still warns you of danger: you just donât know if itâs a memory from childhood or a reaction to the Bull, panting behind you â out of lust or exertion, you donât even know. Someone who wasnât a maiden probably could tell⊠At times, you curse the fact that there hasnât been a single phallus inside you because men too possess knowledge. Taking a man into your bed would have initiated you to a different set of mysteries, but now, you are poking blind.Â
The Bull Man is an animal, you remind yourself. The longer you stay in his company, the more he starts to resemble a human, even if he is a man of few words. How he even remembers them is another mystery: you thought he was sent down here as a young boy. He speaks oddly but eloquently, a remnant of his noble descent, perhaps. Or perhaps he has listened to the people speaking in the Labyrinth, eavesdropped his victims an hour or two before killing them. Whatever the reason, you have to constantly tie your tongue because thereâs simply no point in talking to a beast. The less you know about him and his past, the better.
You ready yourself for sleep, but the cursed cold of the tunnels keeps your body awake. Your flesh is human even if your mind is forged to withstand hunger, thirst and pain. Endurance against cold was never your strong suit, and you miss the heat of the sun, the warmth of it on your skin, even the ample light it gives. You, a lover of the moon, missing the heat of Apollo⊠Itâs a joke, surely.
On the stone floor, itâs even colder, the rough, damp ground making your very bones ache. How on Hecateâs name has the beast survived this place?
âBull Man,â you speak into the darkness, thick like an impenetrable wall and thin like a virginâs veil.
âMaiden,â he echoes with a dark, low growl, slightly amused by the name youâve selected for him.
âAre you cold?â You whisper.
Perhaps he doesnât quite understand the question or why you asked it. It doesnât matter: you have to swallow your pride and ask for his help if youâre going to survive this dark prison.
âI donât get cold,â he finally responds.
âGood. I need your heat.âÂ
The silence drags on, and you fear he has misunderstood you again, but then he speaks again, with the same slightly amused tone as before.
âCome take it.â
Youâre not sure if youâve completely lost your mind, crawling to him through the uneven floor of the Labyrinth. Who knows what he will do to you once he gets those arms of iron around you? Youâre placing your maidenhood, your whole body at his mercy. And youâre not even sure if itâs a he, if this thing is human at all.Â
Human or animal, your hand meets the bullâs head on the way to him. He has taken it off, then... Itâs not a part of him, just like you suspected. Maybe he is just a giant, daunting man, born from whatever forbidden desire Pasiphae had. Who knows if she only went to a foreign loverâs arms when her husband was at war? Who knows if King Minos has trouble getting his phallus up⊠These things happen: women get pregnant from their lovers, they do desperate things to pacify their husbands. And you donât need a bull to get yourself an heir...
You feel his heat before you feel his skin: the Minotaur is verily blazing. He has gotten used to the cold, it seems, his body like a small bonfire in the clammy tunnel.Â
âCold little female,â he comments when you snuggle towards him shyly, thoroughly aware of the uninviting chill of your body.Â
You settle next to him, every muscle in your body tight like a bowstring, your breaths shallow when he gives you a welcoming rumble. Goosebumps prickle across your skin and your throat goes dry, the thick swallow in the tunnel echoing around you like a thief.
Arms like iron go around you, and his body is taut, just like yours, but for a whole different reason entirely. Heâs not afraid or nervous; heâs just⊠big. Pure muscle, his whole body thick, the stock and heat of him remind you of the sun. A miniature sun down here in these dark tunnels, but while you start to slowly soften in his arms, a different threat is already emerging. It doesnât take long before his cock stiffens against you, and with the scarce clothing you both have, you can feel its every excited twitch.
Artemis⊠Protect me from this beast. Turn him into a dog if he tries to penetrate me. Let him rip my throat insteadâŠÂ
Youâve never prayed to the Virgin Goddess; you donât know if she can even hear you from down here. But Hecate would only laugh if this Bull decided to breed you. No mercy would arrive from that direction: she would either send a disease of blisters upon the Minotaur for touching her chosen or then she would cackle like an old woman, thousand times raped.
âThank you,â you whisper, hoping your kindness will distract him from whatâs happening downstairs.
âMy pleasure,â he grumbles, mimicking the words he probably heard as a child in his fatherâs great hall.Â
It sends a chill down your spine and butterflies into your heart to hear him speak like a polite man of court. And again, you think of asking him about his childhood... His mother, his father, the things he remembers from the surface. How he survived here without water, if there are underground springs here somewhere. Whether he eats humans like they say... If he ever embraced the dead women he killed.Â
âCan you do it again,â he rumbles against you, cutting you away from your grotesque thoughts.
â...Do what again?âÂ
âTouch me⊠With your hand.â
His words are blunt now, his speech clumsy. But the way he says it is not an order. Itâs an odd beg, more like. Laced with hope and wishes far away from greed. This Bull is never greedy, per se⊠Heâs just lacking. Starved, for so many things that you fear thereâs not enough time nor kindness to give him what he needs.
Your pulse flutters when you slowly lift your hand and caress the strong cords of muscle that make his neck. The rumbling returns; it turns into a low purr as the beast relaxes under your touch. Something softens inside you when he sighs from relief. His unbridled happiness tugs at your heart, trying to yank open something forbidden. Itâs the softest violation youâve ever felt: to be held by a giant killer having a roaring erection, while the said killer clearly enjoys your caress like itâs the touch of Aphrodite herselfâŠ
You even stroke his face. His jaw, unclenching under your touch; his cheek, covered with what you suppose is simply a wild, overgrown beard.Â
âYour hand,â he groans softly, âmakes me sleepy and warmâŠâ
The cold, uncaring goddess recedes. The burdens of past, present and future dissolve. Softness takes place in your heart; the iron locks give in like brittle brass. A smile plays on your lips as you continue to pet him softly, lulling you both to sleep with your voice.
âThen sleep, Bull of Crete...â
âŠ
You wake up to his cock pressing against you.
Not against your stomach like when you went to sleep â that you could do with â but against your cunt, barely veiled by the thin linen of your dress.
The panic is soon wrestled down with reason: you tell yourself itâs just a cock. Itâs just him. Youâre simply in the Minotaurâs arms, and heâs sound asleep still; thereâs no reason to buck and jerk and scream.Â
The darkness feels like a safe womb now, but with nothing to lock your gaze to, you have to take a moment to ground yourself into reality. And the first thing you ground into is a thick cockhead, pressing fast into your nether lips. Heâs practically at the gates, and youâre lucky heâs still asleep.
Itâs perhaps your fault this happened in the first place: you notice youâve dragged your thigh over his hip; as if wanting him to fuck you in your sleep⊠You embrace him like Helen of Troy, and he holds you through his sleep like a man in love, perfectly content with napping on the cold ground with you.
âMmâŠâ The beast stirs, probably noticing how the female in his arms is tense as a rod. âYou smell like you want to fuckâŠâ
âNo I donât,â you hurry to whisper.
Gods curse this manâs ability to smell everything from miles away. Blood and humans and, apparently, a woman at her most receptive.Â
What if he can actually smell the wetness between your legs?
âWe need to go,â you slowly remove your leg from on top of his waist, hoping it would go unnoticed that you were clutching him like a lover. You have no such luck: he grabs your thigh and draws it back, sets it safe and snug around his waist while adjusting his grip on you, now hugging you entirely like a lover would.
âI want to mate with you,â he says softly. âYou want to mate too. Why go?â
He sounds so adorable when heâs still in the process of waking up to a new day. Drowsy and sweet, voice husky from sleep, body warm as can be, the hard-on between his legs happy and stiff.
âI thought you wanted to kill the king,â you try to point out.Â
âThis is more important,â he gruffs. âUrgent.â
The cock pushes further up and against you, now spreading your folds under the dress, trying to penetrate into your heat. Your eyes go wide as thick need pools down to meet his greed. His body, his cock makes your head go dull for a moment; you feel like youâre not even capable of thinking actual thoughts.
âNo, itâs not. We need to get up.â
You stiffen in his arms, push yourself away, and to your surprise, he actually lets you go. Reluctantly and with a hollow grunt, but he lets you go.Â
You rise with a wobble, and adjust your dress, your head spinning from his advances. You swear he becomes more man-like every day, every passing hour, even. Or is it just you whoâs changingâŠ?Â
The Bull Man is up before you get to ponder on that thought for too long. Your heart and head struggle to find their footing for a moment, your legs are so weak you feel like fainting. He catches you before you fall, the warm, thick arms closing around you with stout affection.
âYou need more heat?â He asks softly.
You look up out of habit, even if you can't see his eyes, covered by the carcass again because his voice is muffled.
âNo⊠Iâm hungry.â
Heâs silent for a moment, probably thinking what he could do to help the situation. You fear he will suggest you go back to visit his âpantryâ and eat whatever horrible, half-rotten man-flesh he might have in store there, but he only holds you close to prevent you from sliding back to the ground.
âHmm. No mice up here,â he ponders.Â
âYou eat miceâŠ?â
âSometimes.â
You leave it at that: you donât want to know what heâs had to do to sustain himself down here. You donât even have a fire to cook the vermin, even if you would be ready to eat even those after another day or two without food.Â
âNot a long way up,â he says. âWe will reach the sun soon. Then Iâll find you something to eat.â
âHow do you know thatâŠ?â
âThe air smells different.â
You sigh and search for the string, your lifeline to the outside world. You canât wait to get out of here, and with both hurry and an odd dread, you hike for what seems like another whole day. Tension, hunger and thirst distort your thoughts, and youâre sure by now that the time flows differently here in the Underworld. With no small amount of pride, you feel accomplished to have survived this place so far. Even gods have had to do some tricks to escape the nether worlds: it is no small feat to charm the Minotaur and then walk out of here unharmed.Â
To your knowledge, youâre the only one who has ever escaped the Labyrinth. You havenât even had time to think about what you will unleash with you⊠The demon that walks on your heels will take his revenge, not only on the king but on the city who threw him here.Â
Well. Itâs their problem now. Minos and Pasiphae simply have to deal with their successor. The world will simply have to deal with the Underworldâs wrath.Â
And oh, how Hecate would laugh if she saw this monster prince of Crete escape his prison because of you â the feared Minotaur set free, only because heâs mesmerized by a woman. You suspect he would have his cock jumping for any girl, though. It's not because you're an exceptional sorceress that he follows you: it's your cunt he's after. And it shouldnât make you feel jealous that he probably gets distracted the moment he sees a better offer walk by.
But it does. In your darkest wishes, you would keep the Bull Man all to yourself. Get him a leash, perhaps... Feed him with your own hands and let him grope you in the dark, watch him go wild from lust when you finally give him access to your cunt.Â
Many would hardly think youâre a virgin if they took a peek inside your head. But the things youâve seen and done, the white bulls youâve slaughtered for the dark Goddess, adorning them with cypress wreaths before slashing their throats open, would turn any woman bleak and twisted like this. For once, you would like to save the bull from slaughter.
When you see the first evidence of light, your body lets out a sigh it has been holding ever since you arrived here. Seeing the sun gives you more strength than any food or meal, and you pick up your pace while the Minotaur behind you begins to hesitate.Â
âItâs too bright,â he says before youâve even walked out of the tunnel, now turning into a vast cave, the entrance to the Labyrinth.Â
You turn around to look and stop in your tracks when you see the fear in his eyes is acute. Itâs mixed with wonder, the curiosity wrestling away doubt slowly but surely. He only needs a little nudge, a gentle pull, an enticing little smile and eyes that he can trust.
âYouâll get used to it soon,â you extend your hand.Â
He takes a step, then another, then another, until he reaches your outstretched fingers, and hand in hand you walk out of the Labyrinth and into the bright morning sun, burning over the kingdom of Crete.
Heâs only a breath away from panicking, but covers it well. You wonder if itâs truly the light thatâs too bright or if the feeling of being so exposed is what makes him so afraid. Clearly, the vast space opening up before him is intimidating.Â
There are grassy plains as far as the eye can see, little hills that dot the horizon, and skies so expansive and bright it must hurt his eyes. Goats are grazing under the sun, trees are bending in the wind, the rustling of leaves and the sound of birds calling him to look in all directions as he tries to make some sense of his surroundings.
âItâs alright,â you give his palm a soft squeeze, and the way he looks there under the sun, so big and powerful and able, and still so utterly lost, is giving you heartache you havenât known since you were a child.
âThereâs⊠so many colours,â he says, looking at the blue summer sky, the deep olive greens, the dirty whiteness of the goats, the flowers upon the grass. A butterfly, flying past, yellow like the citrus that people harvest from a few miles from here. A big blackbird with an orange beak, swooping down to catch a cricket, the slate grey pigeons flying so close to the sun that he has to shield his eyes even if theyâre already safe and sheltered under the bull head.
Seeing his wonder and awe makes you look at the scenery so differently that it burns, it actually hurts: thereâs so much beauty in the world, and you have always taken it for granted. Cursed the rain and the storms, cursed the droughts, cursed the gods for sending down another famine, when in truth, the world was filled with abundance, of colours, of life and joy⊠And all youâve done is worship darkness. Now the darkness is out: itâs standing next to you, watching the view of your mundane everyday life like itâs nothing short of a miracle.
And when you turn back to look at him again, his eyes are upon you.
âWhat?â You ask, freshly caught in your moment of weakness.
âYou are pretty,â he says, eyes wrinkling with delight under the mask.Â
Gods damn himâŠÂ
He doesnât know that human men donât act like this, talk like this, or if they do, thereâs usually something vile involved behind it all. He doesnât know how to play games, he was never introduced to the lies and deceit of the world.
The Bull of Crete only looks at you with soft fondness in his stare â he doesnât understand that he should cover that softness as well if he intends to win. Any woman could put a leash on him before another moon has passed, but he doesnât seem to care. And itâs not even heat or hunger that makes you weak this time... Itâs those eyes, looking at you with more and more warmth.
âNonsense,â you huff without a voice, and turn towards the old road with an adoring bull on your heels.
The cold sigh of the underworld is quickly left behind you as you walk up the old carriage road, nearly grown in with weeds. The Labyrinth is located miles away from civilization, but the people living in these hills are used to the cold cave by now. They trust that the Minotaur will never escape and only turn away their heads and close the doors of their huts when the screaming, crying human sacrifices are delivered to the mouth of the cave. Little do they know that the monster is now looking at their little hills and goats with delight, not bloodlust.
For the Minotaur is fascinated with your world: he has to touch every leaf, every tree, every blade of grass, it seems. The goats are afraid of him, but one small nanny is bold enough to come and sniff his hand. Perhaps it remembers that beings walking on two feet give her apples sometimes, and the giant studies this small white animal with gentle curiosity, allows the goat to smell his hand, only chuckles when the goat gives out a little scoff when she notices there are no treats to be found there.
The vision is more adorable than when youâve seen children play with kittens, and no matter what you do, you canât turn your heart into ice anymore. You were taught that the Minotaur is a monster who enjoys torturing his victims, creatures far more helpless than him. Now you see him watching the she-goat with warm curiosity, rumbling softly inside his helm, far from the ravaging beast that approached you in that tunnel what seems like months ago.
You watch him with tender sadness as he marvels at the sky and remembers how he used to sit in the shade of an olive tree when he was a child. He goes to sit there now and examines how the sun filters through the massive branches of the tree as if trying to recall the memory.Â
He asks questions like: âHow can you humans stand this heat?â or âWhy is there only one road?â and listens to your answers carefully.
He says he can smell the sea, even if the salty water is miles and miles away, and gets curious about whatâs behind that hill, or that one, what about that one⊠You wonder if heâs even interested in killing the king anymore and suggest that he could just forget about this cruel place and buy himself a sea voyage with that expensive sword. He could get rid of his helmet and ask if anyone needs a goat herd or an able-bodied man to help at construction sites or stables; he could get work from the docks any day, sail to Athens or some other big city, forge himself a new life.Â
But he doesnât want to.
