Basically A Sin Bin

Little girl fantasies spun into real life. Duct tape. Magnets to girls like you with all the broken pieces, fragile parts. And with the bruises bubbling under your skin—burst blood vessels, fist-sized—and the—

The kid, you suppose. Baby. You can't afford to get wrapped up into something like that no matter how many times you catch him staring.

Watching.

The other server always handles his order when he arrives. Since starting work here four months ago, you maybe had all of a single conversation when you floated through the diner in search of something to do.

more coffee? a glance. a grunt. yeah, love. I'll have some more.

So you ignore it. Him. Keep your head down and pour cup after cup to the other regulars who congregate and pretend you aren't living in a motel to escape a man who seems to prefer you bruised up and bloody. Who—

Knocked you up.

Your hand goes there. To your belly. Nauseous, suddenly, with the thought of it. This.

When you glance up, unease prickling across your nape, you catch him staring at you. At the hand still splayed over your stomach. Something frisson across his expression—whiplike: ripples over a lake—but it's too fast, fleeting, for you to catch. Tucked back inside the folds of his patented frown, the ever present crease between his thick, umbre brows.

John lifts his eyes from your ringless hand, the swollen index finger from when you made the mistake of pointing to the door, trying to stand firm with your luggage hidden in the bushes, and meets your gaze. Stares at you head-on. Implacable as always. Blank.

But—and it's so silly, really—for a moment, you thought it was hunger. Something heavy and dark. Possessive.

Then his head dips. A shallow nod. John looks away, eyes slanting towards the window as if he didn't have to tear his gaze away from your belly. From you.

Your heart is in your throat. This too thick, fragile thing thudding against your jugular. Hard to breathe, hard to swallow around it. In the way—

Outside, tires squeal against the pavement.

John tenses. A shadow falling over his brow, a tug on his lips hidden under thick, wry curls.

You don't know what it is until the familiar gurgle of an engine cuts through the silent diner.

He looks back at you as a door slams. A shout erupts.

Fear is a thick, oily sludge filling your lungs. Tarlike. Sticky molasses. It burns, corrosive, and eats away at your tissue until a hole forms, letting spill out inside of you. To your belly where it hardens into a ferric ball of panic.

You thought you had time. One last shift. Collect your paycheck and then run—

But he found you.

He bellows out your name, angry and a little slurred. Drunk. High. Like the passive, maltreated dog he turned you into, you follow the sound, cowing a little when you see him stumble into the diner, face collapsed into fury.

There's a clatter. The hollow echo of wood hitting linoleum. Screams, his yells. It's all muted in your head. Panic throbbing against your ears, stuffing them full of cotton.

His bruised, marled fist reaches for you—

But John gets there first. His broad stretch of his back filling your vision as he pushes himself into the empty space between you and this man, hands raised, catching his mangled fist in one and grabbing a handful of his shirt, tugging him closer. It's all raw, untameable anger as he huffs into the man's face, grinding the words out on a rough, animalistic snarl—

"Touch her again, and it'll be the last thing you ever fuckin' do."

Stress like this ain't good for the baby, the paramedic tells you, brown eyes dampening with a thick ring of sympathy as she turns over your wrist, and dabs cool, wet cotton over the welts on your skin.

She's pushing for you to press charges. Keeps swiping at your skin to unveil more of your hidden hurts to the police officer that holds an old kodak in his hands and snaps, snaps, snaps at every weakness, each vulnerability she offers up.

It'd be the smart thing to do. He's already being booked on assault, threats. Battery for hitting John on the shoulder, the only place he could reach, with the shovel left by the cooks to scrape the snow away from the spot they usually gather around to smoke. No one brings up the fact that John was choking the life out of him at the time, and the bruises around his neck—ugly red fingerprints—are easily ignored.

Adding domestic violence to the list of charges, she mutters, will keep him locked up. Away from you. Can file for a restraining order, the cop adds, scratching the back of his neck as the camera sits, poised and intrusive, in his other hand.

The problem is that you've been through this before.

Like mother, like daughter.

The knife twists a little deeper. Gouges out another pound of flesh lost to a broken home. Another cog in a ruinous system. Poor kid, below the poverty line, with a dad who sold drugs and mother who did them. Dime a dozen.

And with that comes the knowledge that his sentence will be lighter than they're alluding to—if he has one at all. Upstanding citizen before he got shackled in with the wrong crowd, the runaway. Trouble who breezed through and picked the son of an attorney in the big city some three hours away from this town, this dilapidated diner. Sinking claws in.

My son never drank or did drugs before, your honour—

He'll get off with a slap on the wrist because he's never been in trouble before.

Your dad, too—in jail for the weekend when your mother relented to the impassioned beseeches given to her by rookie cops who just wanted that arrest notch on their belt. Saw a judge on Monday. Prison too crowded for such a paltry offense.

The hurt, after, was always worse than what he went to jail for.

So. No. You won't press charges even though you know you should. It'll take too long and you don't plan on staying much longer. Not with your luggage packed in the trunk. The cheque shoved clumsily into your hands when the manager came out to make a fuss, angling a purpling finger in your direction—nothin' but trouble since the day you were hired—only to be stopped by the wall that is John Price, a snarl pulling up at his lips as he barked call the fuckin' police and, low, as if he didn't want you to hear, adding: you ever point your finger at her again like that, and I'll hang you from the goddamn rafters.

You're not sure why he's still here, standing watch. On guard. His bloodied, bruised hands shoved into his armpits as he paces back and forth like a caged tiger unaware the door has been open the whole time. Stalking. Taking measured, meaningful steps towards anyone who tries to come over—badge or not. Barking out orders. Lancing people with his glare when they tread too closely.

Good fucking samaritan, you think, eyes riveted on the blood drying over the gravel. Your head looping, weaving in arching circles as you try to contend with the fact that it somehow isn't yours, but his.

Maybe that's why he stays. Obligation. Civic duty. It makes you snort, and the paramedic glances at you sharply, assessing in that too thick, too kind, way of hers.

"You doin' okay, mama?"

And you wish she wouldn't call you that. Make it real. Mama. Your idea of motherhood, of mothers and moms and mamas, is a woman slumped on the couch, passed out after staying up all night talking to ghosts. Nails caked with the dust of percocets and restoril and oxycodone (oxycotton, she's always called it). Popping mouthful of pills in the morning, afternoon, evening, and night. An assortment to keep her functional—and asleep.

Nodding off in the middle of conversations. Or fighting it to stay high. Irritated and combative whenever she ran out, supply gone dry.

Toxic.

Neglectful—at best.

You can't think about what you'll end up doing to this kid with her blood in your veins. Her ghosts in your head.

John moves. A shadow in the corner of your eye. "'bout enough of that, don't you think?"

She backs up, startled by the aggression in his voice. "I just—"

You think you hate them both. "I'm fine."

She looks back at you, searching. Wanting that assurance, but whatever she's looking to find, it isn't there. You won't give it, and eventually she nods. Peels back. "Okay. If you feel any soreness at all, if anything changes, come to the hospital."

The nod is for her benefit only, and she takes it with a deep inhale.

It thins out after that. The cop and his camera leave, too, after making you take the paperwork needed to file charges. If you change your mind. His number in smeared blue ink on the back. The paramedics go after another futile round of are you sure you don't want to get checked out at the hospital that's decline with a shake of your head.