He says he has to avenge his mother who always cried when he was little.
More wretched tugs pull at your heart as you approach the city. The lovely summerâs day turns into a nightmare once people see whoâs on his way to the heart of Crete.
You donât understand their screams, not anymore, while only a few days ago you knew they preceded death. The Minotaur doesnât kill anyone, mainly because he doesnât have to. Everyone flees before his wake, people rush to their homes and bar the doors, even soldiers slip away to be with their loved ones or run to warn the king if they have any loyalty left.Â
Youâre left to walk through the marketplace in settling dust and tense silence as the Bull Man explores the abundant samples of food on display. He has to have a taste of everything from all stands, but only after he has offered figs, olives, grain, grapes, grilled meat and fish to you first.
âEat,â he says and shoves a handful of pine seeds your way. âYou were hungry?â
âThis is not the way toââ you ignore the food only through sheer willpower. âThis is not right. People own these things. They sell them at the market, you need to pay for these.â
âPay? With what?â
He looks at you for a moment, unable to recall what money is and how these things are supposed to work. He probably had his motherâs servants bring him everything he needed as a child anyway, so how could he know?Â
âThey will take your hands for stealing,â you try to explain with softly building despair.
âI will take their heads before that.â
âThe next king will hunt you down and punish you,â you rush after him, and when he wonât listen, you seize his hand and finally get him to halt. He looks down at the weak palm around his wrist, then raises his gaze to you.
âBulls donât have kings.â
Your attempts to tame him are futile. The things theyâve taught him to be are now being used as a way to escape responsibility, and while itâs none of your business, you refuse to let him believe that he is nothing more than an animal.
âYou are not a bull,â you wail in frustration. âYouâre a man.â
He hesitates, only for a moment; the gentle, loving gaze makes your legs weak.
âYouâre the first to think that.âÂ
Then he rips himself away from you, softly but sternly.
He doesnât need directions to the palace: he knows he has to head for the most prominent building in the city to reach the king. The grandiose heart of Crete, white-chalked and beautiful under the burning midday sun is the pride of every citizen, even if it houses another monster.
You sigh as you watch him go: the Bull Man, the demon of the underworld, the one you thought would rape you bloody before you get to crawl out of the Labyrinth. The fact that he wanted to kill his father more than he wanted to be born again into a new life wasnât a surprise, but that he chose to bloody his sword rather than his cock is somehow... insulting, almost.Â
What actually haunts you is how your insides coil and turn when you rush back to your temple. Itâs not like you thought the Minotaur would take you with him. Board some trade ship bound for distant shores, and ravage you ever so softly in the belly of the creaking hull. Itâs not like you dreamed of petting him to sleep while you two embark on a new life. But the way your heart twists and wails inside your chest makes it clear that losing him is even more painful than losing Theseus and the life he promised you.Â
You never even wanted Theseus; you only wanted him to take you away from here. His affection would have been the result of ample witchcraft at best.
Heâs practically already dead, and your heart turns to stone far more slowly than you would prefer. Itâs just your luck to first have the golden hero of Greece look down on you in disdain, and then witness even the Bull Man walk away from you like you never meant anything to him. Men killing each other is the oldest story in the world, and you want no part in it, but something in this beast has stirred you awake from a long, cold slumber. Itâs infuriating that you canât dispel a simple animal from your heart. Oldest story in the book, that one, tooâŠ
But oh, how you now yearn after some cruel, lowly, dirty beast⊠The Minotaur already owns you, and he never even had to plunge his sword inside you to prove that. Besides, you wouldâve been perfectly willing had he decided to take you on the green grass, under the vast sky, while some noisy goats graze around you. You realize that thatâs what you expected to happen, and when it didnât, youâre left more than disappointed: you're left completely hollow. You always find out these things a little too late, it seems⊠The Bull is headed for the palace and will likely get killed after he slaughters his cruel father. Thereâs at least thirty spears in that building, and more will arrive when called.
You arrive at the temple, panting and with your body flushed and weak. The maidens at the entrance share a quick glance with each other before turning their fearful gazes back to you. Theyâre the youngest arrivals, not even initiates yet; one of them hardly even bleeds.Â
âThe King is dead,â you announce without bothering to even greet them, and the girls huddle up together like theyâre a bunch of slaves about to get slapped.
You realize you must look like an animal with your dirty robes, dishevelled hair and your wild, alive stare. No wonder they look like theyâve seen a ghost... You basically are one, coming back from the dead like this.
âWhat?âÂ
A priestess arrives at the threshold like an image of Hecate herself, dressed in robes as black as the midnight sky, but you donât shy away from her like you used to.
âOr he will be. Soon. The Minotaur is here.âÂ
âHow did you⊠How did it...â
Youâve never seen the priestess in disarray. Sheâs always composed, cold and distant, but seeing you like the wraith that you are, freshly escaped from the Labyrinth, spat back from the bowels of the earth like the dark gods didnât even want you there, makes even the greatest of Hecateâs servants a little uneasy.Â
She gathers whatâs left of her dignity and finds her most commanding voice. Sadly, it doesnât have the power to shake the ground anymore.
âWhere is Theseus of Athens?â
âDisemboweled⊠is my best guess,â you say in a listless voice, then turn your head toward the smell of fresh fruit.
Normally, you would walk these halls with dignity, but now, you simply barge in and grab the first piece of food you find. You ought to get whipped for your insolence, but no one dares to raise a hand against you. The maids and priestesses stare in shock as you eat and drink like a starved prisoner. Youâre a living Hecate in certain aspects, your arrival the first toll of the bell of doom as the palace guards sound the alarm.
SoâŠ
The Minotaur has reached the king.
âŠ
The priestesses deem it only logical that the King finally pays for his sins: the gods have been offended by the number of human sacrifices sent to the Labyrinth, and this is their way of exacting revenge. You were only an instrument of their will.
After a quick wash and some more food, you begin to feel like a human again. The maids bring you a new chiton, flowing and white: your old clothes are burned in a brazier as if that would help you forget.
And this might be the only place you donât get blamed for unleashing a monster. You were at a crossroads with the Minotaur, and anyone would have done the same: try to talk him out of his killing spree, calm him down, entice him with a gift. No one expected that the beast could even speak, so your approach was unusual, perhaps, but it worked. Hecate guided you through the tunnels, even when the candle went out, she stilled the Bullâs loins until you reached the sunlight where the beast got distracted with other things. You leave out the Minotaur's attraction to birds, bees and butterflies because your story is unbelievable enough as it is.
But the Minotaur will be slain after he has done his deed: Minos is the one who should be punished, not the city of Crete. And it is only just to put down this beast, a mercy.
So when he appears between the pillars of temple, this time wholly covered in blood, people are bound to scream. Even the priestesses who are used to seeing blood, shriek like widows when the Minotaur steps inside the holy shrine of Hecate.
âWhere is the maiden of the crossroads?â
He came back for you, after allâŠ
The boom of his voice is familiar, and yet, you cower on the bench when you hear it. The Minotaur sounds like heâs an envoy of Hades himself, and while youâre not among those who scream and yell, it still sends shivers down your spine to hear him speak like that.
Or is it the excitement, a tiny flame of hope that makes you quiver like this?
âWe all belong to the goddess,â someone peeps, the Minotaur now descending down the stairs.
The massive head turns, gaze like razor sweeping across the marbled shrine. Youâre so far back that he canât catch you, sitting behind many bodies and faces, and before you can force yourself to rise, the main priestess, the oldest, most crooked of the crones, steps forth to meet this beast.
âThis is a House of Hecate,â she speaks. âNo man is allowed to enter unless they are Death.â
The black carcass turns, but the priestess doesnât waver. If anything, her spine turns into unbreakable metal before this manâs gaze.
âI am Death,â he says, far more gently than anyone would expect. Then he walks past the crone like sheâs just a harmless elder. No one does a thing, because even the head of your temple is powerless now.
âShe had a red string and a candle. Where is she?â
He grabs the first woman he sees, and you rise up before he decides itâs time to thrust his blade into someone to loosen the tongues of these women.Â
âPlease,â you take a hesitant step towards your Bull. âIâm here... Iâm the one youâre looking for.â
The Minotaur lets go of the frightened initiate the instant he sees you. Sheâs shoved aside with little interest, the blue eyes behind the corpse now solely fixed on you. The way they soften into hazy ice makes your knees weak â thatâs the stare of someone who recognizes their loved one among a thick, dull crowdâŠ
âCome with me,â he extends a hand when he reaches you, strong legs swallowing tiles like heâs in a hurry to get back to you. You open your mouth, close it, and look at his hand, the rough, enormous palm held out for you to place your own little hand in.
âYou belong to me,â he says with great weight when you donât speak. It should spark the ire of the goddess for him to dare to talk to you like this⊠But mostly, your body sings. It tells you to take a step and take his hand: to let him have you, once and for all.Â
âMy place is here,â you utter, all power gone from your voice. All your dreams, all your fears are offering their hand to you with his, and the maidens, mothers and crones of this hall look upon your exchange with the Bull Man in stupefied silence.Â
âYou were sent down to me,â he presses on. âYou are mine now. You belong to me.â
Your body is singing, singing, singing.
Itâs not a request⊠Or a proposal.Â
Itâs a god, taking whatâs his.
âŠ
You swallow with nothing in your throat and look at the head priestess with helpless misery: she looks back with the eyes of a noxious Medusa, wholly dispassionate to the problems you brought upon yourself. And what could she even do? Sheâs unarmed against the claims of Hades: Death is now in love with you, and thereâs nothing you or anyone else can do about it.Â
He doesnât want to stay in the city, as enchanting as it is, saying that it stinks and that heâs tired of the screams. No one wants him here; he already knows that, and the task he was meant to do is done. He doesnât seem to be much moved by it either, only asking you if there is a place where he can wash the blood off himself.Â
People become more bold when they see you walk out of the city. Not even the sight of a crimson demigod makes them watch their tongues. Insults and slurs follow you through the streets, shouts such as âKingslayer!â and âBeast!â are accompanied with curses such as âYou are an abomination!â and âGo back to your lair!âÂ
No one treats him as their prince and savior, no one sees him as the man he truly is. And because hatred thickens in crowds, you get your share of the insults as well.Â
What kind of a woman would follow a beast like him? Have you sold your soul to the demons of the desert, or has Hades himself forced you to be with this monster? Are you behind the murder of their king?
âMust I remind you?â You turn on your heels, standing tall and proud with the posture of a queen. âAccording to the old laws, the one who slays the king is the next to rule.âÂ
âYou led him out of the Labyrinth, didnât you?â the voices ask.
âGave him your cunt, too,â they sneer.
âYouâre worse than the bloody Gorgon,â they mock, but you have a thick skin: if anything, you take it as a compliment to be referred to the mighty slayers of men.
What cuts through your heart is the filth and hate they spit at him, the man who has known nothing but loath since he was born.Â
âHecateâs whore⊠I should kill you first,â one soldier shouts with spit running down his chin.
The citizens of Crete would never hail the Minotaur as their king, but none can say the deed didnât prove great strength. Some would even call it justice. He is the queenâs son, after all: heâs more royal than any of these dung-stinking peasants will ever be. He should never have been sent down to those tunnels in the first place.
Before you know it, the Minotaur swoops past you in haste, diving towards the screaming crowd with hunched shoulders and a fiery breath.
âStop,â you say, and he halts immediately, gaze still directed to the one who called you a whore. The soldiers back away along with the peasants and tradesmen, these poor, humble Cretes who act like they never meant to be so mean.
âLet us go in peace,â you command, voice unwavering and stern. âOr I will curse you all. You and your families, down to the seventh son and seventh daughter.â
That manages to shut them up. The threat of a curse frightens these poor beasts even more than the enraged Minotaur breathing fire through his helm. No one wants rot and puke to follow them wherever they go; no one wants to doom their offspring with illness, death and sorrow. They disperse in all directions and only hiss and whisper as they go.
You spit on the ground as your last gift to these people, leaving the city of Crete with the ever-adoring Bull at your heels.
âYouâre even prettier when youâre angry,â he says while walking next to you, voice thick with genuine passion and awe.
You roll your eyes: any man would cower before Hecateâs curse, but this one? This one only gets more horny.Â
âPerhaps you are part bull after all,â you retort dryly.
âIt takes more than one spear to kill me,â he boasts, but you donât need more proof of his prowess. Surely, people have tried to kill him in the Labyrinth, but heâs survived every single attempt on his life â for that alone, he should be a decorated hero.
The only thing that makes you annoyed, however, is this childish need to prove he couldâve taken the whole city by himself just because some man happened to call you a slut.
âMother said Iâm a monster instead of a man,â he says, completely unaware that your snap wasn't meant as a compliment. He says it like heâs partly proud of it, and you finally sigh and turn.Â
âYour mother was heartless. And wrong.â
The Minotaur only looks at you with a building passion that goes straight to your loins.
âBut youâre not.â
â...What?â
âHeartless.â
You feel stripped naked before him, the way his eyes seem to burn away your poor dress. But the fact that he unearths your most guarded secret, just like that, is a catastrophe of a far wider scale.
Youâre not sure whoâs tied to whom anymore⊠Or if youâre tied to each other, the gods now laughing in their wine as they look down at you two: a fierce and bloodied giant following the maiden he stole like itâs you who took him and not the other way around.
You reach the roaring waters of a waterfall in silence, the night wrapping the lands inside a dark blue veil. Stars will be visible soon, and with the moon creeping up to the sky, you wonât be needing candles tonight. The silver mistress gives plenty of light for you to admire your beast, and compared to the thick darkness of the tunnels you emerged from this morning, it feels like a generous blessing.
You sit on the banks of the small, clear pond, utterly exquisite at nightfall. The sunâs heat has turned into a warm, caressing breeze, and you submerge your feet into the water, giving out a satisfied sigh as the cool pond embraces your travel worn feet. The Bull sinks to a crouch some distance away from you, curious about your obvious moment of pleasure.
âDid you meet herâŠ? Your mother?â You ask from the cool water lapping at your feet â how can a simple man make you feel so restless and shy?
âDid you⊠kill her?âÂ
âShe cursed me,â he says, sullen and wholly unsurprised. Time and time again, you are shocked by the hatred his own kin shows him. How can a mother be so cruel?
âHow could I kill my own maker?â
âIâm sorry,â you whisper. âFor everything.âÂ
You swallow before such unwavering love. The same man who cursed the gods yesterday honours the womb he came from so much that he wonât raise a hand against it, not even when his own mother spits curses at him. You donât know if itâs his greatest strength or biggest weakness, but sometimes you wonder if heâs more human than humans, this beast.
âIâm not,â he retorts immediately. âThe king is dead. Mother is safe. I have you... This is the best day of my life.â
You turn to look at him. Time and again, the lack of lies and deceit in this man catches you off guard. Itâs more painful than any wound, to see how the Minotaur has no protective skin against the corrupted human nature, that he is human nature before it was defiled.
âLetâs get you cleaned up,â you falter.Â
The chiton pools around your ankles, and you wonder if the man even breathes anymore. You know your skin is glowing with the last rays of the setting sun, youâre aware that the water and moonlight play upon your skin and make you look like an illusion, powerful in its own way.
When have you ever faltered� Back when you were a little girl, you reckon, the notion euphoric and eerie in your bones.
You rise up and undress before him nonchalantly, trying to ignore the fervid stare of your admirer. Unclasping the brooches holding up your white linen dress, you let it fall down and set you free, secretly reveling in the downright carnal stare now glued to your skin.Â
Ripe for plucking, you think while stepping out of the pile of cloth and into the thin evening air. His gaze feasts on you: the plump breasts no one ever loved, the vulnerable navel down below, the dark triangle between your legs, the secret power it holds.
Heat pools into your core as you watch him: everything in your body turns warm and soft when you take in the utter heftiness of him. The mean, swelling phallus between his legs, the near inhuman strength those shoulders and chest possess. Your body is the complete opposite of him, ethereal, almost, compared to the absolute brute strength before you.Â
His eyes linger there the longest until he rises too, stiff and dreamy, a beast entirely taken by a thrall. The loincloth is practically torn away, as if itâs only a nuisance he must get rid of immediately. His eyes never leave your shape while he bares himself, and the phallus, you notice, belongs to a human. Itâs thick and wondrous, fully erect, adorned with dark curls and accompanied by a set of balls youâve mainly seen on horses. Big, full and round but unlike animals, theyâre covered in dark fur, almost black here in the evening light. Thick seed beads through the slit of his cock from simply seeing you, and the way his chest heaves makes it clear that this man is ready to mate as soon as heâs allowed to do so.Â
âYou need to take off your helm,â you lift your chin, thoroughly aware of your power over him, even if itâs laughable, a miracle that he doesnât fuck you on the spot like the animal he is. âYouâre a man, not a bull.â
His eyes donât betray any kind of hesitation. He doesnât seem to be interested in whether he wears his mask or not. He just blinks as if heâs indeed under a spell and nods.
âIf you say so.â
The broad muscles flex as he takes it off, and what is revealed to you from underneath the head is both a surprise and a disappointment. Thereâs not a monster under there, only a man, a stoic, boorish, shaggy male whoâs in desperate need of a wash and a comb. Heâs somewhat handsome under all that facial hair and knots, actually, not bad at all â if you like your men rugged and wild.Â
He lets the head drop to the ground with a thud as if it was never a part of him at all, and follows you into the pool like youâre his mother and heâs your cub about to get scrubbed clean.Â
He seems to dwarf you, even when half submerged in the pond, leaning back with a sigh not unlike yours. If youâre afraid, your body has a peculiar way of showing it: even in the clear, glossy water, you can feel yourself get wet. Never have you seen such strength, not in any man: in horror and awe, you realize he could be a descendant of Zeus himself. As if providing proof to these claims, he looks up to the sky, mesmerized by the myriad stars dotting the vast, unattainable blue.
Using this momentary distraction to your advantage, you reach to pluck a handful of moss from the bank. With this soft little sponge in your hand, you hope to make it clear that this is indeed a bath, not foreplay.Â
âTheyâre stars,â you say softly while slinking closer to him. âHave you ever seen them...?â
âYes,â he rasps with his head lolled back, throat completely exposed. It always hurts your heart to see that he trusts you so fully. You are no threat to him â even if the gods changed the moss in your hand into a weapon of some sort, you wouldnât pose any kind of challenge. And still, the way he allows you to creep towards him and wipe his rough hide with the makeshift sponge without so much as flinching is heartbreaking.Â
âI have forgottenâŠâ his voice drifts off as he examines the night sky, eyes filled with distant, glass-like delight.
âBeautiful, arenât they...?âÂ
âYour world is pretty,â he brings his gaze back to earth and to you. âBut youâre the loveliest thing Iâve seen so far.â
You almost freeze upon hearing that. His compliments always catch you off guard, but this time, something forbidden and long forgotten comes undone: a lost want, no, a need to hear such simple words of shallow praise.
âYou do not scream... You do not run. Why?â
Your eyes are liquid, glass about to break as you set yourself on the task of scrubbing him clean. You refuse to get emotional in front of him: an initiate of the dark goddess, shedding tears when a horny man calls her pretty? What utter nonsense.
But then he grabs your wrist: not to seize back power, but to prevent you from escaping this fragile moment.
âYou are different,â he agrees calmly, then releases you, but you reckon itâs mostly because he misses the soft rubs you were giving him.Â
âPerhaps Iâm crazy,â you breathe while looking at the damp curls on his chest.
Yes⊠Thatâs the only explanation for this madness. It has to be.
âIs that why you took me?âÂ
âI took you because youâre mine. I want you.â
âYou canât just take what you want,â you warn softly.
âWhy not?â His head tilts a little to the side as heâs trying to make sense of you and the manners of your world. âDonât you want to be mine?â
You lift your gaze and risk a look into his eyes, stripped from all facades as always. You even catch a passing wave of worry there: he had counted on you being as fascinated with him as he is with you. The hunger behind that want, the need to be something special to you, is a whole another issue that must wait until your head is more clear. Way more clearâŠ
âPerhaps,â you confess.
âI have nothing to give you,â he shrugs, eyes looking slightly past you this time, out of shame or anxiety. It takes a while for you to understand heâs liking you to the goods at the market and thinks heâs expected to have money to be able to keep you.
âYou donât need to pay for me,â you smile, trying your best to disguise the soft amusement in your voice. His brows only furrow as he tries to calculate and think.
âI donât understand the rules of this world,â he finally shakes his head.Â
âIâll teach you.â
For a while, he only looks on with fascination how you rub his arms and belly, basically massaging him with the wet moss. His eyes drift closed when you scrub the back of his neck, the stout erection only getting thicker under the cool water. Youâre careful with his legs, not because youâre afraid heâs ticklish but because you try to avoid touching the huge cock already jutting up from happiness. It gives a few excited bounces when you wash his inner thighs, hopeful to get its needs satiated soon.Â
âI can hunt for you,â he suggests. âBring you food⊠Protect you.â
Heâs visibly excited when figuring out a way to give you something in return. He wants to provide offerings for your company, your lore, and eventually, your cunt, too. You might be a virgin, but youâre not stupid: of course he wants the soft, wet prize between your legs. A pair of lovely tits to squeeze at night... Ears to groan hushed confessions into, thighs to nibble, bite and suck until you cry...Â
âWhat do you think?â He asks, breath heavy from the bliss youâre already granting him by simply giving him a bath. âI could give you my heat. Please you...â
âYou know how to please women?âÂ
âNo. But you could teach me.â
The way he says it is not shy. Only tentative. A bear, walking on ice and hoping it would carry his weight. One wrong step and the ice will swallow him, spitting out his bones only in spring.Â
And thenâŠ
âDo you know how to fuck?â
The ice holds, mainly because youâre too shocked to even slap or ridicule this man. His eyes bore into you with such unbridled greed that you have trouble keeping your precious pride intact.
âOf course,â you hear yourself whisper like it would be an insult to your intellect if you didnât.
âTeach me,â he says, ever more greedily.
âIâŠâ
Your jaw is left open, but not a word comes out. A strong palm closes around your wrist again, this time to bring you flush against him. The water laps at your skin, a distant crow cackles somewhere. Your hand is brought to his phallus, but he doesnât have to wrap your fingers around it: you do it all by yourself, breath locked in your throat as you feel how hard and blazing he is.
âYou want my cock,â he says, mouth only an inch from yours. âDonât you...?â
You wet your lips â a mistake, because his half-lidded gaze darts to your mouth the instant your pink tongue lashes out. Youâre in a predicament, but on the other hand, what else did you expect, taking your clothes off in front of a touch-starved bull?
âIâd give it to you happily,â he insists. âNo female ever wanted to spread her legs for me.â
Or a leash.Â
Your fingers tighten on their own, they mould around him. Like a bondâŠ
âReally?â You breathe. âWhat fools they were...â
The cock gives a full throb inside your palm, exalted to be yours. But only a moment later, the dreaded Minotaur moves.Â
You find yourself under him before you can even gasp for air: the soaked, hot body of a giant now pinning you on the grass and crushing you under it with ease. The weight of your error is fully pressed against you: he was never tamed, and you were a fool to think you could put him in chains.
The raw scent of earth and musk fills your nostrils, making the stars above you spin. His cock is trapped between your bodies, giving another rich pulse against your thigh. Gods, if he were throbbing like that inside youâŠ
âYou make my skin burn,â he growls into your ear, the heat of his skin now unbearable, the coarse hair prickling your skin from neck to thigh. âMy loins, acheâŠâ
âAre you a witch?â He asks, and you finally allow yourself to breathe.
If he only knew⊠But hexes and charms are of no use for you now: the only thing you can do is moan, apparently, as he dives for your neck, planting barbarous kisses on your skin.
Down, down, down he goes, pure avarice driving him to feast on every part of you. Youâre too weak to stop him when he searches for the source of your intoxicating scent. Discovering it between your thighs, he dives nose-first into your sex, meeting your core with a hungry grunt.
Your back arcs with pleasure, your nails sink into his back: a funny thing to do when heâs already as close as can be. The trail of crude kisses leads him to your breasts, and you try to keep your whimpers in control, but a gasp erupts when he drags a hot tongue across your nipple. Massive palms close around your tits while you squirm in his hold: he doesnât seem to be driven by the need to please you; rather, he wishes to study you first, examine how your body reacts to his groping. He leaves your breasts aching and sore, every bite and suck managing to make you wetter and wetter, your cunt screaming for attention by now.
âGods...â you wriggle on the soft earthen bed, not expecting him to take you with his mouth first.
He withdraws, only a little, but his voice is surprisingly soft.
âDo I hurt you...?âÂ
âNo⊠But this is not matingâŠâ
âEven I know that much,â he says darkly, and grabs you by the waist, moves you around like a doll until you find yourself on your belly.Â
He looks at you from between your thighs, demonic and keen. The broad shoulders force your legs wide apart when heâs seated there, waist-deep in the water, with you hauled to the shore like a siren.
Not a moment is wasted as he pulls you back to him by the hips: youâre drawn to all fours, a hot streak of cum dragging on the inside of your thigh from the cock that meets your skin. He grabs and steadies it with an annoyed grunt, and the fat tip is shoved straight into your folds, your nether lips parted with brute force almost.Â
âGuide me.â
His voice is demanding, impatient as he drags the fat head up and down the entrance of your hole, coating his cock with your slick in the process. You wonder if itâs instinctual, if he knows that this is where he should poke and that it will hurt you less if heâs well-oiled. Heâs about to rut you into oblivion the instant you tell him where to shove his cock, and the prospect only sends more sap flowing down your thigh.
âThereâŠâ you stutter when he finds it, the aching spot thatâs leaking profusely. He pushes the head in, not by teasing but by bullying, almost forcing it inside from how tight and unreceptive you are.
âTighter than my fist,â is his only comment, and it makes you shudder. âI will not last longâŠâ
You wince from the burn, but the rest of it glides in like a dream, and suddenly youâre filled, to the capacity, one could say. He grunts just from the way your womanhood is hugging him, not sure what this foreign object inside you is â is it a good thing or a threat?
âEasy then,â you breathe a huff into the sweet night air, filled with fireflies and night birds who know nothing about the fucking youâre about to go through.
He doesnât move â inside you, that is. Outside, he crawls forward until he moulds around you, heavy body enveloping you completely. The hairs on his thighs tickle the back of your legs, his chest scrapes your back just so as he demonstrates how you belong to him in every way. But when your cunt starts to squeeze him again, he swallows thickly.
âDoes this feel good to you tooâŠ?â
You catch faint confusion and concern in his voice, astonished that such a soft, frail body like yours can take his cock just like that. Little does he know youâre still adjusting to his size, thanking all the gods that he doesnât move yet.
âYes,â you confess because it does feel good: his thickness inside you, stretching you both gently and violently, studying how it feels to be inside a loving, wet heat.
âThen I will fuck you every day,â his lips come to brush your ear. âMany times...â
You hear yourself whimper, more humble now than ever. No man would dare to take you on all fours, but here you are, like a bought bride about to get stuffedâŠ
He withdraws a little, asks, âLike this?â when he returns with a rough, nasty thrust. The balls meet your mound, heavy on the tender nub youâve flicked when youâre lonely, covering your mouth while you do it. Both your hands are planted on the ground now, your legs spread before this beast, cunt filled to the brim with his cock.
âNot so rough,â you warn, and he heeds your instructions to the letter until heâs moving in and out with a slow, delicious pace that allows you to feel every thick bump of him. Soaked now down to your thighs, the sounds of your mating is utterly sloppy and slick, and of course heâs curious.
âAre you always like thisâŠ?â
âLike⊠what,â you huff in between the slow, torturous thrusts.
âSoft,â he rasps. âTight⊠Wet like rain.â
âNo. Itâs just whenâŠâ
âWhen you want to fuck?â
You whimper for an answer, mostly because he starts to slip from the agreed sluggish pace. His cock invades you with more urgency, chasing the eruption that must be generous from those thick balls that should belong to a horse.
âI knew itâŠâ he says dreamily behind you. âSome women want to mate with bulls...â
He punctuates his newfound pride with a full, deep thrust, and you wince.
âYouâre not aââ
âKeep telling yourself that, little maiden.â
He exhales a hot smile next to your ear, and youâre neck deep in love. Your mouth hangs open, your lids half closed and fluttering from the way he pounds into your poor, abused cunt. Heavy balls slap your swollen nub with careless abandon, making you squeeze his thickness every time he hits the end of you. His grunts become more animalistic with every thrust, and your cunt is a wild thing, leaking and weeping and throbbing until you fear thereâs something wrong with you â no woman is supposed to be this needy for a beastâŠ
Iâm going to come⊠You realize in horror as the slick sounds of fucking overthrow even the coursing roar of the waterfall. The knowledge shoots your body full of dark, hot ink; it explodes inside your core like a liquid star, throbbing through your cunt currently being ploughed like youâre nothing but a needy, sloppy hole for him. Youâre swimming in so much pleasure that itâs almost painful, the revelation some secret of the gods, no doubt.Â
He growls when you moan, heavy arm snaking its way around your middle to keep you in place for him. The purr is eager and low, the rumble erupts from his chest like a thick, loving volcano, a statement of how perfect you are. He nuzzles his nose into your neck and rubs his scent all over you while fucking you through it, the divine rapture that leaves your throat dry from moans.Â
He doesnât need to be told what it means when youâre crying like that: he doesnât need to be explained that his cock is giving you ample pleasure. Itâs so desperate, how much he wants to both fuck and please you, just own you and fulfill you, that you start to shake, your frail body not capable of handling the orgasm he just gave you.Â
Your strength fails, and you find yourself on your elbows, cunt even more exposed to him now, the cock pistoning into you with a relentless pace. Heâs like a titan upon you, taking pleasure from your quivering, weak frame and the tight wet hole that belongs to it. Youâre still in rapture when he starts to sound like broken, wounded man.
âYou were made for me,â he huffs. âYou were made...for meâŠâ
His voice evaporates along with your thin, adoring mewls, just before he fucks himself over the edge. You can feel the hot, thick spurts, filling you as he roars into your hair, balls pressed flush against your sex, thighs meeting yours in a moment frozen in time.Â
They can probably hear him all the way to the city, hear what a cunt like yours does to an invincible beast like him⊠But his cries are only met with silence; the night sky looks back with disinterest, the birds continue their songs when they notice it was only the roar of a mighty beast that filled the land. Before long, heâs groaning above you, using your hole more softly; loving it until the last drop is milked.Â
When he stops, his whole body is trembling from release, but youâre not given a moment of reprieve. He forces you to the ground with him on your back, the rough, thick body never leaving yours. Coarse beard chafes your neck, his body trapping you completely under him, he even opens his jaw to take your shoulder between his teeth and bites you while his cock is still pulsing fat inside you.Â
âI canât get enough of you,â he pants into your ear, angry, almost.
âGood,â you breathe a smile, but heâs not satisfied.