It's just you and Price now. Your beatup Saturn three spots away from his truck—an old Ford you hadn't been expecting a man like him to drive, with his thick Levi jacket and his steel-toed boots. Standing there with an armful of paper that's going to go in the trash, you're not sure what to do. How to untangle yourself from the claws of this vicious bear that seems content to loom over you like an unasked for cloud, glaring down at you from the bridge of his nose. Expression pinched, like he's displeased. Mad.

You've had enough of angry men, though, and you turn, offering a hollow smile that works it's way around your mouth like a grimace. "Guess I should head home—"

"Running, mm?"

You blink. "Sorry?"

He leans down, all grit and blunt teeth. "That your plan? Runnin' away from all'a this? Find another town. Another motel."

Another man.

He doesn't say it, but it's there. The implication. The idea. It rankles down your spine, a whitehot ooze of shame. Of anger.

"You don't know me," you spit, all anger and indignation. Embarrassment so sharp, it cuts. "You don't know anything about me."

He rocks back on his heel, mouth flattening into an even line. "No, I don't. But I know your type."

"You—"

The indignity is increased tenfold when he meets your ire with an impassive stare, so firm in his assessment of you that he doesn't even bulk when you glare at him. When you rage in quiet fury, shoulders shaking.

"You'll run," he continues, bulling over the vitriol that stutters out in broken squeals of anger. "You'll find a new place. And it'll be fine for a little while but then you'll end up in the same situation because that's all you know, isn't it? S'why you're not pressing charges. Why you got your bag in your back seat. The slightest pressure and you bolt—straight into the same predicament you're in now."

"It's not my fault—"

"No," he grinds the word, firm and sure, and it snatches you by the throat because no one has ever agreed with you on that. It's not your fault. It's just—

"—all you know."

"What am I supposed to do differently, huh? Stay and press charges that won't stick? Wait for him to get out, frothing at the mouth for revenge? Yeah, right," you scoff, rolling your eyes up towards the stale sky. "End up as another statistic? Or—"

Like your mother. It quiets you. Snuffs the flames. All you feel is scraped raw. Hollowed out. Empty and hitting and—

"So you'll just run your whole life? Until it catches up to you, mm? What happens when someone finds you in a place you can't run? When you're all alone, and cornered?"

It tastes like defeat. Resignation. "You think I haven't thought of that before?"

From the corner of your eye, you see him shrug. "Got yourself into a little mess, but it ain't the end of the world. Jus' got to fix it. Can't do that when you run."

"And what's your solution? Find another job, hope that his charges stick? He—"

Drained you financially. Beat you bloody.

You shake your head. "The best thing to do is to leave. I'll be smarter, I'll—"

He scoffs. You ignore it, hands shaking.

"I can't. I just—I can't."

"Come stay with me," he says. Just like that. Stay with me. The sky is blue. The grass is green. Come stay with me. "Got a spare room."

"I don't even know you—"

"People rent to strangers all the time."

"I don't have a job. Money. I can't pay you—"

"Been needin' a receptionist for some time. Pay is fair. Hourly."

You blink, eyes hot. Wet. You feel the sharp edge of hope digging in, that deadly, terrible thing that only ever falls apart when you finally relax.

"Just like that?"

He nods, sharp and firm. "Jus' like that."

"I have a kid," you blurt out, panicked. This conversation is getting away from you. Slipping through your fingers. And the worst is that it sounds so good. Too good. "I'm—I'm pregnant," you add like he doesn't already know. Hadn't heard you mutter it to the paramedic hours ago.

The look he levels you with is an incendiary thing. You feel it in your chest. Deadcentre. "I know," he rasps, head bending down closer to you. "Doesn't change anythin'."

"How could it not?"

"How should it?" He counters.

"In a few months, when the baby is here—"

"I won't change my mind."

"You say that now," you breathe, pulse thudding in your ears. "But when it's screaming in the middle of the night, and—"

His hand reaches out slowly, like he's trying not to startle a horse. Fingers grazing your arm, warm and rough, before closing around your wrist. The one that's bruised and sore. Swollen in his hand. Its done with measured purpose, confidence, that the panic doesn't have time to surge. Instincts too incipient to keep up with the sure, steady way he winds around you.

With his hand on your wrist, fingers folding over the hurt—hiding them—he leans down, thumb stroking along your skittish, unraveling pulse, and makes you meet his stare. Open, maybe, for the first time since you met him. All raw want, naked truth. The bare, fractured look is enough to steal the air in your lungs, snuffing out the innate protests that spume whenever someone offers any sort of help or charity. The no crushed under his heel.

"m'a man of my word," he low, drawing the words out. "I'll be there for the cryin' and the dirty diapers and the sleepless nights."

"And when I can't work for you?"

His lips quirk. "I offer better MAT leave than most places. Reckon you could even do the bloody job from bed."

"Price, that's—this is insane—"

"John," he grunts, giving another shrug before peeling away from you. "Savin' me the trouble of talking to these idiots. Ain't nothin' crazy about that."

"I could be a horrible person. A murderer. Rob you blind, and leave you with you nothing."

It has the opposite effect of scaring him off. If anything, he looks amused. Squares his shoulders, stands to his full—intimidating, impressive—height. Stares down at you with a brow quirked and strange gleam in his eyes.

"Think I can handle myself, love. And if you wanna rob me, bite the hand, so to speak, then I promise you, you won't like the consequences."

You swallow. His tone sparks against your sense of self-preservation, and you fight the urge to take a step back. To put distance between yourself and this grizzly-like man with blunt teeth and sharp claws.

He senses your hesitation. Must because he quiets, shoulders sinking. Hand warm on your skin, giving a slight squeeze before he lets go. You ignore the urge to chase that heat again, and hide a shiver behind a shift.

"How 'bout a test ride, mm? A trial. Stay for a few weeks and then decide if you still want to leave."

Too good to be true. You know this deep down in your marrow. Every instinct inside of you rebelling against this, screaming trap, it's a trap. But there's a truth to what he says, and maybe if you weren't pregnant, you would have flipped him off and ran because men like him aren't kind to girls like you unless they have a reason to be.

You're just not sure what he has to gain in all of this. Why he put himself between you and harm without so much as a sparing glance. Stayed, too, and barked at everyone who got too close. A thunderous shadow full of teeth.

And maybe it's that. The blood concealing into a thick, pulpy plum over the split of his knuckles, the blood on the gravel that isn't yours, the goosebumps rising over the spot he touched, colder than the rest of your skin, that makes you quieten under his heavy stare. Softening into something agreeable. Unreasonable. Instincts shoved into a box.

So you nod and let him place his hand over the small of your back, guiding you to his truck with a firm nudge. Say anything when he helps you in, hands fastening the seatbelt with a clipped I'll be back when he finishes, keeping his wary eyes on you even as he moves quickly towards your car, grabbing your suitcase from the back. Promises to get your car later, too. Bring it back to his house.

And yours, too, he adds, glancing your way after he tosses the suitcase in the backseat, searching for something you're not sure he'll find. So you look away, staring at the dust on the dashboard as he rounds the truck, and slips into the front seat. It smells like him. Fresh leather and the wild. Cedar and moss. Tobacco. Something heady. Masculine. Soaked sage. Loam. Gasoline.

You lean back on the headrest, breathing it in. Trying not to think.

You'll keep your luggage packed. The keys in the ignition. When whatever it is he's planning comes to the forefront, you'll be ready to run.

But right now—

You just want to sleep. Your jaw aches. Your wrist. There's a knot in your stomach—not good for the baby—and it thickens each time you look at his bloodied knuckles curled loosely over the steering wheel, the other on the stick. Close enough that you can feel the heat bleeding into your knee. All fire and spite, and—

Touch her again, and it'll be the last thing you ever fuckin' do.

"Get some rest," he grunts, eyes slanting towards you in a brief, heavy flick. "I'll stop and get some food soon, too, but it's a two hour drive to mine. And you look dead on your feet, sweetheart."

Love. Sweetheart. I won't change my mind.

You swallow down the protest that swells, the lingering residuum of self-preservation that won't let you bear your neck just yet, and offer a slow nod, blaming the easy submission on fatigue. These aches and pains that weep, tender to the touch.

Your eyes slip shut against your better judgement, the warm interior of the truck, his smell, bleeding a sense of soporific comfort you can't remember the last time you ever felt. Just a quick nap, you think. Long enough to rest your eyes—

It's swallowed under the deluge of exhaustion that rushes through when your shoulders drop, lax. He mutters something, but it's awash under the seafoam that fills your ears, lapping waves dragging you further and further away from shore. Something that sounds like girl good but you can't be sure. Hypnagogia is a terrible a thing that likes to spin dreams, play pretend in the cradle of your subconsciousness until the lines between reality and fantasy blur. Ignoring it is easier than admitting that it floods you with a warmth so deep, sweat gathers along your hairline. Feverish and sickly sweet.

Fingers dance along the edge of your brow, rough and coarse, and it's a devastating thing, isn't it? All this tenderness along the broken edges of yourself, nails grazing the fractures like they can be fixed, pushed back into place, and not as if they're about to shatter. It makes you want to lash out even though you can't feel your body anymore, stuck between worlds of wake and rest. Later, maybe, when the phantom press doesn't feel so sweet you'll snap—broken jaw and brittle teeth—at his hand until he remembers to never touch you again. A risk he won't take.

But with the knot in your belly, a baby there, too, and a body more contusion than flesh, you let it happen. Mewl, maybe, a quiet little slip of a thing, and curve into the palm resting over your cheek. Small and docile, leaching comfort as fast as you can before you remember yourself.

He’s never been any good at box ticking, infinitely preferring action above and beyond tedious reports. When he was a child, he frequently received raps on the knuckles from his teachers for day dreaming, watching little birds building nests in the trees around the school yard, or a squirrel collecting shining acorns to store away. It was always a shock, the sharp pain of a ruler slapped against his unclenched hands.

He was teased for being himself, so König hid that wistful quality away under layers of mercurial violence. Yet still, he finds nature superior in every conceivable sense. The silence of being alone with his thoughts is the only peace he’s ever really known, so much of his life devoted to conflict and maiming.

Often misunderstood, his height and breadth alone paint a ruthless portrait of a man spoiling for a fight. More times than he can count on two broad hands, König has ended up in bar brawls purely because he was the biggest in the room and someone wanted to test their metal.

Not that he doesn’t enjoy it, the squaring up, blood staining his teeth from a punch or two, the scent of iron drying on his skin when he leaves them pathetically unconscious. It has it’s place, as everything does. The rush he gets from inflicting pain on an unworthy foe is an addiction long since accepted as part of his personality. König still remembers the first time he felt bones cracking beneath his punch. Satisfying in the extreme, but not in the same way a clear autumn sky is. Cool air in his lungs and utter quietness is preferable.

Perhaps he should have led a simple life. Though trouble seems to find him at every opportunity, scenting him as a bloodhound would in even the most remote corners of the world . Also he’s very good at killing, it’s earned him respect, food on the table for his Oma and several concealed bank accounts stuffed with dirty money. She never has to suffer again through the winter, though he rarely visits home to see her these days.

Mainly because there is always infernal paperwork to do.

The rank of Colonel was hard won. Not through Jagdkommando, which honestly would have been a more noble way of making a living. But why should he serve countryman that never gifted him an ounce of charity. It was him stepping up to be the man of the house aged eight when his drunk of a father never returned home one day. His labour and toil that kept the heating on in the deadest of winters in his little mountain town. Frost inside of the window panes while others his age sung carols and ate soft sugary cookies. König grew up very fast, before his height caught up with his bulk. Supported the family to the detriment of study. No kindness for their threadbare family was offered by his school mates, while his mother sobbed ice laden tears of grief and couldn’t work.

Why she mourned his sire, König had no idea. Still doesn’t to this day, though his Oma told him affairs of the heart are difficult for others to understand. He wouldn’t know of that, fleeting girlfriends through the years he can barely recollect. None of his relationships ever lasted long, his stunted personality and anxiety snuffing out the kindling affections smouldering within their eyes. König never had time to socialise properly, stammered when he spoke to girls even as a young and vaguely attractive serviceman, with less scars and more enthusiasm for it all. Eventually it didn’t matter, work took priority and money can buy you company if you know the right people.

So that’s what he did. Bought company when it was needed. Shameful he admits, but he’s hardly the first. They were always paid well for their trouble, even the times crushing loneliness meant he just wanted to hold their hands and watch tv. Pretend for a minute he was normal, not some odd assortment of different personalities blended into one no one actually likes. Sharp edges jagged where he’s attempted to mould them through the years to fit in, until he gave up entirely and decided others would have to tolerate him instead of being more amenable.

Ruefully, he runs his hands over his buzzed hair, glancing at the stacks of forms neatly lined up on the edge of the table. He really should get to it, though there is nothing he would like to do more than sweep the entire lot into the bin. Heavily lidded orbs skim over the first couple of pages, an internal groan at the number of questions on it for him to contemplate. At times he regrets the superiority, wishing he was still just some contractor hired between battles to fill out the ranks. Unfortunately though, he’s never been inconspicuous enough for canon fodder, making a name for himself by virtue of sheer boldness and natural tactical finesse. At times he still can’t believe he’s reached these heights, it seems odd given the fact he never showed a single shred of physical prowess before he signed up at eighteen.

The name of König is rightly feared in the circles KorTac runs in. So it should be, much blood has been spilt to ensure that his reputation precedes him, standing taller than he does in the field. That doesn’t really lend itself to friendships however. König can only count four people who willingly spend time with him, three of which are paid to do so. He’s invited to poker nights, though he suspects that has more to do with the plentiful amounts of bank notes he brings, as opposed to the virtues of his company.

As a direct result, he doesn’t trust kindness in any form that takes. Smiles are weapons to be wielded against him, especially by pretty things, hidden meanings behind the curve of lips he doesn’t understand. Soft touches aren’t meant for men like König, not unless they come after a fat wad of cash. It was a lesson he learnt early, flirtatious looks always ceasing when he opened his mouth and they listened to him ramble. He can speak dozens of languages seamlessly, but the truth of communication remains a mystery to him, barked orders and shouts the only things he understands. It’s impossible to miss the layers and undertones within those.

While König is scrutinising the tiny font in the corner of one briefing note, irrationally annoyed by the fact the incorrect date has been written next to it, there’s a knock at the door.

Horangi pokes his head around it, a huge and smug grin plastered across his face. König blinks lazily in response, not in any frame of mind for another distraction.

“What?” He grunts, while Horangi stands there beaming, as if he’s won some sort of lottery and is about to inform König of the prize.

“Your new secretary is here…you lucky fucking fucker.”

König’s eyebrow rises, offset against his dower expression.

“I have told them one million times.” He snaps, clambering laboriously to his feet, aching from sitting still for an hour or more. “I do not need one.”