âYou couldnât get enough of me too⊠I noticed.â
âYou gave me pleasure,â you agree. âLots of it.â
âThat was a lot of seed⊠I havenât spilled in days.â
He huffs into your ear, astonished and proud that he could do such a thing. You feel him shift to take a better look at you, fingers arrive to graze your temple as if to make sure youâre real, as if having his cock inside you wasnât enough proof of that. Theyâre a little shaky, a little uncouth, but the touch is gentle enough, and sweet.
He's boasting again perhaps, you donât know, but you give him a soft laugh, notice how he stops breathing momentarily when hearing the bright sound.
âI am filled to the brim with you, yes⊠It will take a while before I can take more.â
â...You have other holes in you,â he offers after a while, quite seriously, in fact.Â
âGet off me, you beast,â you huff and squirm to get out from under him, but thereâs a luscious grin on your face, a smile that tells him you would more than approve of his obscene ideas later.Â
âThis feels good,â he murmurs into your hair. âThis feels right...â
He allows you to leave from under him, only whines when his cock gets exiled from your cunt. He misses the wet heat like a newborn child misses the womb, but you need to recover from the recent invasion. Seed gushes out from your hole, making a mess on the ground as he pulls you against him, wanting to cuddle you next.
You wonder if he even knows what cuddling means as you lie there with a sticky mess between your legs and the heat of an entire sun on your cheeks. You smile into the coarse, sweaty body hair tickling your nose, deciding it doesnât matter whether he knows or not: the most important thing is that he wants to hold you like this.
âYes,â you smile. âThis feels rightâŠâ
Something blooms in your chest. An odd flower, persistent and sweet.Â
The stars above are cold but motherly as they look down on you two: born again into a world that doesnât want either of you. The only things that accept you now are flowers, birds, the wind and the rain, bees and salty sea, but thatâs aplenty. Thatâs more than the whole of Crete could ever give you.
âAre you thinking about your hero,â he asks above you.
âWhat? NoâŠâ
âGood,â he rasps, so softly now that you start to fear heâs about to cry.
You are more than capable of lying, but Theseus hasnât crossed your mind in hours: the last time it did, the memory was received with loath and disdain. Thinking about Theseus while youâre draped all over your Bull, his seed flowing out of your womb... What a ridiculous idea.Â
The reason for his hardly disguised anger is laid out plain before you: he's just jealous like any other man. Somehow, it makes you feel even more glowy inside.Youâre my hero, you want to say, but have no courage to spill out the words. He was balls deep inside you mere moments ago, but telling him this intimate truth seems to be too much.
It never occurred to him, then, that you would enjoy copulating with him. He fucked you with the impression that you needed thoughts of another man to make you wet⊠That perhaps with the help of the image of Theseus in your mind, you were able to come with his cock inside you.Â
âMy Bull,â you whisper. âTell me your name. You must have a nameâŠ?â
His breath stops only for a moment, the heart in his chest gives an arduous beat before he answers.
âAsterion.â
Starry oneâŠ
Of course.
All monsters have names, usually the opposite of what theyâre claimed to be. His birth is in heaven, in the stars; he belongs to the company of heroes and gods.
âAsterion,â you whisper it out into the night air while the animal an man both find their new home in your arms. âYour birth is written in the stars. Did you even knowâŠ?â
âDoes that make me a hero?â He snorts, more old wounds torn open right before your eyes.Â
You wriggle yourself out of his hold, but he avoids your stare. You lift a hand to bring those beautiful Olympian eyes back to you.
âIt makes you immortal.â
Perhaps you shouldâve known he would be enticed with an apple instead of tethers and deals. Or with a palm, held out with no intent to strikeâŠÂ
Itâs lovely, how he blinks every time heâs confused. Youâve yet to see him shy, but if he ever is, this might be the moment⊠You even catch him swallowing under that wild facial hair, an awkward blob right after that blink when his birthright is acknowledged.
But even more dumbfounded he becomes when he realizes youâre truly and veritably admiring him. When you whisper it to him â youâre my hero â and watch something shatter in him that was supposed to wrench itself free, thatâs when heâs truly granted divinity.
Perhaps it was all about becoming animal again, allowing the other to have a sniff. Baring your throat and embracing the instinct to trust. Marrying your wild soul⊠The deepest magic of all.
I've never seen a more accurate image of what being impaled by Konig's dick would look like. The stretch would be so overwhelming!
ikieieiekekkekekedofisksks
oh my goddd
dude, he would have to prep you for AGES!! make u cum on his fingers so much, youâre so overstimulated and empty before you even get to ride his pretty cock!!
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Word count: 5.2 k
Summary: Yup itâs König with a Virgin!Nun!Reader folks. This is all @wordstome 's and @melancholic-thing 's and their König & religion post's fault! :(
Tags/warnings: PINING. Eventual smut, eventual blood & minor injuries. A cute, sweet, silly story with undertones of religious despair. Watch out for possible mistakes concerning Catholicism, I was more interested in the forbidden love trope.
Part 1
You donât know how it even happened, but you became friends with a foreign man visiting your city.Â
You bumped into him one day. Literally bumped into him, or then he bumped into you; youâre not entirely sure whoâs to blame here, but you wouldâve fallen to the ground had he not grabbed you by the arm and hauled you back up and against him.Â
It was just to prevent you from hurting yourself, but your mind short circuits for a moment when youâre pressed against the broadest chest youâve ever seen. The man is tall, so tall you have to crane your neck to see who has such lightning-fast reflexes.
Worried eyes look down at you from above, but the manâs expression softens when he sees how frightened you look.
âIâm so sorry. Are you ok?â
âYes⊠Yes, Iâm fine, thank you.â
He starts to fuss about being in such a hurry without any particular reason and asks if he can make this up for you somehow.
Could he offer you a lunch or something? No, how about a drink? Heâs truly so sorry.
His accent is charming, and the genuine regret and worry make you quickly judge him as a safe enough person to grab a coffee with. Accidents happen, and itâs not illegal to sit down with a man you just met, right?
You tell him you donât drink drinks, but a coffee would be nice. The man raises an eyebrow when you reveal to him that youâre not only a teetotaler, youâre also a nun.Â
âAh⊠So you prefer a simple life?âÂ
He takes you to a dark, cosy cafe around the corner. His inquiry leads to a conversation on the joys of silence and simplicity, then on philosophy, faith, and the cons of modern life. By the time he grabs you a table for two, youâre already discussing how people are always on their smartphones nowadays, looking for instant gratification and pleasures and how it wrecks their brains. You both gush about how nice it is to steer away from all that.Â
You find yourself talking to him with ease about your life choices. How the anxiety reached a point where you wanted to get away from all the fuss, and how much peace this solution has brought you. How you have meaning and purpose these days, and how you doubt youâd be able to adjust into a modern society anymore. He gets what you mean immediately, saying he only feels at home when heâs alone in the mountains. How heâs been alone his whole life, really, and that it doesnât scare him anymore, on the contrary.
You feel warm and safe with him, lost inside a soft bubble you quickly create in the corner table of a cellar cafe. Perhaps itâs the dimly lit environment or perhaps itâs just him, but you have one of the deepest conversations ever with this mysterious man.
Heâs attentive and curious without being your usual pervert on the sly. Youâve had enough of men looking at you like youâre the forbidden fruit after hearing about your life choices.Â
This man doesnât try to seduce his way into your pants; he listens to your insights and agrees with you on how silence does you good, especially in times like this. You wonder what he does for work and why heâs here because clearly, heâs not local. You never get to ask him because the conversation ends far too quickly.Â
He receives a message on his phone, cruelly reminding you that the magical bubble has burst and youâre back in the modern world. He looks crabby about the interruption too, especially when he says he has to go.
You both agree that you had a nice talk and should continue it sometime â why not tomorrow? Same time, same place.
So you meet him again.Â
And again⊠And again.Â
You find out heâs in town for at least two weeks, but when he finally reveals what he does for work, your stomach sinks. He tells you heâs working for some private military contractor and canât really share any details about his work. When you ask him does this mean that he kills people for money, he falls silent.
âI guess you could put it like that.â
Heâs looking at his shoes when he says it, somewhat embarrassed or sad. His feet barely fit under the table, so he has them stretched out, leading to a waitress almost tripping on them one day. Your heart is squeezing inside your chest when he rises immediately and apologises like the perfect gentleman, helps the lady up and never gets insulted by the murderous glares the woman shoots at him.Â
He gives you his codename, König, and that he comes from Austria, but then refuses to share any other personal details. You donât even get to know his first name. You do talk about your childhood, you talk about your schools and what you were supposed to become when you grew up. He tells you about his love for hiking, and you tell him about your dance hobby.Â
The usual âOh? Nuns are allowed to dance?â comment has you laughing.Â
âWell⊠I donât do twerking, but yes, nuns are allowed to dance.â
âWhatâs âtwerkingâ?â
Itâs so funny how you seem to know about modern trends more than him. You know about Tinder and TikTok through your friends; itâs just that these things are really not for you. Still, this König knows even less about dating apps and internet challenges than you.Â
It makes you intrigued: he could have dozens of women right now if he wanted to. And not only because heâs attentive and kind: heâs so big and tall that most women would beg him to whisk them away. All he needed to do was go to a hookup site and deal out some likes.Â
Most of his muscles are packed in the shoulders and chest area, making it challenging for him to fit through a door. You can see he hasnât skipped a leg day either, and immediately chastise yourself for checking out his butt in the coffee queue. You ignore your filthy thoughts of wanting to get pressed against those pecs again, you pay no attention to the fleeting musings on how good that short stubble would feel against your neck if he ever chose to kiss you there.
A soldier and a nun make an odd pair, but you find yourself enjoying his company more than anyone elses. He seems to wait for your meetings with eager but polite enthusiasm, too. You know itâs an attempt to make you forgive his choice of career when he reveals to you that his best mission was when he saved thirty women from sex trafficking. And it does make your heart crack open a little. Killing is a sin, but he has tried to protect life in his own crude way.
You start to include him in your prayers. First, you ask for the Lord to guide this man away from the path of killing. Then, slowly, you ask him to be protected from harm, you only pray for him to be safe.Â
And you say nothing of this new acquaintance to the others. You ought to, but your lips remain sealed.
Youâre allowed to have friends and visit them, and it doesnât matter if the friend is of the opposite sex as long as the meetings are purely platonic. Which they are. This man could be your brother, you tell yourself. He could be a long-distance cousin. Thereâs nothing fishy going on around here, and heâs just visiting, so why would you bother to tell anyone? It would only lead to troubled sighs and concerned questions, and you really donât feel like answering them right now.
You miss a few midday prayers, and once, your chores. The relationship turns out to be far from platonic.
König canât even keep his eyes in check.Â
They travel down your neck and land on the smallest amount of cleavage, barely visible in the loose, dull shirts you wear. They slip further down and stop to admire your breasts next, then quickly rise back to your collarbones as if this was just a mistake, just an absent, wandering gaze. You know youâre wearing a semi-helpless stare by the time he meets your eyes. The blue steel in his is completely swallowed by hunger.
You want to believe it was only a momentary lapse, but then he does it again. Actually, you catch him looking at your breasts, scanning your body and cherishing the tender spot between your collarbones more times than you can count. Theyâre quick, stolen moments, so harmless that you choose to stay quiet. He usually starts to talk about something trivial right after, or asks you a quick question as if nothing ever happened.
Those stolen glimpses stay with you for the rest of the day though. They give you intrusive thoughts during morning prayers and evening silence. Youâve never felt this⊠adored.
He has a quiet, commanding presence, and you feel like a mouse under his gaze, a mouse whoâs always thoroughly examined. At the same time, heâs so polite and so charming that you canât think ill of him. He always takes your coat and brings you coffee, always asks how your day or week has been, and actually listens to you speak. He listens to your every word with a softening glow in his eyes, a shimmer that spreads across the table and makes you feel warm all over.Â
König always softens in your presence... You always tense up in his.Â
Your face is flushed, and you blame it on the overcrowded cafe. You feel both safe and in danger with him, and it must be the virgin inside you talking. But you sense thereâs something more at play here. Heâs simply not like other men.Â
You fear heâs seen hell; in fact, he must walk there every day. From what he tells you, you understand that he has suffered a lot and could use your prayers. But itâs also quite clear that heâs not a victim anymore.Â
Itâs difficult to see this utterly charming teddy bear in front of you, enjoying his large cup of coffee and giving you the occasional husky laugh, then imagine the same man bursting through a door and starting a massacre. Marching in some dark, dirty recess with a rifle or a shotgun in his hands, hunting down screaming people and putting down his already bleeding enemies.
Because thatâs what you imagine in your mind when he tells you heâs sometimes used as an insertion specialist; a human battering ram in short.
You look at his hands around the mug, long fingers curled in search of warmth. He has short, trimmed nails and no sign of blood under them⊠But that doesnât mean itâs not there.
âŠ
"Oh honey. Soldiers are the worst," your friend sighs when you meet her at another cafe, different from where you meet your killing machine. Itâs bubbly and lively and colourful, just like your friend; itâs the opposite of König, the special operations soldier whoâs dark, intriguing, and intimate, just like the dimly lit cellar cafe you meet him in secret.
"He probably owns a Fleshlight," she mumbles with her mouth full of croissant.
"A⊠A what?"
She starts to cough at your innocent inquiry, and you know you didnât hear âflashlightâ in the first place, itâs just that youâre not sure if you want to know what on earth sheâs talking about now.
When she finally survives the munch she almost choked on, she politely tells you what a fleshlight is, and you find yourself not rolling your eyes, but actually thinking about König using one with need.
Christ have mercyâŠ
"Soldiers are crazy. I once dated this peacekeeper,â your friend continues in her usual chirpy way. âCouldn't hold a conversation for his life. Unless it was about guns... And when I went over to his place, the walls were covered with pictures of naked women. It was so pathetic I had to keep myself from laughing. And oh god, now I remember! He offered me microwaved mac and cheese for dinnerâŠ"
You sip your coffee and listen politely to your friend ramble about some guy she used to date. She has a lot of these stories, and all of them are worth hearing. Sometimes you think if youâre living your unlived sex life through your friend, the way youâre so curious about hearing all the different descriptions of male genitalia and the crazy, funny, downright unbelievable scenarios that have happened to her.Â
Some of the tales are so gross youâre quite happy you havenât indulged yourself in casual sex. And at times, hearing about all the things your friend has gone through, being an onlooker to all that heartbreak and pining and loss, has managed to strengthe your resolve.
Being a nun isnât so bad... At least you havenât wasted your time on shallow men.
"He put so much chili in that shit that my makeup started to run," she continues her story about the poor excuse for a dinner and a date. Usually, the food leads to sex in these tales, and youâre a hypocrite for wanting to hear more.
"Did you sleep with him�"
"After that? No thanks," she looks at you and raises an eyebrow. "I pretty much fled the building."
Even the most sad, pathetic, crappy tales make you both laugh, especially if enough time has passed. You laugh now, too, both at your friend falling for a man simply because he was a hot soldier and at the poor man who was in obvious need of an interior designer and a cook. Or a girlfriend⊠Or a mom.
"Look. I'm saying this because you're my friend." She says after wiping a few tears from her eyes, "And because youâre a virgin and a goddamn nun. Like come on, how many years have you been locked up in that dreadful monastery?"
"Convent," you correct.
"Whatever. I'm telling you this man is just looking for some easy pussy while he's deployed."
âI wouldn't call a nun an easyâŠugh, you know.â
âPerhaps he likes a challenge then, â she shrugs. âMen like to hunt.â
"Itâs not like that,â you quarrel, trying to ignore the way her lips purse with amusement. âHe's been very nice to me and⊠we have these great conversations. We talk about really deep stuff, you know? He explained the difference between Schopenhauer and Kierkegaard to me last time we metâ"
"Ok, that's even worse. That's a red flag."