“Too late, she’s already on base. Be nice to her eh?! Break the habit of a lifetime Colonel.”

The reality is that König does need a secretary, badly. Drowning in administrative tasks leaves him sullen because he’s not able to get out in the thick of it, performing as he does best. The decision to hire someone was made over his head, leading to mutinous disdain clouding his office since. He sees it as failure, requiring help with his role. Even if typing does take him an age because keyboards aren’t meant for thick fingers like his.

In truth he didn’t expect a woman. Vaguely he wonders how long you’ll last in the pack of barely civilised men he calls colleagues. Most likely less than a week, they are all dogs like he is, starved of affection and happy to snap their jaws over a tasty meal. It would be gravely inconvenient for you to lose your head over it, more paper to sign. He huffs irritably at the thought of a telling off from his superiors, because Krueger has made a pass at you.

“I will be nice. Whatever that means.”

“Don’t shout at her. Or attempt to flirt. It is unnerving.” Behind Horangi’s departing back, König scowls.

“You have never seen me flirt.”

“I have, Moscow in 2013. It still haunts my nightmares.”

König grits his teeth. The memory of that still haunts him also. He drank too much, a surprising lightweight when it comes to vodka. The sweet and comely barmaid was in his lap for less than two minutes, during which he drunkenly hiccuped into her ear, before she scurried away. Krueger cuffed him shortly afterwards around the back of the head and took her home instead. A dismal display of his masculine prowess, but totally in character unfortunately.

“I will not flirt.” He responds mulishly. “Besides, they would be foolish to send anyone but an old battle-axe out here anyway.”

At that exact moment, they round a corner and you come into view, fully within earshot of his grumblings. His footsteps falter, coming to a sudden and rather abrupt stop, so he stumbles slightly trying not to crash into Horangi.

“Good morning Colonel, nice to meet you.” You hold out a hand politely, though your pretty eyes are glittering with a quiet mirth that makes his chest tighten. “I’m your new battle-axe - I mean secretary.”

Horangi snorts.

“Love...” your boyfriend starts with the tone you know he uses when it’s about something that will upset you. “You’re required by the doctor to stay home for 2 weeks,” he continues, which finally tips you off. “No! I-I have a project due in 5 days, okay? I just need some paracetamol.” Insisting, you move to get up but you feel your boyfriend’s palm on your waist pinning you down. “No, bunny. You’re staying.” You glare at him in return. A part of you was aware that he was doing this for your sake, but you were too stubborn to let him. “Ghost, stop. I’m not in the mood for any lovey shits, okay? Just let me be,” you snap. Usually, when you get this pissed, he lets you be and just rushes by your side when you inevitably pass out due to over-exhaustion. This time, he doesn’t. 

His stare was firm and commanding unlike the usual. Your Simon was soft, always there to clean up your mess. He never forces you to rest nor to listen to him— even if it is for the better. “Bunny, it’s not normal sickness, okay?” he still calmly explains, brushing the stray hair away from your face but you only slap his hand away, still frustrated. Seeing that you’re getting an attitude, he sighs and kisses your temple. “Do you know what your secondary gender is?” At his question, you stare at him like he asked you if you know the sky is blue. “Fucking hell, Ghost. Of course! I told you this the moment we met. I’m a beta, okay? Can you let me go now?” you hissed, attempting to raise his heavy hand of your hand yet he persisted and pressed harder. “No, princess,” he looks away in contemplation. “I rushed you to the doctor earlier. Your testing was a mistake. You’re a freshly developed omega and it was advised you.. naturally, let your heat happen.” 

There were a few beats of silence before you cackled, tears forming in your eyes. “Yeah, right, babe. As if. Can you just fucking let me go?” The news of you being an omega sounded fake— because it is, you scoff. “I’m not joking,” he mumbles with a new profound authority. After realizing he was serious, everything came crashing down on you. This couldn’t be. You loved being a beta. It doesn’t interfere with your life. You can’t be an omega. You can’t! No, it’s fake. This was a joke! Heats?? You?? No, no. That’s not true– 

“Y/N! Breathe!” Simon’s voice snapped you out of your haze, looking down to see your nails pressed so hard on his skin that’s letting out droplets of blood. Sobs were robbed out of your body, refusing to accept the change in your, yelling at your boyfriend to let you go. His figure immediately wrapped itself around you, pressing your face on his chest and nuzzling your head. “Calm down, bunny. It’s fine... Just calm down,” he soothes, putting his hand under your shirt to rub circles on your burning skin, and trying to get your breathing to match his. His shirt was drenched with tears but he didn’t mind. He muttered endless praises in your ear about how brave you are, and how you’ll be fine because he’s there. Ghost is there for you.

“I’m here, sweetheart” he cooed, pressing a kiss on your ear and laying the both of you down on the bed. He covered you entirely with his figure, protecting you from the world. With a final hiccup, you lose yourself to sleep and exhaustion, settling down and letting yourself be vulnerable with him with his pheromones blanketing your senses as if he’s the only thing there.

Waking up with a gasp, a layer of sweat covered your whole body when your attention was suddenly redirected to the wet spot below you that seemed to seep into the bedsheets. Hot panic took you over and you suddenly felt ashamed. Did you pee yourself out of nervousness? Clamouring, you stumble as you try to wipe the spot away, whimpering when another sudden gush dripped down your legs which woke Simon.

“Sweetheart? What’s up with ‘ya?”

You cry, rushing to his side and throwing yourself at him while apologizing profusely. “I-I’m sorry! Baby, I’m sorry... Please forgive me. I didn’t know!”

“Calm down, calm down.. tell me what’s happening,” his voice immediately calmed you down, your hands still clenching tight on his shirt and sticking your face in his scent gland. In an instant, the strong smell of whiskey, ground, and cigar invaded your nose but you welcomed it. The aroma calms down your nerves and allows you to talk without tumbling over your words. “I-I.. peed,” you mumble in shame that surprised your lover, but it seems the situation clicked in his head and he only responded with a chuckle. 

“No, baby... You didn’t pee,” he sighs, grabbing your waist and sitting you sideways on his lap, while he scoots backward to lean on the headboard. “It’s something omega releases in substitution to lube,” he starts his hand slowly peeling away your shorts, revealing your soaked panties. “This is slick,” his finger swipes along the covered lips of your pussy, a string sticking to his pad. He brings his soaked fingers near you, when the smell suddenly hit him. You smell like cherry-fucking-pie.

‘Fuck, she smells so sweet. No, I need to be patient. It’s her first heat’ he thinks while he watches your eyes observe with fascination. He nosed around your scent gland taking in your pheromones that sent blood rushing to his dick. His hand pulls your panties to the side to directly flick on your clit, pressing his thumb down and circling. You whimper, holding onto his shirt as your legs instinctively close. Everything was heightened. It felt like you’d come any minuted just from your clit getting pressed down.

“Spread them.” As if your body was possessed, your thighs separate, allowing Simon to completely slip off your underwear and press a single digit inside of you. The reaction was instant. Your back arches and your toes curl in pleasure, red chipped nails digging into his bicep, but he was too immersed in watching your pretty cunt take what he gives you to even care. “Good girl,” he praises, pressing his lips against your ear. Tilting your head to the side, you attempt on taking cover on hid bicep, but Ghost only grabs your face, tilting it back. 

“Daddy needs to hear you, princess”

Your moans got higher as he added another finger and pumped them, borderline abusing your cunt. But you needed this. How else will you take your alpha’s massive cock? Looking down on you, he melts as babbles and whines were the only things you could muster. Your body writhes in pleasure, eyes rolling back in pleasure. “S-Simon! I’m... a-ah!.. close!” Feeling your release climbing, your pussy clenches around his digits while urging him to go faster; just a little more push to your climax. A scandalized gasp was ripped out of you when he suddenly stopped completely. “No, how do you ask to cum properly?” his voice grumbles, squishing your cheeks while your face is soaked with tears. “I wanna cum, Simon. Please please please–” he cuts you off, tightening his hold on your face and pressing his thumb hard on your clit. “No, not Simon.”

With that, you finally realized the key to your release. “Daddy, please. I wanna cum, please. P-put your fingers in again. Daddy, please” you whine, a hand releasing his bicep to place itself on his nape, pulling him down so you can messily press a kiss. Satisfied, he plunged 3 fingers in, forcing your cunt to take it. “There we go. Was that so hard, princess? Was it hard being polite to daddy?” he teases, pressing down on your sweet spot. His tongue licks around your mouth, sucking on the wet appendage and letting his saliva trickle down into yours.

You felt so tight around his digits, and the thought of how you’ll feel around him made his cock ache. The hard-on pressing against your lower back which lifted as the coil inside of you snapped. He watches with adoration as you soak his fingers and the bedsheets, a sense of accomplishment bubbling up inside his chest, making precum dribble out of his tip and stain his sweatpants. “Good girl,” the praise slips off his tongue absentmindedly as he sneaks a hand behind you, untying his pants and pulling it down just enough for his cock to spring free.

Still high from pleasure, he manhandles your body to the position he wants. Pushing your body forward so your face is planted on the sheets with your hips resting on two-stacked pillows. Amid pleasure, you got brought back when overstimulation ran through your nerves, feeling Ghost’s cock fill you up, inch by inch. You didn’t even realize when he had taken his bottoms off. The only thought running through your head was him, his smell, his overpowering pheromones, and his cock. God, his cock was driving you crazy.

“Babygirl, you need to loosen up,” he orders, slithering a hand under you to swirl around your clit. “No!.. oh! s-sensitive!” you whine, sobbing onto the pillow. “I don’t care, sweetie. You had your fill, now daddy needs his. Won’t you be a good girl and help me? I promise I’ll reward you,” he mutters, his chest pressing on your back. Driven with the need to be good for him, you let your cunt relax to take him in.

Slowly rutting his hips, he tries to thrust more of his cock inside of you. “Slowly, baby. Breathe for me. There we go. Perfect,” he groans, pressing his forehead on your nape when he finally felt himself completely buried inside your hot, wet cunt. “Such a perfect pussy. You want to make me proud, don’t ya?” You only whine in response, then a loud moan ripped out of you when you felt a subtle bulge on your stomach which got pressed down onto the pillow under the weight Ghost was putting down you. “Fuck, you’re so small, aren’t ya? Such a perfect cocksleeve. What a behaved slut for me.” Without a warning, he snaps his hips, thrusting in and out of you without mercy; like a carnal animal with the intent to just breed. God, this is heaven. This is where he’s supposed to be. With you, inside of you.

“I’m gonna fill you up so good, ma” he moans, your voice matching his. “Ah-ah-ah! Fast! Too fa— oh! Too fast,” you sobbed yet it felt so good. Every sense of yours was drowning with the thought of your mate, of Simon. You were so lost in pleasure, hands sprawled out on the sheets and gripping, trying to crawl away from the overwhelming pleasure. Ghost only clicks his tongue, putting his hands on your waist and pulling you back, filling you to the brim again.

“Daddy was too lenient on you huh? Maybe I need to keep you here. You won’t ever need to use that pretty head of yours, worrying about nothing, sweetie. I’ll do everything for you, okay? Your alpha will do everything for you.” You feel him pull back with the tip catching on your rim. As if given a break, you take a breath but suddenly everything was knocked out of you when he bottomed out with one thrust.

“F-fuck, you feel amazing. You just need to be good to me, okay? You just need to be a good mama for our children, stay at home, and let me use your pretty pussy when daddy needs to relieve stress” Pinning your waist down, it was like he actually sees you as a personal cocksleeve, using your body for his own release.

Thrusting faster, Ghost’s moans start to pitch higher, his hand tangling itself in your locks to pull your face from the pillow. Locking lips, he moans louder while pressing down on the bulge in your stomach, helping him get closer from the fact you’re so small— so easily to manhandle and to use freely. Maybe he should actually just keep you here. You won’t need to work. No need to stress that pretty head of yours over trivial stuff. He just needs you to stay with him.

The thought of you being swollen with his baby and staying inside the apartment waiting for him was the final thing that sent him to the edge. His tip spurting out cum filled you up to no end, kissing the entrance of your womb as he buried himself as deep as possible. Your hands scramble to hold onto something, afraid to get lost in the pleasure; scared of being a slave to the mind-numbing pleasure. You dig your nails on his thigh, sobbing and moaning in pleasure as his release triggered another of yours. Feeling so full, Ghost finally stopped cumming and lets you go. His spent body collapsing alongside you in exhaustion. Silence ensued between you guys, basking in each other’s presence. After a while, he got up to grab a towel to clean you up, knowing you’d be insatiable once your omega instincts completely settled.

Feeling his lips kiss your temple, his rough yet sultry deep voice (or maybe that’s just your love for him talking) telling you to relax made you purr. As you watch him take care of you, scrubbing down both yours and his spent off your body got you thinking. Maybe this is where you’re supposed to be. Doing nothing but behaving for your lover, keeping Ghost happy.

꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱: AHHHH!! It's my first full-length fanfic which happens to be my very first explicit and descriptive smut. Please be gentle with the criticisms!! Also, do you guys want a König version? Please comment if yes.

Please reblog!! Ask is open!

⟢ taglist is open!! Comment if you want to be tagged in the next posts.

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The ride back to base was contrastingly uneventful compared to the mission. I had my eyes closed for the majority of it, daydreaming about a steaming, hot shower, back in the solitude of my room. Fender and O’Connor were out cold; their heads rested back against the wall, mouths hung open, bodies completely limp (and covered in blood). Horangi had planted himself near Castillo with an energetic look in his eyes, still riding the high from the mission. He’d tried and failed several times to keep a conversation going with her – she was too preoccupied with starting her report, so Horangi resorted to tapping his hands in his lap to spend the rest of the adrenaline.

Occasionally, I snuck glances at Konig; this time, he was too lost in his own world to notice me staring. He had his eyes closed, making the holes under his mask completely blacked out and soulless. His palms were flat against his thighs, fingers flexing to grip the fabric before releasing a few seconds later. His mask would rest around his nose with each long, tense inhale, and then puff outwards as he exhaled.

When he eventually opened his eyes, staring at the wall above my head, I noticed his pupils were pinpricks. There was a void in his stare, like his humanity had been locked somewhere in the back of his mind. I looked away, nursing a gut feeling to avoid meeting his gaze – like the instinct of prey, telling me that if I looked into the eyes of the predator, I would be devoured moments later. So, instead, I looked down at my shoes, leaning my elbows on my knees and hanging my head for the rest of the ride.