You look down at your beverage, sullen and beaten. Sheâs the first person youâve told about meeting a man over a coffee, and youâre already doing it wrong.
"Does he ever look at your tits?" She asks all of a sudden.
"What?"
Your friend crosses her arms over her chest and tilts her head, looking like an overly self-satisfied detective.
"Do you ever catch him staring at your breasts," she rephrases the question as if sheâs talking to a lame person.
"Well⊠Uh. Yes, sometimesâ"
"Well there you have it. Man's just bored with his fleshlight."
"Shh! Keep it down, would you� Good God..."
"Don't take the name of the lord your god in vain," she chimes. âBut seriously, itâs no wonder. If only we could get you out of that convent, there would be a line of men at your door.â
âOh for Godâs sakeâŠâ
âNo, seriously. Weâre talking about fistfights and broken bones. Dating apps would explode. People would get killed.â
You roll your eyes - your friend always loves to exaggerate things. If anything, youâre scared of men, and you loathe the dating world. Youâre put off by shallow commitments and one-night stands and getting ghosted and God knows what else. Thatâs why you became a nun: to find something stable in your life. You always told your friend that Jesus Christ is the most stable man youâve ever met, and you will stick with him. As always, your friend was not on the same page with you.
âStable? Excuse me, but didnât he start a riot or something at the temple? Are we talking about the same dude who lead an uprising against the Romans? Hung out with whores, raised corpses from the dead, fucked around and found out until someone nailed him at the cross? Stable my ass!â
âLook, even if he wants something more, Iâm not up for it,â you try to convince - both yourself and your friend.
âMm. What a shame,â she smirks. âIs he handsome?â
âYes, butââ
âMmh. Deep voice?â
âUmm⊠Itâs memorable?â
âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âI donât know,â you cry. âOkay fine, itâs nice and deep and I like it. And I love his laugh,â you confess, and your friend does a silent little âyayâ and âI knew itâ cheer. You know it would be a field day for her if you finally got laid. As cliche as it sounds, youâve always treated your friend as some sort of devilâs advocate.
You allow yourself to gush a minute, maybe two, about his muscles to your beloved devil. You tell your friend about his broad back, how wide his shoulders are, you tell her about the easy smiles he always sports with you. You describe the tactical pants and the snug black t-shirts he wears in detail, you confess he has a nice butt and that heâs so big he can't even fit the table.Â
You tell her how König starts to talk with his hands if he gets excited and how you have to fear heâs going to knock something over and make a mess. You tell about his blue eyes and the way they always soften when he looks at you, and looks at you often. All the time, really. He doesnât even see other women, uh, you mean, other people in the cafe. Heâs polite to the waitresses but never fully acknowledges anyone else but you.
Your friend's enthusiastic grin turns into an uneasy, pitying smile when she realises how deep into this man you actually are.Â
"I'm sorry babe⊠Someone has to give you the tough love," she reaches for your hand across the table. "Do you understand that if this guy is not working for the regular military, he's probably doing some war crime type of shit?"
The way you rush to defend your steadfast soldier who probably has his hands covered in blood, would make your abbess sigh.
"No, no, actually, he's working against these human trafficking cellsâ"
"Ok, he shoots human traffickers too, that's great. Good for him. You're still about to step into a pile of traumatised, immature, emotionally unavailable soldier shit. Trust me."
"Just because your soldier was like that doesn't mean mine has to be," you blurt.
Gosh - that was a good old Freudian slip...
"Yours now, is he?"
"No, that was⊠It just slipped."
"So you've actually thought about banging this guy?"
"What?! No."
"You have," she insists with a widening smile.
"No. No, Iâ"
"Oh my god. You're about to forsake your vows," she brings her hands together in excitement. "Oh my god, oh my god. This is amazing!"
You feel your lips snap into a thin line.
Just whose side is this woman on? Does she want to protect you from heartbreak or push you into some man's lap just for shits and giggles?Â
If you're chosen by God, your friend is chosen by the Devil, that's for sure. Nothing exciting ever happens behind the walls of your 'monastery', nothing but endless prayers and boring lectures and monotonous chores. Of course she thinks it's about time you got a round of good dick. She just wants to hear a filthy story when you return from your secret little fling, a fling that could get you kicked out of the convent for good.Â
"How tall is he exactly...? Does he have big hands?"Â
Your friend's eyes are shining with excitement - apparently the possible war crimes and atrocities König has committed are forgiven and forgotten.
"What does that have to do with anythingâŠ?"Â
"I can tell you what to expect in the dick department," she smiles with an impish grin.
You eventually leave the cafe with a dirty soul and a skittish heart.
The way your friend described your new acquaintance's probable blessings in the "dick department" left little to the imagination, and now you're actually scared.Â
This man has been so polite towards you, so kind to you. He's offered you coffee and pastries and cake along with an intellectual challenge, but now it's all ruined because all you can think about is what's inside his pants. How big his hands are, and how they correlate with what's downstairs. How nice it would feel to lay under him, with his chest pressed against yours, how divine it would be to get pinned down by him. How those strong, narrow hips would fit between your legs, broad shoulders eclipsing the view above as he slowly crawls on top of you. How he'd kiss your neck, your collarbones, your mouth, with such hunger that your legs eventually give in and spread wide open.
You return to the convent with a heavy heart and distressed thoughts, but find some solace in your evening prayers.
Nothing has happened, you remind yourself; these are only thoughts. You have seen a man who's interested in you for half a dozen times. You took part in a shallow, mundane, earthly conversation today with your friend, but nothing carnal or wrong has happened. Everything is the way it has always been.
Youâre safe now, completely safe here. Thereâs no chaos and no guns and no tall men with big dicks, no Austrian war criminals trying to seduce you and then discard you after their deployment ends.Â
Thereâs only a man with a kind smile, warm eyes, and a nice, husky laugh. Some good coffee with distant notes of chocolate and perfectly civil conversations about European philosophers and the crisis of modern thought.
Sturdy walls support you; they have held you for centuries, and the crucifix above you has given hope to so many people before you. The ever-safe embrace of your faith envelops you, and you can always trust that you are loved, even when youâre flawed and incomplete.
Even with indecent thoughts, you can pray for mercy and ask for forgiveness. Even if you have impure urges towards your Austrian mercenary, you can still pray for him... Itâs the least you can do to repay the kindness he has given you.
But the heaviness follows you to your room; it makes your chest feel dark and thick. You donât say your last prayer before bed. You donât want His eyes upon you tonight.
You donât want to draw the Lordâs attention to you while your hand travels down beneath the sheets, your thoughts wandering to a certain god-like soldier with eyes like burning ice.
âŠ
The next time you two meet, he crosses a clear boundary.Â
König has started to take you for walks, sometimes suggesting you two could visit a museum, clearly wishing youâd show him around the city. In truth, heâs the one parading you around like youâre his cute little lady. He pays for your museum tickets and brings you ice cream while you sit on a bench at a park, grabs your arm to draw your attention to a few swans swimming in a pond. And thatâs ok - physical touch like that is ok. Holding hands is not.
BecauseâŠ
One time, when youâre walking down a hill path, admiring the sunset, a big, warm hand wraps itself around yours.Â
It finds you in silence, envelops your tiny palm completely, squeezes you softly and emanates so much heat that a cord of fire shoots across your arm and straight into your heart.
You allow yourself to bask in the warmth of the huge, calloused palm for a few more seconds before ripping your hand away. You take a few hurried steps and turn, noticing he has stopped to look at you with guarded hesitation.
âIâm sorry,â you apologise even if König is the one who went off limits, âbut this is not appropriate.â
âEntschuldigung⊠I know. That was out of bounds,â he raises a hand over his heart and bows his head a little, watching you from under his brows. You could keel over from how the gesture reminds you of Arthurian romances, of knights who place their hand on their heart to swear theyâll never disgrace a lady again.Â
Instead, you nod, your soul saved but your heart sinking like an anvil dropped in the sea. Youâd want nothing more than for him to do it again, to grab your hand in his and never let go.
The rest of the walk happens in awkward silence, and you thought he would keep his distance - Christ, you thought you would keep your distance - but he insists on walking near to you, and so you continue down the path with your fingers still touching each other every now and then. You don't even try to move your hand away.
Iâm going to die, you scream internally while looking at the bleeding sunset in the distance. You canât look at him; you canât even talk to him. Itâs like your body is pumped full of some drug these days.
Falling for someone so hard is making you feel faint; your insides are churning and turning and your brain is a mess. Your heart is racing so fast that youâre afraid youâll end up having a heart attack one of these days.
Heâs probably used to this: the thrill and the adrenaline, a world laced with rush and extremes, indulging in things such as guns and explosions and blood and women and darkness.
You only have your safe routines, your sisters, a few friends you meet over coffee, a family you visit thrice a year. Youâre not used to being bombarded with hormones and raw emotion like this. You have never, ever lusted after a man like this. The only thing you ever craved for was another slice of cake.
âDo you still want to see me?â He asks apologetically when you approach the convent which has now started to resemble a frigid, uneventful prison.
âOf course,â you hurry to say. âJust⊠No more holding hands. Ok?â
âOk,â he chuckles softly, and you stop and turn.
Heâs never been this near to where you live, and youâre afraid someone will see you if he escorts you to the door. You canât be seen with a man in your current state, that would be a catastrophe. Anyone in the building could tell that this friendship is far from platonic.
âIâm sure youâll find some other girl to⊠hold hands with,â you say, hating how bitter and self-pitying you sound. You even swallow when you look up into his eyes. Theyâre so soft now that the ice has almost disappeared, devoured by longing, a thick and sinful darkness.
âWhat if I donât want some other girl?âÂ
His voice is so wickedly gentle too.
You can see heâs fighting an inner battle to not touch you again; heâs standing toe to toe with you, towering above you, with his shoulders slightly hunched. If someone walked behind him, they wouldnât even see youâre there because of how close you two are standing to each other. You canât back away from him because youâd bump into a tall iron gate - in fact, youâre half-pressed against it now.Â
âIâve enjoyed our conversations,â he continues with a throaty voice. God, how you would melt if he used that voice in bedâŠ
âSo have I,â your voice comes out as a wavy whisper. âBut there canât be anything more than that... Iâm sorry.â
âIâm sorry too,â he laments, but the corner of his mouth curves slightly up. âSo sorry you wouldnât even believeâŠâ
Itâs mischief and seduction, darkness and deception, and your insides squeeze into a tight little knot.
âPlease⊠Letâs just keep it the way it was,â you plead with eyes that beg the complete opposite.
âSure... I will try my best, SchĂ€tzchen. Is this your conventâŠ?âÂ
You wonder if heâd pay you a visit if you told him where you sleep. You wonder if your single bed would creak if he tried to make love to you on it... You wonder if you could muffle your cries when you clenched with him inside you. If heâd groan too loudly when he reached his peakâŠ
âItâs just around that corner,â you explain with a frail voice, hating how it betrays every single thing that crosses your mind.
âGood to know,â he replies, with no shakiness to his voice at all. He seems to enjoy making you so flustered; he seems to draw strength from people weaker than him. Which is probably 99 % of the populationâŠ
âHow so,â you peep, already praying that he wouldnât come to try his luck with the poorly locked windows. The back door is always open too because some of the nuns are smokers. König wouldnât even need to use his insertion skills to get in.
âNow I know where to find you if I come to work here again,â he shrugs as if innocent. As if his eyes didnât betray a few filthy thoughts too.
âAre you⊠Are you leaving then?â
âSoon.â
Your heart is about to break after two weeks of knowing some random guy, and you feel like the silliest woman in the world.
You try to remind yourself of what your friend said: this man just wants some easy pussy. Heâs just bored with his fleshlight. Men like challenges, they like to hunt. You think about Lucky Luke and all the other cowboys who came and went as they pleased, breaking hearts and then riding into the sunset.
This cowboy only got to hold your hand though... And heâs saying he doesnât want âsome other girlâ. Of course thereâs a chance that he simply visits a brothel after discussing philosophy with you, or goes to a club or whatever, but you donât want to entertain such horrible thoughts.Â
âIâll miss you, then,â you try to sound neutral while heâs looking down at you like youâre his first love.
âGanz sicher, I will miss you too. Perhaps Iâll visit you, work trip or not?â
âThat would be nice.â
âIt might take a while. But you wonât forget me, ja?â
âOf course not. I will pray for you every day,â you smile with a good amount of affection. It has the same effect as saying something like âI want to blow you right here on this streetâ because your Austrian giant gets visibly excited. His breath quickens, and his eyes start to wander again.Â
â...Are you sure I canât hold your hand?â
You give him a shy smile, then quickly guide your eyes to the pavement. This König is definitely taking it as some love confession when a girl says she will pray for him. Your insides turn to jello when you see his hand close into a loose fist, then open with a spasmlike stretch. He wants to touch you so badly that he has to physically fight against it.
âNoâŠ?â He inquires high above you, so desperate that youâre quite sure heâs not frequenting any brothels in the area. He might stroke his cock to the thoughts of you, thoughâŠ
You shake your head softly, then raise your eyes back to his. What a silly, silly man. If only you werenât a nun, youâd let him do whatever he wants with you. Even abandon you after using you in every which way, because to be under that adoring gaze is worth a thousand heartbreaks.
âIâll see you tomorrow then?â
Thereâs more desperate hope in that question, and you wonder if tomorrow is the last time youâll see each other. Soon could mean anything, but you canât bear to hear the exact time and date when he leaves. Not tonight.
âYes. Same time, same place,â you agree, then flee from under the dark, adoring stare to the safety of your cloister.Â
könig x f!reader operator (no use of "y/n") / 4k words / NSFW
cw: assassination, dubcon (not really bc reader is into it and consents, but better safe than sorry bc ymmv), unsanitary conditions, rough sex, unprotected p-in-v sex, fingering, creampie, brief mention of burn injuries, pre-established relationship
a.n.: no excuse for this, indulged a brain worm on my day off bc i wanted to write something nasty. enjoy!
Itâs been a blistering, miserable six hours out in the hills outside Sarajevo proper. The height of summer, surrounded by dead-brown grass blown about sadly in the weak breeze. You cook in your ghillie suit, knowing it could very well be another six hours under this heat with zero shade, just waiting on your target. Sweating. Searching. Souring.Â
König is your spotter, and heâs already not pleased with the fact. Heâd much rather be the one wrapped around the Steyr HS .50, instead relegated to the seemingly miserable role of binocular jockey. But the fact is, heâs better at recon, and you can stay planted in one place without moving even when your lower body burns with numbness.Â
âIâm hard,â he announces in his wayâno preamble, no fanfare, moderate expectation.Â
âChrist,â you snort, pulling away from the scope only enough to throw a glance at him. Heâs still pressed against the oculars, jaw working on sunflower seeds because they canât smoke without setting the tinderbox field around them on fire. Otherwise, you can barely see the shape of him in his own ghillie suit among the grass. âClench your legs and your torso, or hump the fucking dirt.â
âNot going to get the job done,â he laughs darkly, dumping back another mouthful of seeds. You can hear them crack between his molars as he bites down hard.Â
Heâs going to be a fucking handful after this.Â
Going back to your scope, watching the highway, you promise him, âIf youâre good helping me with this assassination, we can play when weâre done.â
Another hard bite, another gravelly laugh. Sing-song, he warns you, âBetter hope he drives by so-oooh-oon, Schatzi.â
âAlways nice to get a visit from mean-König,â you hum back, trying for unaffected, even as your cunt floods and clenches around nothing.Â
+
Itâs just hitting golden hour when the target finally deigns to bomb past your scope in a civilian vehicle trussed up in subtle armor. You and König slot right into the predator drift, bodies left behind to fall into the hunt. Working like extensions of one body, he confirms a PID, and throws calculations your way, sharp and sleek, and your blood turns into straight adrenaline, pupils dilated to pitch black.