When we did finally land, I noticed that Juno and Roze were waiting for us in the quad. Zero and Oni were bringing the hostages to the medbay, covering their ears against the sound of the plane’s engine as we touched the ground. Konig was the first one to stand up; he was still tense as he briskly walked down the ramp. I was next, taking a moment to stretch as I stood. Fender and O’Connor dragged themselves off of their seats and sluggishly followed me down the ramp. Castillo stayed with Horangi, packing the half empty magazines into a duffle bag.

I hovered at the bottom of the ramp with my hands on my hips, waiting for instruction on what to do next. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Konig; he was hurriedly walking – more like storming across the quad, making a beeline to the compound. His shoulders were hunched and his hands were balled into fists. He didn’t even stop to remove his gear before he almost ripped the door off of its hinges and disappeared into the building.

I watched the door slowly fall shut behind him. I resisted the urge to follow after him and see if he was alright. He probably just needs space, like I usually do.

“Bonnie!” Horangi called from the plane’s ramp, snapping me in focus. He had his arms wrapped around several guns with their mags ripped out. “Take these to the arsenal, yeah?”

Before I could respond, he tossed the guns down to me. I muttered a quick curse as I struggled to catch them all, stumbling back into someone.

“Watch-“ Juno grumbled, until he turned around and saw me. “Oh, sorry! Thought you were someone else…”

I chuckled, struggling to gather the guns in my arms. “Who?” I asked.

He started to answer, then closed his mouth and shook his head. “Just… not you.” He laughed nervously. “Here, let me help-“ he took the guns from my hands and shot me a crooked smile, before he started making his way towards the arsenal. I turned back around, about to ask Horangi for what else I could do, when he threw another armful of guns down an me.

“Jesus-!” I barely managed to catch them all, struggling to keep a grip. “Trying to knock my head off?” I asked.

Horangi smiled, evident by the crinkle in his eyes. “As you were, sergeant.”

I rolled my eyes, turning and leaving him at the ramp. I jogged after Juno, not more than a few yards away - he slowed down for me to catch up to him. He glanced over his shoulder and smirked – I noticed the thin layer of dust that had settled into his hair from the mission.

“First mission, rookie?” he teased as we walked.

“Was it that obvious?” I huffed, gathering the guns closer to my chest. “Hopefully Majka doesn’t skin me alive for jumping the gun like I did.”

“Are you kidding? That was amazing!” he commented as we walked. “Honestly – I’ve never seen someone work so well with the team on the first mission.”

I chuckled. “I guess I’ve had plenty of ‘first missions’ with other teams to practice.”

“Well don’t make it a habit.” He said as we reached the arsenal. He dropped his pile of guns onto the table in the center of the room. “We’ve seen a lot of people come and go, and I really like you already. You’re a good fit for our team.”

“Already?” I scoffed. “You mean you didn’t like me the entire month before?” I dropped my guns onto Juno’s pile.

He laughed. “I’ll be honest, I thought you were gonna be gone in a few weeks, with the way you were ignoring us all.”

His words made my stomach turn with shame. “Yeah…” I grabbed a cleaning kit off one of the shelves. “If it makes you feel any better, I tend to do that with everyone, not just you all.”

“Nah, it’s alright.” Juno shrugged, grabbing the gun log hanging from the wall. “I get it. I was kind of the same way when I first joined the team.” He took one of the guns and inspected its side, then jotted down the serial number in the log. “They’re fucking scary if you haven’t already been working with them.”

Juno handed me the gun, and I sat down and started cleaning it. “What was your first experience with all of them?” I asked.

“Just a basic recon before an extraction.” He stated. “Can’t share the details, but I was really only there to witness everyone else and get a feel for their flow.” He chuckled as he thought back to the mission. “Poor guy Colonel was stuck with me the entire time on babysitting duty. He was pissed.”

I chuckled, furrowing my brow. “Well it’s not like there’s anything else to do on a recon besides watch.”

Juno laughed. “Fair, but it wasn’t just that – he hated me at first. Was nearly four months before he even started treating me like a member of the team. Maybe six before he had a full, normal conversation with me.”

I paused, the gun in my hand neglected as I listened to Juno. “Seriously?” I asked. “We’re talking about the same colonel, right?”

“Yep.” He replied. “All that coddling he’s doing with you now? He’s never been that nice to anyone. Aside from Horangi, but from what I heard, they’ve known each other since before they joined. Other than that, he’s never coddled anyone like he has with you. If I had pulled all the shit you were pulling in the beginning, he would have signed my discharge papers and shipped me out himself.”

I stared at Juno with a baffled expression. “I wouldn’t say he’s coddling me…”

“For Konig, it’s coddling.” Juno said quickly. He handed me another gun – I took it and continued cleaning. “He usually can’t stand new faces. Maybe he doesn’t outright hate them, but he leaves it up to the rest of the team to break them in. He couldn’t care less if they died in the field.” He smacked his pen against the table as it began to run out of ink. “Actually, that’s one of the most common complaints from the newbies; they all feel like Konig has it out for them. And, to be perfectly honest, he might.”

My face was plastered in complete confusion as he spoke. It felt like the Konig he was talking about was a completely different person. The one who talked with me until the early hours of the morning, the one who dragged me out to the liquor store with him every weekend – that couldn’t be the same one Juno was talking about.

However, when I thought about Konig earlier today – covered in blood, eyes staring into the depths of his own mind, looking like an apex predator after a meal – it was possible that these were two sides of the same coin.

“Is he always so… tense after missions, like he was today?”

Juno lingered on his answer, tapping his pen on the log. “On combative ones? Pretty much.” He jotted another serial number down. “He’s been like that since I’ve been a part of the team. He has to have some kind of anger issues; or maybe he’s bipolar – I don’t fucking know. All I can tell is he’s fucking insane.”

I winced. “Maybe he just gets stressed easily? Bipolar’s kind of a stretch.”

“Well he’s a goddamn monster, that’s for sure.” Juno continued. “I heard he was some kind of war criminal before they recruited him – like an awol, rampaging animal. Heard that it once took ten men to hold him down during an episode.”

Episode.

I don’t know why that word irritated me so much – but I had to fight the urge to snap at Juno. I nearly lashed out at him, calling him a disrespectful bastard, telling him to be more open-minded towards Konig. But why did I have such a strong desire to defend him? Konig wasn’t anything special to me – beyond our late-night talks and drives to the liquor store. I couldn’t understand why I felt the need to protect his image.

On the other hand… maybe I did have a reason to. Maybe, in a weird, subconscious way, I felt like Konig and I were similar; somewhat loners, don’t really fit our surroundings, and being seen by others as too emotional, too responsive, or outright feral.

Or, maybe, I was just hoping we were similar enough, so I could at least feel like I belonged somewhere – like I finally had someone who could understand why I was the way I chose to be.

My thoughts were interrupted as Horangi, Roze, and Castillo walked into the arsenal.

“Anyone going out tonight?” Roze asked in a chipper tone. “I know today wasn’t any ‘Mission Impossible’ shit, but I think it deserves a celebration.”

“Drinks?” Juno asked. “Don’t we already do that every other night?”

“Uh-huh.” Roze answered, raising her eyebrows with a mocking expression. “Except we always do that inside. Tonight, let’s go out.”

Horangi scoffed, dumping another pile of guns onto the floor. “Let’s talk about that after we get through clean-up.” He handed the duffle bag full of magazines to Juno, who scowled as he took it. “There’s still a lot we need to get done before we can even think about going out.”

“How about a casino?” Roze asked, ignoring Horangi as she smiled mockingly.

He narrowed his eyes. “How about you go fuck yourself, how’s that?” he replied with an annoyed tone.

Roze only chuckled, moving around the table to help Juno put away the mags. “Easy, tiger. Just pulling your leg.”

I looked at Horangi, searching for the hidden meaning behind Roze’s comment. His gaze flickered to mine – he grunted and looked away, bending down to grab a gun and disassemble it.

“You coming out tonight?” Castillo asked me.

I paused – for a second, I had to remind myself that I was part of the team now, and that I shouldn’t be shocked when they ask me to spend time with them. “Maybe – I’m kind of ready to just wind down for today.” I answered truthfully. I rubbed the back of my neck. “To be honest, I’m dying to get a shower right now.”

Juno opened his mouth with a mischievous expression, as if he was about to say something snarky in response – Roze quickly shot him a glare, and instead he turned his head and snickered.

“That’s fine…” Castillo replied as she grabbed the cleaning solution. “Just let us know later if you want to join us. You’re always welcome.” She dropped herself onto a stool and began cleaning one of the guns from the pile. I mumbled a quick thank you and refocused on cleaning the gun in my hands.

“Actually, you can go ahead and go now.” Horangi said.

I faltered, looking at him with a confused expression. “What?”

‘What?!” Juno echoed. “Why does she get a pass from this shit?” He gestured to all of the guns in the room, including the duffle bag full of mags that he had started reloading.

“Because…” Horangi said, shooting an annoyed look at Juno, “she took on extra weight on the field today. She earned it.”

“Thank you, sir.” I said, quickly nodding my head in thanks. Wait, what rank is Horangi? Is he my superior?

Juno scoffed and turned his attention back to the mags. “Fucking coddled, I swear to god-“

“Do me a favor.” Horangi said in my direction as I left my half-cleaned gun on the table. “When you pass by Konig’s room, drop this off to him.” Horangi barely gave me enough notice before he tossed me Konig’s tablet. “Tell him he needs to finish his report before tomorrow’s debrief.” He took my spot on the stool as I moved towards the exit.

“Do you know where he is?” I asked.

“No.” Horangi chuckled, not bothering to look at me. “I’d say start with his room, though.”

I scowled before leaving them all in the arsenal. I quickly walked across the quad, inspecting Konig’s tablet as I did. The frame had a few dings here and there, but other than that, the screen was in pristine condition. On the back left corner of the frame was the letter “K”, haphazardly carved into the casing. It made me smile as I imagined Konig, seated at a table in the common area, bent over the tablet and carefully trying to carve his initial into it.

It seemed to wash away the frustration that Juno’s words had placed in me. It made him feel human – which is the only way anyone should have ever considered him, I thought.

As I walked, I debated asking Konig about what Juno had said; how he usually didn’t give new team members anything other than the cold shoulder, and why he seemed to be braking character for me. I didn’t want to impose, or even assume that I had any special treatment over anyone else. But, if Juno was telling the truth about Konig, I wanted to know why he was being abnormally kind to me. I wondered if he might feel the same way about me that I did about him – that we were both fit in with each other, in a place where we didn’t fit in with anything else.

I rounded the corner, mindlessly walking past the mess hall, Ridgeback’s office, and several of the dorms. I passed mine, nearly walking into it, until I remembered Konig’s tablet in my hand. I groaned and continued down the hall, promising myself a nice, hot shower as soon as I had completed the task at hand.

As I passed each door, I carefully scanned the nametags plastered to them. I managed to find Roze’s dorm, which was next to Fender’s. Eventually, I came across Castillo’s too. Several of the dorms were unnamed, probably vacant for other soldiers to use, both temporary and permanent. I thought back to the housing situation when I was a part of the 141 – we were lucky if we had a bed available when a new recruit came along. Most of the time, we would have to decide who would sleep on the floor to give up their bed for the rookie. From what I remembered, Soap usually had a “tough luck” attitude, and told the recruit they needed to earn their right to have a cot.

After a couple more minutes of searching, I found Konig’s dorm, two corridors away from mine. Directly under the tag on his door, there was another “K” carved into the metallic paint – nearly identical to the one on his tablet. It made me wonder what else he might have laid claim to.

I looked behind me; across the hall was Juno’s dorm. I laughed silently at the irony. I wonder if that was done on purpose when Juno was first recruited… I noticed that there were a few small dents in his door, and the knob looked like it was on its last line. The paint had started to peel off at the bottom of the door, and the bottom hinge was-

“Scheisse-“

My head whipped back around to Konig’s door. For a moment, I thought I had heard his voice. I thought it had sounded tense – maybe he was still pissed off from the mission. Even still, I had to second guess that I had even heard his voice at all.

I looked at the tablet in my hands. I should hurry up and return this to him so I can go shower… I thought to myself. I raised my hand to knock on-

“H-ha… hah… f-fuck…”

My heart nearly threw itself out of my ribcage and onto the floor.

I had heard it – he was muffled, but that didn’t stop my abdomen from instantly catching fire with arousal. I didn’t even remember when it had started, but I could already feel my walls dripping with my own slick. I pressed Konig’s tablet tight against my stomach as I tried to recover from the aftershocks – my hand was still hovering in front of his door, frozen in the air like a photograph. A very shameful photograph, with my eyes wider than ever and my face redder than the blood that stained my clothes.

Konig wasn’t angry.

He was horny.

To my own horror and embarrassment, I leaned forwards, turning my ear to the door with my knuckles still raised. I fought to hear Konig over the sound of the blood pounding in my ears. I faintly picked up on his quiet groans and curses, the space in between them filled with heavy breaths. The sound of something slick repetitively echoed through his room, permeating its way through the door and into my ears. My cunt clenched around nothing as I listened to him try and hold back his groans. My mind filled in the visual blanks, imagining Konig jerking his hand over his girthy, swollen cock.

“Mein Gott, mph... heilige Scheiße... verdammte Scheiße, ah-“

A violent shiver ran up my spine -

- making the tablet slip from my hands.

It clattered to the floor – the sound bounced off of the walls of the hallway, just as I noticed a large crack had formed on the screen. If my heart didn’t immediately shatter then, it definitely did when the tablet knocked against Konig’s door. And pushed it wide, fucking open.

For a brief, blissful moment that would be forever burned into my brain (seemingly by an angel itself), I didn’t have to imagine. I saw Konig sitting on the edge of his bed, partially leaning against the frame, his head tilted back under his mask. His eyes were (in that singular moment) screwed shut, with his mask lifted above his mouth as he bit onto his gloved, left hand. He had just moaned into his hand as he was pumping his cock – which I confirmed was, in fact, girthy and swollen, red and dripping with cum. His pants were pulled down just past his heavy balls – and god, did I see just how blessed Konig had been, with what was definitely the largest and thickest dick I had ever seen.

But the euphoric scene, that seemed to have lasted forever, shattered the moment that Konig looked at me. His eyes widened in panic within the very next millisecond.

In that same moment, I felt like I had been shot in the chest with a bullet made of shame. Additionally, all of the stealth that had earned me my rank seemed to vanish into thin air. I turned on my heel and attempted to run – the very first step I took fell onto Konig’s tablet, launching it behind me and down the hallway until it hit the wall with a bang.

“FUCK!” I yelled loudly, taking off down the hall. Apparently, my training didn’t work when it was applied to me perversely creeping on my superior.