You work like the sword of god, lining up your crosshairs, allowing for lead, allowing for wind and elevation, and when you exhale and give the trigger what it wants, the sky cracks in half with a sonic boom, big gun bucking brutal against your shoulder. With one shot you take out the target and driver, vehicle careening off the road.Â
Königâs low, restrained laugh blends into yours, your teeth chattering under your face covering. Two more shots cut the blood-and-gold colored sky, killing the remaining passengers, and something vile in you shrieks with delight when one of them staggers around without a head a few steps before falling backwards stiff as a board.
Your eyes catch his as you throw the safety, pulling the massive rifle into your arms to flee the scene, and he looks blood-poisoned with arousal. The normal blue-gray of his eyes are gone, sore, unblinking pink sclera around inkwell pools of black. His back heaves with his breathing, body rigid and clenched, hips grinding against the ground. He is going to fucking tear you apart and eat the pieces. Saturn Devouring His Son, König Devouring His Lover.
Without a word, you both force your bodies around in the tall, dead grass, ghillie suits blending your belly-drag crawl to the treeline.
Thereâs a five mile hike between your abandoned perch and the exfil vehicle, following back the steps you took this morning, with a staging site in the middle of it. Small clearing, deep enough that no one could stumble across it, a temporary home for your rifleâs case and minimal necessary equipment.Â
The moment youâre both upright in the treeline, Königâs got a vicious hand under your camo, gripping your belt, dragging you close and up, forcing you on unbalanced tiptoes. âYouâre going to fucking give it to me,â he demands.Â
You turn it around, snatching a hand under his hood, gun sagging in your arms. Your fist wraps around the jaw strap of his helmet, knuckles pressing into his jugularâhis pulse is fucking racing, booming, screaming through his veinsâand your teeth are shards of glass as you command him, âFucking heel. Youâre not being a good boy.â
That makes him pant, almost reeling, eyes blinking out of sorts, pulling you closer, almost against him.Â
âThat is not how itâs going to work today,â he says, slow and damning. Turns your blood into lava, thick and slow and lethal pumping through your heart as it fights for its life. He pulls the rifle from your hand, and it weighs nothing to him. Nearly looks like heâs got more to say, and heâs trying to figure out how to word it, but his brain is too clouded with lust to put it in the right order.
Hefts the gun over his shoulder like a bat, and shoves you back by the pelvis, releasing you. Time to go, the moves say, leaving you no dignified way to hold onto the authority thatâs slipped through your fingers.Â
You know heâs burning frustration, anger, and resentment as fuel for this mood. You were the designated sniper, he was a lowly spotter. In his mind, that position belonged to him, and you took it. It didnât matter that you were the superior choice, that he was invaluable to the kill.Â
No. Not at all. You stole from him, and heâs taking something in return.
If you werenât thinking solely with your pussy, you would admit that it would probably be wise to exercise caution with him at the moment. But youâre not. Youâre going to get your brains fucked out and painted on a tree.
+
At the staging area, scant gold light is cutting through the trees as the sun lumbers its way to setting, and the woods are humid and dense. Your boots crush fallen beech nut pods and pine needles. Could almost be Thoreauvian, if there was a lake, or not a gun big enough to kill god in the arms of a sexually frustrated Austrian maniac.
König is fast and quiet, ripping the mag out of the gun, emptying the chamber, dropping the gun on its case. Youâd seen him piece apart a pistol to base components in ten seconds many times, heâs making himself take time with the rifle, leaving it barely touched.
Youâve got enough time to just prepare for him to grab you around the middle so you arenât thrown off balance, leaning into his momentum as he hauls you to an enormous beech tree, his back sliding down the trunk. Keeps you pinned in his lap, laughing harsh and ugly as you deal with your belt, button, and zipper, âGood girlâgood fucking girl. Know what Iâm going for.â
âYouâre easy to predict,â you bullshit him with a sharp edge. Heâs going to get his way, and youâre going to deliver unto him whatever the fuck he pleases, but youâre going to keep your teeth through it. âCouldâve taken the suits off, couldâve really given you a show.â
âCute that you think Iâm in a rush. Youâre in the suit on purpose,â he grates, thrusting against your ass, forcing you open with your legs over his knees. âKeep being mouthy. Only fucks me up worse.â
âStiff breeze gets you fucked up,â you snort, but when he hooks his gloved thumb in your zipper, you lift your hips to help him pull your pants down your thighs. Leaves you exposed, drenched in sweat, and wet in his lap. âGoddamned freak.â
He bypasses the true and mutually reflective accusation completely, grinding the forehead of his helmet against the back of yours. Still looking for affectionate closeness, even when heâs out for blood. âCan smell you, good god,â he growls, sliding his huge hand into your underwear, grabbing your sex in ownership. âYou and the military issue drawersâtypical. Been a while since I fucked you in gear. Still wearing the boxers because you wish you were hanging dick, or is it just to match the attitude?â
âCommissary ran out of crotchless combat thongs. Waiting on a restock.â The rough fabric of his gloved middle finger splits your lips, teasing your hole, and for a flashfire second you think heâd better not give you a UTI with those dirty fucking things, before it burns straight out of your head.Â
âBetter luck next time,â he taunts, jaw tight. You can hear the wolf-fanged smirk in his tone. âStart going commando. Make it easier.â
âMaybe there isnât a next time,â you volley back, âbest you make the most of this.â
âThereâs always a next time. No one else could fuck you like me. Little whore you are, youâd get bored.â
He blots all the thought out in your head, adding his ring finger to the mix, pushing both huge digits into your starving cunt. Rips a bark right out of you, arching off his chest and pushing against his hips for leverage, trying automatically to fuck down on them even as the pain of the fabric feels like itâs rasping your insides. âJesus fucking Christ,â you gasp, going hot-cold-and-blind all at once, nipples pulling tight under your gear.Â
He throws a heavy arm around your stomach, pulling you back down, merciful or mindful enough to know he needs to go slow, or this isnât going to go anywhere except the infirmary. âTake it, Liebes, swallow them down with that pretty cunt,â he commands, his English as sharp and scraping as scythe blades felling harvest in wide, practiced strokes, âIâm not even close to done.â
You can already feel his fat cock straining against his pants, even through all the layers between you, and you rut back against it, at least trying to get some torture of your own added in. That just makes him stupid and animalistic, pushing his chin over your shoulder, trying to butt into your jaw. He wants to bite your lips, but there are too many impediments blocking the way.
His fingers squelch down to the last knuckle, your pussy spasming around them, soaking the fabric. Heâs a pervert to such a degree that you know heâs going to leave them unwashed, and heâs going to wear and suck on them while he beats off when youâre not there until thereâs no flavor left.Â
For now, heâs slow, rocking them into you in a curve, his sense of touch dampened as he searches out your g-spot. The exploration makes you feel filthy, and just a little humiliated. Used. Faceless and disrespected. Itâs so opposed to his usual dogmatic worship, fresh and frightening.Â
He gives a little something extra, grinding the heel of his hand over your clit, telling you to use it. You do, finally feeling something physically pleasurable, even though itâs too dull and not nearly enough.Â
König is segmented; youâve known that for as long as youâve known him. Donât know if he did it to himself, or if it was an after-affect of all the bad shit he didnât die from. Heâd let you in on enough to know that his best days are numb neutrality and boredom intercut with adrenalized high-chasing. His worst days are lost dogs and veils of blood floating through his mouth.
He almost clicks over from one facet to another when you push against his arm, hissing through your teeth as a stitch on his glove catches a fold in you. For a microsecond, lover-König surfaces, shifting you around against his body, repositioning his fingers so you arenât hurting too badly, and then heâs gone again.
With a rough hand, he shoves the tan boxer-briefs down your thighs, and bucks your ass off his pelvis, going to release his cock.
You push your shoulders back against his chest, plate carrier digging into your shoulderblades. âOnly two fingers, arenât you acting like a fucking prince today.â
âYouâre lucky you got that much,â he snaps back, groaning when his cock springs free of his trappings, and he strokes it beneath you. Monster fucking thing it is, long enough you can see the swollen, leaking head between your legs, even as youâre still hovering. Thereâs no give in the skin, and the head is a needy red with arousal, completely slipped from his foreskin. âPut it in.â
You ignore his order, writhing against him, your discomfort only ramping up your arousal. Itâs nightmarish how badly you actually want his cock fed into you, desperate to have anything to fill the void his fingers left in you, and, shit, it would be so much sweeter and smoother than the gloves. Hot and throbbing, his precum mixing with your slickâitâs going to be so loud.Â
âItâs your dick, you figure it out,â you hiss, wrestling your shoulders up just enough to piss him off. His other arm moves up to your ribs, slamming you back down against him.Â
âNein,â he seethes, as close to your throat as he can get, and you hear him suck back spit. Wonder if you busted his lip on the way down. Trained himself too hard not to do that otherwise, because of the harelip heâs hiding under the hood. âI said put it in, Schatzi.â
His laugh is airier this time, when you cuss him and comply, thinned out with need. He shudders into you as you brush your fingers over the lengthâteasing bulging veins and hot, thin skinâtrying to scoop him up. He squeezes you tighter, letting out a furnace-bellow breath, as you tease the head through your wet folds, stupid fly-by-night sex-trigonometry screeching through your head as you find the angle you both need to get him in. He drops his free hand on your thigh, pulling you further open, giving himself a handle to hold.
As soon as his big cockhead plugs your hole and seals a seal with the wet, you fly to grip both his wrists, nerves on high alert. For good cause, as well, because instantly, he starts fucking up into you with harsh thrusts, constricting all around you with bruising force.
The sheer mass of him is over-fucking-whelming, and white spots crackle in your vision as you pant, trying desperately to relax and accept him into your body. Usuallyâwhen heâs sweeter and taking his time with you, not punishing you for a perceived slight like he is nowâhe is slower, considerate, almost hesitant until you dig your spurs into his sides, demanding he cut loose.Â
This time heâs forcing you to ride him, emptying and filling you in deeper and deeper strokes, forcing you to take his cock. Somehow it still feels right, just being full of him, aching with it, pussy hungrily sucking him in, wanting more and more and more.
But, god dammit, you canât just let him get away with this. You fuck back down against him, trying to meet his rhythm with the little movement he affords your bound body, the sound of his boots grinding for purchase in the substrate, your combined dead-sprint breathing, and his balls slapping wet against your ass breaking the utter still-life quiet of the woods.Â
âInsertion specialist,â you bite, throwing your head back against his shoulder to belt out your whimpering laughter, and, oh, that burns him.Â
âShut your fucking mouth,â he snarls, his helpless thrusting turning focused, dragging you down in hard thrusts, hitting your cervix with every deep, powerful stroke. It knocks the wind out of you, and youâre left speechless, probably what he wanted.Â
It puts you in a trance state, your eyes unfocused looking up at the canopy as he uses you. A wet, liquid-gold heat starts building pressure behind your pelvis, and a frantic harebrained thought tells you that you have to piss. It only gets worse when he drops his hand back between your legs, putting a finger on either side of your clit, his intent clear.
âWait,â you wheeze, barely surfacing the trance, rolling your eyes wildly toward him, finding his focus is between your legs. âWait, König, Iââ
âJust fucking take it,â he cuts you off, and itâs not entirely cruel. Heâs forcing an orgasm on you, maybe the thought crawled up out of the part of his heart where his empathy lives, the part he hides until his real-boy-skin-suit has fallen away in tatters. You know whatâs underneath. You love him for what he is.
You squirt when you come, pouring down his cock, soaking your thighs. Your cunt tries to push him out, but he belligerently stays buried, riding it out with you, and he whimpers as you spasm and ripple around him, biting your shoulder through his mask and the gaiter beneath it. Itâs a dull pressure, and you wish it was sharper.
âOh my god,â you keen, trying to turn and hide your face, trying to draw your legs back together as wave after wave of pleasure rock your body, your stomach turning in benign shame. König praises you, âGood, good, good, good,â his words falling away into a German blur that you have a hard time translating.
âArch your back, curl up,â he tells you in his native language, his command voice withering, getting lost as he gets closer. Heâs gotten fatter in your swollen cunt, and he throbs against your walls. His balls are pulled up so tight, you can feel them against your lips on the upstroke.Â
All you can do is listen, lifting off of him and curving like youâre living through an exorcism.Â
Doesnât that make him lose his goddamned mind. Moans like a shocked virgin getting his first piece of pussy, in tandem with the cry you release, sliding in at a new angle. He canât even help himself, heâs just stupid with pleasure, chasing it. All the bite and venom he had floods out of him, and heâs just a panting, greedy, whimpering mess, holding on to you because he needs an anchor, because he needs you.
He pushes up onto the balls of his feet, leaving the tree completely, forcing you back against him in the cage of his body. Your legs slide open over his thighs, and youâre dependent on him to keep from falling face-first in the forest floor and eating shit. He keeps you up, clutching to you, fucking you with short, fast thrusts, the soaking wet sounds of his cock demanding everything your cunt can deliver obscene, carnal.
Your idiot hand grabs for his hood as it hangs over your shoulder, spilling dumb swears and nonsense, âFuckâoh, fuckingâgod dammit, König, youâre. I canât,â that he meets with simple begging, âBitte, bitte, Schatzi, bitte, Ich brauche, bitte, Ich braucheââ
His form staggers, and he takes a knee, locking up tight, letting out a thin, high-pitched cry of shock as he cums, flooding you completely in big jets. The pressure is uncomfortable and delirious, but you try to tighten around him, hold as much as you can.Â
Both of your heads ring in the immediate aftermath. You can suddenly tell that both of you reek, the scent of twelve-hours worth of stakeout body odor mixing with musk, sex, and cum. You can tell by how his mouth sounds as he pants and tries to collect himself and work through his intense but inescapable post-nut shame that heâs dehydrated. You are, too, your head pounding. And, just because you know him, and you know how you work as a team, you donât need to look at either of set of your shaking hands to know both of your blood sugar is utterly fucked.
Slowly, he lumbers back up against the tree, his touch turning softer. You flop back against him, winching when his cock slips out of you, hanging glistening and messy between his legs. He buries himself in the crook of your neck, trying to steady his breathing. His arms come up againânot to pin you in place, but to hug and hold you. You pat the scant sliver of bare skin between his gloves and the cuff of the ghillie suit.
Only occurs to you right now how stupid you two mustâve looked. Like a monkey fucking a football. Or maybe two bushes getting battered around in a storm. You snort a weary laugh, and he shakes his head, nosing deeper. Heâs asking for quiet. You give it, letting your eyes slip closed as his cum drips out of you.
A few minutes later, he stirs, kneading your sides with his fingers. Mean-König has fucked off, you can already tell. Itâs not KorTac-König, either, the one thatâs nasty and loud and abrasive. This is just König. The slice of him that you know the first and last name of. The one that takes you on dates, and to go grocery shopping at Lidlâwho lets you kiss his harelipped mouth, who lets you moisturize and massage the gummy wads of keloid burn scars eating up the left side of his face and neck, from when he was burnt by boiling sugar as a child, when they feel tight and miserable.
For convenience, and knowing youâre both going to seek it out, you unclip your helmet straps, letting them tumble off your heads. Further, you reach back and pull the hood off over his head, dropping it over your thigh, and pull your mask down as he pulls down his gaiter.
He helps you shift enough that youâre lying on your side over him, wet, soft cock pressing into your naked thigh. He sighs when you kiss him, light, quick, over and over, never really leaving his lips. Heâll be needy for the rest of the night.
His pupils are slowly going back down to a normal size, and the blue is coming back, all puppy-eyed and wet as he presses your foreheads together. âIâm sorry.â
âDonât worry about it. I had fun.â
âI shouldnât have been that rough. Or mean.â
You shrug. âYou know I thought it was hot.â You give him simple facts, easy to chew and swallow while his teeth are hurting from his harshness. You think heâd probably ask you to pull them so he couldnât do something like it again in the future, but that is simply not in his nature. Fanged, or not, his moods will come and go.
His hands tremble, going to his thighs, and he digs up a zippo and a pack of cigarettes, pressing them into you. âCould you light some for us, please.â
You do, giving him another kiss before you break to try to attend your given task. He helps stabilize your hands, and you end up with lit menthols, popping one between his lips. He inhales deeply, shuddering as he relaxes a physical notch.
You heavily pet his face, traveling his bone structure, and then down his neck. Start to focus on his chest and shoulders, because it will help him down the easiest. Even though he took charge today, you still readily slot into the process of leading aftercare, truncated as it is by being in the field. Almost literally.
âThink youâll be up for more later?â you ask, digging your fingers into the spot behind his ear that always makes him lax. âSafehouse would let us take our time.â
He makes a grumbling noise, touching your noses together. âWant to love you. Not fuck.â
âYeah, no. I couldnât take another fuck tonight,â you snort in agreement, and, finally, he snorts back. âWe need to get moving. Sunâs going down, and we need to report.â
He gathers you up for a final, lingering, sloppy kiss before he unwinds from you, knowing that youâre right. And, besides, thereâs a safehouse looming on the horizon.Â
You're my favorite writer, and König is my favorite aussie man, so OF COURSE im making you write for him, hal, BEAR W ME !
Alright, what do you think about König with the âYouâre here late.â prompt? The reader is part of KorTac and always worked alongside König, since they both entered about the same time, because of the readers personality, they are always fighting, one of these fights are specifically bad, leading the reader to go on a mission with another KorTac member, to help out somewhere else and take their mind off things, when the reader face a problem on the mission and ends up arriving late, König is furious.
Moths Hit the Window
PAIRING: König x F!Reader
SYNOPSIS: Fights with König were always loud, but this time his comments went a bit too far.
WORD COUNT: 5.9k
WARNINGS: Verbal fighting, angst, high tension, blood & stitches, wounds, canon typical violence, guns/weapons, death, suggestive near the end, fluff, hurt/comfort, etc.
A/N: Huge thanks to @idocarealot for the German translations!! Also, König's wearing the arachnid skin in this because I love it sm - enjoy, Anon!
*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*
You seethe. If eyes could turn red yous would be a beautiful shade of crimsonâbloody knives ripping out of the cornea to strike whoever happened to get too close. It was as if the very air boiled with the force of a raging tsunami as you stomped down the local military baseâs hallways, covered in blood and guts. Never had you reconsidered working for KorTac more than at this very moment.Â
Maybe I should just become a mercenary, you rip at the torn-apart gloves over your hands and jerk your arm out. Passerbyers quickly avert their eyes as you shove them into a garbage can and continue on with a growl. No shitty rules, no regulationsâno fucking partners.
If people happened to slide past without noticing the steam coming out of your ears, they would have immediately locked eyes on the pure elephant of a man trailing fast behind. Königâs eyes were goring into the back of your neck, gray and tan garb swaying as the packs and flash grenades on his combat vest bounced with every step. Accents of red do nothing in comparison to his visible fleshâthe section of his eyes uncovered by his mask and head rig alight around his obsidian gaze.Â
 König was muttering to himself far under his breath, curses and harsh comments all in German that he wouldnât say to your face. At least not right now in view of others.Â
âI can hear you, you dimwit,â you hiss over your shoulder, grinding your teeth as you both make your way to the armory, âcurse me out quieter!âÂ
âYou are making a scene!â The beast grunts, that heavily accented English striking your eardrums with its harsh dialect.Â
âOh, jeez!â You raise your voice even higher, turning back forward and clenching your hands into fists as blood and guts drip off your gearânone of it yours. âIâm just so damn embarrassed, König! Iâm making such a large and obnoxious display. Whatever will I do?!â Sarcasm like a valuable drug is injected into the waves of your voice. People from open doorways look out with shock, brows pulled up.Â
Everyone quickly darts back away when you snap your head in their direction and send them a scathing glare.
No one was surprised to find you and the Austrian going at it again but knew well enough to stay out of the crossfire. Lest someone get roped into it.
âFuck off!â You spit the last curse into the burning air and shove past a soldier ahead of you.
Königâs dark eyes flash dangerously, lips under his mask twisting into a sneer. The manâs shoulders seem to dig in even farther, spine curling over as if a brooding child.Â
This had all started the second youâd joined up with KorTac. Fresh out of the military and eager to get back into the game after a good vacation the PMC group had been at the top of your list. But if youâd known youâd be paired up with this damn mountain every chance there was just because heâd got into the game at nearly the same time as you, youâd have put in your luck with SpecGru.Â
âI do not see how this is appropriate behavior,â König follows as you place your palms on the black metal of the armory door, pressing with your shoulders. âI did what I was tasked to doââ
The masked man is cut off as you whirl on your heels, the door slamming shut as his body is shoved into it with strong arms. Dark eyes go wide in surprise, feeling the dig of your nails on his abdomen as your form presses into him and the chill of the door on his spine. You feel his skin bunch under his thick shirt and even if you want to stare him down thatâs just not an option. Your warm figures shuffle together with panting breaths and dangerous glints in your eyes.Â
âBull,â you drag out the word, growling it right up into his neck; sniper hood caressing your chin. Königâs breath hitches with shakes of swirling emotions. âShit.â
Shoving once more so he gets the point, you push off of him and stalk away like a feral wolf, already unclipping grenades and medical packs from your vest.Â
âYouâre the damn reason the target got away!â Gear is thrown haphazardly to the long table in the center of the room. The Austrian watches with predatory eyes, hands clenched so hard that they quiver. He stays still, watching, as you send scathing glances. âThe reason weâre going to be here for ten times longer than weâre supposed to be!âÂ
âIt is not my fault you failed to properly check the perimeter before you rushed in like a fool.â Volatile couldnât be used to describe thisâŠthis was nothing short of volcanic. It was as if there were two sides of a scale filled with bullets and gunpowderâfire in the middle that was equally heating both piles as they raised and lowered erratically. Königâs voice grates over the air, âI did what I could to fix your scheiĂe plan!â
âDonât you shit on my plan!â You point, voice bouncing off the weapon racks as you rip the rifle strap from over your chest, chucking it away.Â
âI will shit on itâit wasâŠit wasâŠ!â Königâs voice cuts out and he canât find the words. The Austrian descends into visceral German ramblings. âEs war so ziemlich der schlechteste Plan, den ich je gehört hab. Welcher halbwegs vernĂŒnftige Mensch geht in eine heiĂe Zone ohne vorher alle Zielobjekte richtig zu markieren?! Ich kann dich und deine RĂŒcksichtslosigkeit nicht mehr leiden â du bringst mich um meinen Verstand! Hast du ĂŒberhaupt ein Gehirn in deinem SchĂ€del?â
You shake your head to yourself, heart pounding. âYouâre still the one that was supposed to focus on the HVT. I rushed so he would flush out, but, no,â taking out the magazine of the rifle you hold it in your hands like an accusatory ruler that a teacher would hold. König shoves off the door and stands to his full height; arms tensed and straining before they coil around his chest in a soothing gesture.Â
He hated the fightingâthe constant strain between the two of you. But when you were together it could never amount to anything else. The room felt like it was a million degrees.
Your eyes stab at him, âNo! You had to go and focus on me! I hate to break this to you, König,â feet come forward and you once again find yourself close to himâbreathing the same air and taking in the scent of gunpowder and blood. You point the tip of the magazine into his chest. His unseen lips pull; jaw clenching with held-back fire. âBut I am not your damn mutt to keep on a leash. I had it under control.â
Itâs as if you donât realize the Austrian could snap you in half with a single kick of his leg, as if the sheer size of König had slipped your mind as a whole. His hands could snap your neck in an instant, but that was only if he got ahold of you.Â
But that was a line the both of you were never planning to cross. Words were one thing in this profession, actions another. If you ever got into a physical fight, youâd both kill each other, no doubt.Â
Youâd like to think youâre a bit above that, but perhaps not.
Königâs chest rises and falls deeply, taking in calming breaths as he tries to get his temper under control. âYou didnât,â he jeers out, âI saved your life, you HeiĂluftgeblĂ€se. And if you wanted to be treated less than a dog,â he grunts to you, head pulling down close to your face, harshly whispering out, âYou could have simply asked me, yes?â
You both snarl at each other's throats like rabid animals, the world disappearing all around the obsidian eyes that match with yours; for a moment you get lost in the shining bits of silver in his iris that seem to burn with chilled iron. What little skin you can see is flushed and tightâhawk nose nearly poking out your eye as youâre leaned over like a giraffe near a bush.
Body vibrating, you sharply breathe, âIâm not even going to ask what that fucking means, you tool.â
âGood.â The words are bitten and fast, âbecause I am not telling you.â
âGreat!â
âPerfekt!â You both were arguing like children. Hot faces and unwilling to let the other have the last word. If you got along it might have been funny.Â
âIâm going to dump all of your EinspĂ€nner out on the tarmac.â Your sure voice echoes with a definitive promise to the tone.Â
Pale lids widen in horror at the threat to the Austrian's favorite beverage, comfortably sitting in the Baseâs fridge.Â
âYou would not,â Königâs tone is deathly serious and you smirk, eyes dancing. âYouâŠâ a guttural growl meets the air, mind translating words and giving meanings, âbeast of a woman!â
âOh, is that the best you can fucking do?!â You yell, splaying your hands out widely and moving away from him. âNow thatâs really a show stopper, König, Iâm shaking in my damn boots.âÂ
âIch komm mit dir nicht mehr klar.â König yells, moving back and placing both of his hands atop his head, knuckles white. âYouâre rudeâyou do not even try to get along. You are loud and disrespectful; how do you live like this?!â
Your eyes slightly widen, watching the Austrian.
âDonât try?â You echo, scoffing loudly. âWhat do you mean donât try? I was the one to try and smooth things out between us in the beginning.â
âWhen?!â König spreads his hands out, knees slightly bent. âBecause I have no recollection of such events.â
âWell of course you wouldnât!â The heat was meeting a breaking pointâwords were getting more personal, sharper. Like a blade being honed for the kill slowly; being sharpened by rocks and whetstones of conviction.Â
König points a finger at you, voice going low and thin, âIâve had enough of you, yes?â His sniper hood moves rapidly with his fast ricochets of breath. âJust about enough. Would you have wanted me to let you die?â
âI had it,â your lips spit, nose scrunched, and forehead tight. The manâs chest vibrates with a mute growl.Â
In all actuality, youâd never seen him this worked up before. König wasnât above giving your quips back even if he obviously disliked itâmost of that was due to the strange familiarity between the two of you. In large crowds, the man preferred to stay silent. This only added to his almost deadly aura with others, though you knew the muteness was because of social anxiety and not some built silence. He wasnât shy per se, just afraid heâd say something wrong; mess up the conversation. You did most of the talking in meetings and you never minded it. Added him in when the topic was something he knew a lot about.
Your mind had addled it up to thinking it was cute, actually. How his feet would shuffle; his half-lidded gaze and his intense eye contact to let them know he was still listening. When heâd have to remind himself to look away with a pinch to his thigh because it was starting to seem threatening. It was endearing, even.
But around people König knew, well, he was going to speak his mind. No matter how long it takes his brain to catch up with his lips.
The only thing the two of you were good at was being mothsâhitting the metaphorical window over and over on the same topics and tension points. Slamming heads and flapping wings. You were at the end of your rope just as he was.
âI should have never taken you as a partner!â He calls, feet splayed. âShould have gotten out of this the second you were assigned with me. Gott, ich hab wirklich versucht, dich zu verstehen â Ich hĂ€tte gleich aufgeben sollen.â Your lips thin, lungs stalling as all the air vacates the room. You stand still and listen to what he really thinks, fingers shaking.
Königâs large form towers over all, great sparks of electricity flying out. His gear shakes as he moves, thigh straps pushing fabric to shift and conform to his body. Your blood pumps with brewing hesitance.Â
Maybe this had gone too far. Iâve never seen him like this.
âI canât stand you any longer! Pathetic squabbles that mean nothing, absolutely ludicrous plans that make little headway.â Your head bursts with aggression and what little warning signs you have are squashed. âI canât keep saving you because you canât do your job correctly!â
âYou donât have to save me at all!â You scream. âYou canât keep your damn eyes off of me for five seconds, König.â Feet move away quickly from the armory door as if someone had come to put away their stuff but thought better of it. The next words burst from you before you can think of the contents. âItâs like you fucking love me or something!â
König doesnât miss a beat, but for months afterward, he wishes he had.
âOh, do not make me laughââ he scoffs ferally, adrenaline making him talk, âas if anyone could ever love a woman like you in the first place.âÂ
Twin eyes widen and both parties immediately fall silent. A sharp inhale.
Too far.
Under the hood, Königâs face goes an embarrassing shade of red all the way down to his chest. Fingers freeze. Jaw slackens.
You feel like your heart was just grasped in his grip and ripped out of your ribs with one violent motionâone sentence out of all the others enough to knock down the rebuttal that had formed on the tip of your tongue. Your throat closes up as you blink in shock.
âI-IâŠâ König stutters, mind blanking as he struggles for words. But anger was easier than pain.
Numb fingers rip off the last of your weapons and belongings as you let them hit the floor with defining thuds as warm shame floods your cheeks. Shaky puffs of breath like a panting dog. Dark eyes watch with regretful panic, heart jumping and eyes flinching. The adrenaline itâŠit made him forget himself on occasionâhow to properly act when not on the battlefield. It was like that with everyone butâŠbut he hadnât meant that.
Shame that itâs already too late.
Your fisted hand slams into his chest, brutal and unforgiving. König lets off a grunt but does nothing as you slither past, hissing into his ear, âFind yourself a new punching bag.â
His hand snaps to his breast where you had slammed your KorTac patch right into his heart, catching it. Itâs many moments before he can think enough through the alarm; form words.
âIâŠI didnâtâŠoh, du blöde Kuh!âÂ
By the time the man composed himself, panicked tears burning in his eyes, the door had already slammed shut. His feet squeaked over the tile to an empty audience.Â
â
Private Military Companies donât have ranks. There are no Sergeants, Lieutenants, Generals or Colonels. Just people. Beyond the orders youâd been hired on, there was nothing keeping you in line with König on this mission. And those orders were loose at best.
Adhere to policy and listen to the Baseâs COs. Shut up and get the job done.Â
The Austrian and you werenât due out for another week because of rotations. Since youâd failed to capture or kill the HVT that you were assigned, another group had picked up the tracks in the meantime. Like an oiled machine, the gears of this operation kept whirling.Â
Evolve, or die.Â
âLieutenant!â You call to the geared-up man on the tarmacâthe one heading that very same group. It had been only a few hours since the incident in the armory. You needed a distraction; blood was still running high and brain pounding for release. There were only so many times you could bruise your fists and legs on a punching bag before people started giving you nervous looks. âNeed an extra hand?â
Your voice sounds strained, even to you. The man looks you over once and narrows his eyes. Nods not moments later.Â
âGet tired of your big friend? Okay, how fast can you be ready for me?â You feel your shoulders loosen, a relieved sigh exiting your lips.
âThree minutes.â
â...get to it then. We move in five.âÂ
So that was how you found yourself backed into a corner five hours into the op from hellâbloody knife held tightly in your grip and mouth open in ragged pants.Â
âFuck,â your vest is torn and riddled with bullets; your entire chest must be bruised by now because it surely aches like it is. âFuck, fuck, fuck.â
You really are reckless, just like König had said you were. Maybe youâd just never realized it because he always seemed to watch your six. ThisâŠthis was really bad. The comms were awash with screaming orders and panic, ringing out across the abandoned mining factory that exploded with light from gunfire and the sounds that accompanied it. You knew for a fact three soldiers were down; two KIA.Â
The Lieutenant is one of them.Â
Your hand snaps to the radio strapped to your chest, one eye squinted in pain at the ragged slice across your left brow line. At your feet, two heavily armed men lay dead.Â
âPull back! They knew we were coming!â But your word didnât carry weight here. Your face twists between pain and rage. Königâs comment still rings in your ears as the onset of tinnitus does, as if anyone could ever love a woman like you in the first place. It wasnât ideal to be thinking about this nowâit was detrimental that you didnât.Â
But König and the things he did often stained your brain. No matter how much you tried to distance yourself from that fact.Â
Snapping the knife in your grasp down in an arch to dispel the blood from the blade, you take a steel-laced inhale and shove off the wall. Limping, but moving. Sprained ankle. Nothing you hadnât dealt with before.
The concrete under you is splattered with crimson viscera and you stumble over spasming bodies riddled with bullets. With a subdued shink you slip your knife into its thigh sheath, grabbing the FTac Recon strapped around your chest after slamming a fresh mag into it. With a numb calm overcoming you, you slip your forefinger into the trigger guard, poised over the easy press of the trigger itself.Â
The long shadows spread over you; your head illuminated by the dull sheen of the moon as you pass under a stretch of open sky to slink into the building across the empty street. Feral yells still bounce off the air and you go to them readily, purpose settling in your veins.Â
Pain flies to the back of your mind, displaced by adrenaline and the rabid puffs of breath that fall like grinding thunder from your lips. Â
You wonder what Königâs thinking right nowâheâd without a doubt noticed that you were gone. Heâd even probably gone to your barracks room to try and apologize and found it empty. That was just how he was.Â
Would he be happy? You wondered. Relieved to see you out of his life? Youâd both done nothing but fight, but there were moments of peace. Understanding.Â
Shared meals and comfortable, yet sarcastic, comments; soft glances when the other wasnât looking. Heat in your face and obviously shown on his when shy hands brushed.Â
Your hold tightens on your gun, brows dripping with sweat as it dribbles down along with the blood. Gunfire flashes.Â
Closer now.
Shadows scream on top of a raised walkway attached to an in-mountain compound, targets with trigger fingers firing on your fellows who take cover behind crumbling walls. Pinned down. You watch, unseen, from a broken window as dust and moths collide.Â
Your eyes lock on the closest hostile and you raise your weapon slowly, barrel resting on the frame between shattered glass. You clock the distance and adjust accordingly; breaths falling steady.Â
The small insect that keeps hitting the window plays in your mind over and overâdrowning out the yells; the fire.Â
Just a moth readily willing to smash into that barrier until it dies. You hum under your breath and rest the gun into the crook of your shoulder, cheek to stock.Â
Your finger slams into the trigger.Â
â
You stumble out of the loud infirmary with a bloody rag pressed deeply into your forehead, medical pouch under one arm. You hear rushing feet and barked orders from nurses and doctors just before the door closes, cutting off as you stake out on your own.
Limping, you reason there were others with more severe wounds than your own; as blood drips from your flooded rag, your feet take you deep into the base one broken step at a time. Youâd figure it out yourself.Â
Plus, the silence would give you time to think. Think about König.Â
You just gritted your teeth and decided that was better than taking up space in the infirmary.Â
In times like these, the Austrian would fix your wounds for you, just as you did his. While you had your disagreements and heated fights, heâd never made it as personal as he had hours beforehand. Never made it hurt.Â
âJesus,â you mutter, rubbing your other crusty hand over the mud along your chin. Everything ached and you donât know if thatâs a good or a bad thing.Â
Flinching along like a downed bird, you shove through into the last door into the barracks; thoughts now stuck on finding a chair to sit down on before your legs gave out. The darkness of the common area was deepâstaining your eyelids as you grunt, bumping into the back of the couch.Â
Itâs almost funny the way the lamp flicked on mere moments later.Â
You hiss, eyes snapping shut as the rays attack your sight, rendering you blind for a moment. The shaking hand on your dripping rag tightens before the spark of pain makes you lighten the pressure.Â
Thereâs a dark grunt just as you open your eyes back up.
âYou are late.â König.Â
He sits in one of the chairsâsniper hood still over his head yet only clothed in a large compression shirt and casual camo pants. Like a disappointed parent, the Austrianâs arms were crossed over his chest; feet resting out and crossed at the ankles. With such a big stature the look could strike fear into anyone.Â
Anyone but you, that is.Â
Königâs dark eyes rove over you, stopping immediately on the fabric you keep to your forehead. The previous, furious, tone stops and the flash of very real concern takes precedence. His hands tighten on his biceps, thighs tensing over the cushion; spine just a little bit straighter.Â
You watch and say nothingâdead-faced.Â
Your heart suddenly skips beats, stuck into the framework of the manâs eyes. Königâs brows peel back and a timid stutter stays in your breast.
â...Vögelchen?â Lids blink rapidly, and before you can register anything because of your blood loss and fatigue, youâre being dragged to the couch and forced to sit down.Â
Strong hands encompass your shoulders and small breaths flutter in front of your face as König peels back to kneel in front of you; spying the medical pouch in your under-arm.Â
âWhat is this?â He mutters to you, vision flinching along your body but always dragging back to the bloody rag on your face. âWhat did you do to yourself?âÂ
Scarred hands raise before pausing, obsidian eyes staring deeply into yours as if in frantic question. Your own gaze keeps him close, spying on his veiled fear at the sight of your blood and your disappearance. Heâd heard about the mission, then, that much was upfront because of his earlier comment.Â
The humvee had been late arriving back. Half an hour.Â
âFuck off,â you utter, shoving off the couch before youâre captured in an unyielding press again, shoved down. Your anger spikes along with your unease, âKönig! I donât have the patienceââ
âIâm sorry.â The fight leaves you.Â
Fingers squeeze your biceps, hold lightly shaking with nerves. âI did not mean it.â Obsidian pierces you, âPlease, Vögelchen, I am sorry. Utterly. I speak so fast I misplace wordsâget far more,â words fail as you stare so intently at him, a strange feeling swirling in your gut. Königâs face was going crimson again, though not from anger. His tone was deep and honest, accent becoming more whole with emotion. The hands on your skin stay. âRude than I intend. It is not an excuse, butâŠâ
In the horizontal oval of his hood, you spy the dots of tiny freckles; the whispers of auburn hair. That hawk nose still points violently from behind the fabric. König never finishes his sentence, just takes a large breath and looks to the side after a moment of silence.Â
Then he steals the medical pack from your grip and opens the zipper with firm fingers, taking out gloves and gauze. Needle and sutures. Itâs all placed on the side table as the bear of an Austrian stays on his knees for youâbending and shifting as the bottom of his shirt rides up.Â
Itâs a tense affair of touching skin; warmth and hissed curses. Gentle shushing. But you say nothing through it. Until heâs up in your face trying off stitches with forceps and a needle holder, breath making his hood lightly caress your bloodless face. His fingers are large and firm, never second-guessing or stuttering over the course of directing tools that dig a needling and thread into your flesh.Â
Heâs warm and every motion elicits shivers. You see his form from the side of your eye; his faceâs outline as the lamp light illuminates the hoodâs fabric. Shadowy silhouette of Königâs strong jaw that shifts with every other breath from his wide chest.Â
âYouâre an asshole for saying that to me, yâknow.â you slip your gaze away just as he snaps over. âAdrenaline or not.âÂ
The needle pauses and a swift nod is given.Â
âIâŠI know it was. No amount of apologizing can explain how very horrible I feel. It was like I was soâŠsoâŠâ An annoyed grunt was leveled at himself.
âPissed off?â You offer quietly.Â
âYes! Pissed off.â Amused glances were shared, the air slowly smoothing out between the two of you. Dark eyes quickly look away from yours and König clears his throat terse-like. But softer, steadier, âIâŠcould not bear it if I were to see you in harm and be unable to assist you. ThatâŠis why I was watching. Why I do watch you.â
Inside of you, it was like there was a pot of water on the stove, steadily boiling under the heat. Your eyes are delicately wide when the manâs hands leave your face; kneeling body still tall enough to stare into you.
âYou areâŠâ König pauses, but not to find the words. To ready himself. He takes a long breath. âYou are special to me, my Vögelchen. I can not see you hurt,â a gesture to your forehead and creased eyes. As if your pain was his own. âNot like this.â
âWhat are you saying, König?â You whisper, face twisted with hurt and confusion. Apprehension. âYouâre giving me mixed signals. We always fight with each other. Iâm not saying Iâm blameless, butâŠcâmon, now. Look at us.âÂ
âNotâŠalways.â He grumbled like a child, tools placed away and hands dripping blood before he slips the gloves off. They meet the side table with a tiny toss. The Austrian leans back onto his ankles, butt to heel. He begins to look at your forehead and you can practically hear his heart break. âI do not like arguing with you, you know that, yes?âÂ
âMe neither,â you whisper, fingers fiddling as a sheen of anxiousness sets in. âYou just,â you pause, âconfuse me.â
 König blinks in surprise, head tilting and large eyes shimmering. Your mind flashes to a curious cat and you try to explain with a burning face and fast lips.
âYou say weâre partners but you never act like it,â he stares and listens. When had you both had a conversation like this before? âYou make it seem like you canât trust me to do the simplest task. Iâm not,â your voice betrays you, cracking, âIâm not that useless, am I?âÂ
He freezes, muscles going taunt.Â
âU-Useless? Nutzlos? No, no,â A hand comes to capture your chin and you let him move you where he wishes. Creased eyes lock on yours. âThat is not right. Youâre not useless to meâhow could you be?â Pained brows move in, âdid I make you think like this? Like I did not appreciate your skills?âÂ
Your eyes burn, and the aches from your wounds mix with the pure fatigue in your flesh to leave your emotions running between sanity and sadness. A moment later youâre turning your head away.Â
König recaptures it, hands finding both sides of your cheeks. He looks shaky; desperate.Â
âNo, please, Vögelchen, please. I need you to look at me.â
âKönig, I donâtââ You close your mouth before you let out the beginnings of a sob. âI canât keep fighting with you.â
âI know, oh, I know,â his hands are so grounding itâs like youâre the inner pages of a book, and his grip the thick leather coverâleather laced with shared scars and the same that had stitched you up countless times. This push and pull had to end. âI cannot fight with you eitherâit tears me apart. Oh, du weiĂt gar nicht, wie sehr es mich schmerzt, dein wunderschönes Gesicht anzuschreien. Mit dir zu streiten bedeutet, meinen Verstand und mein Herz gleichzeitig zu brechen.â Königâs thumbs run up and down your skin, still bloody with dried flakes falling to the ground. He seems not to care a bit.Â
âWhat can I do to fix this? Anything. Anything to get us to stop doing this to each other.â You stare into his eyes, both creased and glazed over.Â
Thereâs a brief moment where you wonder if anyone truly even knew you as well as König didâthere was no one else that you shared such a deep connection with. Years upon years of being stuck at his side.Â
And someone elseâs hands had never felt as good as his. They were hard and callused over but cupped your face as gently as one would cup water from a rippling stream. His eyes were stars; visible skin like porcelain, his breath raised a large and wide chest with a fast-paced heart. You could sense his throat trapping air.Â
König kneeled to you and bared himself.Â
Anything, he had said, to fix what he had said. To stop this.Â
There was one way you could think to stop thisâit might not have been smart, certainly not, butâŠhmmâŠYou gradually raised your hand raised from your lap and slipped it under the front of Königâs hood.Â
Slowly, with all the delicateness of a glass dragonfly, your fingers strayed to the side of his neck to press into tight flesh. A rapid pulse.
The man goes to stone. Itâs like youâve stolen his nervous system. Dark eyes stay locked onto yours as you gaze back, hand dragging nails up with a light pressure near to the speed of a slug.Â
König whispers your name into the empty space and the oxygen seems to dry up. Warm light from the lamp cast phantoms on walls and over skin in a small moment of foreign discoveries. The Austrian swallows saliva and you feel his neck flex. You donât answer him, just watch and feel his own hands tighten on your cheeks in warning.Â
But you never listen, do you? Reckless you were called. And König had been right.
You were reckless.
Your hand had now explored like a map the indents of hidden facial scars; long and short over jaw and lips. The hand that was doing this had hiked the sniperâs hood up around your wrist so that the manâs lashes were twitching as the fabric got too close to his eyes. And you watched. And so did he.Â
A twin pair of moths hitting a glass window, staring from opposite sides at one another until they realized the break in the frame.Â
âAnything?â You ask in a loose tone, barely heard above the flood in both of your ears.Â
König was breathing heavily but didnât pull away. Pupils wide and body heavy to your touch. His spine briefly straightened, until he realized he had moved back slightly and immediately hunched again if only to keep your hands on him.Â
âIâŠâ he grunts, âAâŠanything.â Fingers touch his nose, they spread under the hood to trace the bumps and marks he keeps hidden like buried treasure. Your vision takes in the otherworldly hue on his visible skin; the glaze of rapture in his eyes yet still that ingrained heat.Â
Your body shivers at the gravel in his accented English.Â
Fingers stall over his lips, hood showing you the pale being of Königâs strong chin and jaw. You shift your touch to the side and find chapped lips revealed to you, a small palate scar that had healed to nothing more than a line up to his nostril.Â
You spare it nothing more than a glance before you look back into obsidian. Dark ether and dead galaxies devoid of stars. Swallowed in a sea of pasts and futures. You look for hesitation; for disgust.Â
You find none.Â
âYou said that no one could ever love someone like me,â your head leans in, and your breath mingles together with an intimacy that had never been shared between this type of partners. König, as if broken from a spell, takes down a swift inhale of air into his stiff lungs. He stares with far back lids. Flashes of unidentified emotions. âWhy did you say that?â
A moment of silence and of rabid hearts. The manâs lips twitch over yours as he answers slowly, not breaking eye contact for a moment. As if he did heâd be turned to rock. As if heâd miss something amazing from happening.Â
He speaks with a whispered confession.
âBecause if they didâI would have to kill them. Because no other than I would be able to love you more.â Your world slows and your ears strain with the breathy words.Â
Face burning your lips part with shock and awe. Violent to any other, but to you this was a confession from a man that could meet you blow for blowâcalm you and infuriate you all in one. Challenge you, but knew when heâd gone too far and how to properly apologize.Â
Heâd waited in that chair for you all night, youâd realized.Â
For you to come back to him. His partner.Â
You press your lips to his and hear his pitiful sounds of gasped reassurance. Slipping your tongue into his mouth, you let saliva drip off of your chins to splatter onto bent knees and shaking thighs.
Königâs arms cage you; capture your waist and draw you closer, lips breaking apart before you both share a wide-eyed look of momentary pause. There was no room to breathe; to think. Chests hit together and fingers tighten to a tendon-visible hold.
The man's growing smile is wide from where you still hold his hood up by his nose, and with a lick of his red and wet lips, he reconnects your awaiting mouths.Â
This time, youâre the one to gasp.
âLass mich zeigen, wie leid es mir tut, Vögelchen.â
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