I didn’t even turn to see if the tablet had shattered even more – I just sprinted back down the corridor, my heart still racing and adrenaline flooding my veins. I nearly collided into the wall as I rounded the corner. My boots pounded against the floor as my dorm came into view, and I swear I had never run faster than I was currently sprinting. I almost knocked my door down pushing it open, and I slammed it behind me, fumbling with the lock until it clicked.

I pressed my back to the door, gripping the edges of the frame and trying to catch my breath. The picture was still freshly etched into my memory, and I couldn’t stop picturing it. Except now, it was as mortifying as it was arousing. I buried my face into my hands and groaned as the scene replayed over and over, making my stomach simultaneously flip and sink.

You fucking idiot. You stupid, goddamn pervert. You absolute filthy, disgusting, shameless-

I heard the echo of footsteps down the hall. Heavy, quick footsteps, getting closer and closer by the second.

My brain went into overdrive – I didn’t even know if it was Konig’s footsteps, but at the moment that was not a risk I wanted to take. I quickly began peeling my clothes off; my heart pounded in my chest as I kicked off my shoes and yanked my shirt over my head. I ripped off my belt and tossed it somewhere in the room, hopping towards the bathroom as I tugged off my pants and underwear. I finally tore off my bra and tossed it with the rest of the clothes, which led a straight trail to my bathroom.

I hurriedly yanked the shower handle, turning the water on, before slamming the bathroom door shut. I panted as I listened closely for the footsteps; they were thankfully drowned out by the shower. Hopefully, whoever had been walking up to my door had heard the shower and would leave.

I looked at myself in the mirror’s reflection: my nipples were hard and perky, and my entire lower half was soaked in my own juices. I was still panting, although whether it was from the arousal or the adrenaline, I didn’t know. I ran a hand down my face as the reality of the situation hit me.

Konig, my fucking colonel, and probably my closest (if not only) friend, had just caught me watching him jerk off.

Oh my god. Oh my fucking god. Am I gonna be discharged? He’s gonna kill me. I’m fucking dead. He’s never going to speak to me again. What the fuck. How the fuck do I fix this?!

Suddenly, I heard a sharp knock on my door.

My heart stopped. I ripped the shower curtain back and threw myself into the small corner. I let the water drench my hair before I hurriedly slathered a much-too-generous amount of shampoo onto my head. I need to look like I’ve been showering… I thought, hoping that maybe I could make it seem like I wasn’t the one who had seen Konig.

But then, I remembered the look on his face when he had caught me standing outside his door, ogling at his cum-covered cock. Yeah, right…

I remained frozen under the water, listening closely for a second knock. But, thankfully, it never came. I prayed that it had just been Castillo, coming to ask if I had decided to go out tonight. But, with my luck, it was probably Konig.

I scowled at myself, aggressively lathering the shampoo into my hair. I scrubbed my scalp as I tried to burn the entire situation from my memory. Each second that passed only filled me with more dread and shame. I didn’t want my friendship with Konig to vanish just because of one, stupid encounter – that, honestly, was just an accident. One that could have been avoided, yes, but an accident, nonetheless.

The suds from the shampoo spilled from the top of my head and ran down into my eyes. I squeezed them shut, but the soap still found its way past my eyelids. They burned painfully, making tears form in my eyes. I dropped my head under the water and let my hands fall to my sides, sighing defeatedly.

Maybe I deserve this.

I definitely deserve this.

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Now, watching you walk out so enamored with this man, his blood began to boil. You had complained to him all week about this date, cutting your nap time short every day, and he’d skipped it entirely today to wait outside for you. Pushing himself off the wall, the demon started following behind you, leaving a fair amount of distance in between you so he wouldn’t cause suspicion.

When he realized you two were on your way to the Fall, Belphie held back a hiss and dipped into an alleyway, slinking through the narrow space between the buildings. There was no way he was letting you go clubbing with him. Not without, at least, speaking to you first. He needed you to know something before you considered bringing this lesser demon back to your bedroom. 

He moved quickly but quietly, his footsteps as light as a feather. That’s why you didn’t hear him when he approached from the side, his hand wrapping around your wrist and yanking you into the alley. Before you could scream for help, he moved his hand up to cover your mouth, pulling you back through the passageway and into a discreet and dark corner. 

You squirmed in his grasp, fighting against the perpetrator until he whispered one word in your ear. “Quit.” It was barely audible but you recognized the voice as Belphie’s, your eyes widening in shock. What was he doing here?

As you stopped struggling, your eyes peered up into his violet ones, immediately noticing that he was angry. You were about to ask him what was wrong when he pushed you against the side of the building, his lips capturing yours in a heated kiss. You let out a muffled squeal, but your mouth parted a couple seconds later, allowing his tongue entrance. 

He’d never kissed you before, never hinted that he’d had more than platonic feelings for you. Belphie liked to cuddle with you, but you’d assumed he liked cuddling with everyone. Well, except Luke. But, this made his emotions evident, his hands gripping your hips while his grinded forward into them. 

There was a part of you screaming at you to stop. You were in public on a date with another man. But, you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away, especially after you felt your panties start to dampen from your excitement. You’d always thought Belphie was attractive, and, just like him, you’d kept that information to yourself.

The kiss ended too soon, the demon’s lips moving to your neck, sucking at the tender skin in the crook of your neck. You were already panting, speaking in a hushed tone. “What are you d-doing here?”

Instead of answering, he bit down harshly before his warm tongue was lapping against the wound. It hadn’t been enough to pierce skin, but it had was enough to sting, your teeth gritting together as a whimper fell from your lips. “Belphie..”

“I followed you.” His voice came out as a growl, drawing away so he could flip you around, bringing his hips flush with your backside. You could feel his hardened member poking into your ass. “You smell like him.” He said it as if it disgusted him, and to some degree, it did. You should smell like him. And you would after he was done with you. Overwhelmingly so.

Keeping you pressed against the wall, all you could do was stand there as his hand tugged your dress up, rubbing his hand over your bare ass and groping it roughly. He couldn’t see it but your cheeks were flushed. “I’m sorry..?” You weren’t sure how to react, but you weren’t protesting. 

“No you’re not.” He snapped, yanking your panties to the side and rubbing his fingers between your folds, another growl sounding when he felt how wet you were for him. “Did he excite you this much?”

Your hips wiggled, but you were still pinned, the motions causing his fingers to add friction against your warmth. “No..” You didn’t want to admit that it was because of him, however, you couldn’t let him go on thinking it was because of your date. This was his doing. “I.. You did...”

Belphie made a sound that was akin to a purr, reaching forward to rub circles into your clit while his other started unzipping his pants. “Yeah? Were you thinking about me while you were on your date?” His chest was filled with pride from your admission, his cock throbbing as it was finally freed from his boxers.

While he wasn’t as big as his twin, the demon was still hung like the rest of his brothers, slipping two fingers into your slit to begin pumping and stretching you out for him. Your back arched back into his chest, a gasp falling from your lips. “The entire time..” Your voice was breathy, heart rate increasing with each thrust of his fingers.

You tried your best to keep quiet, not wanting to attract any attention to the two of you. You’d be mortified if anyone saw him fingering you in the alleyway, but that only added to the thrill. Anyone could walk by and see them, including your date who was probably looking for you at this very moment.

Curling his fingers, Belphie pulled his hand away whenever he felt you begin clenching around him. “Don’t you dare fucking cum yet.” His hand went to rub his head up and down your core, slickening it before bringing his hips back and then sinking inside of you. 

With your cheek pressed against the side of the building, your head immediately scrambled from pleasure. His pace started out as quick thrusts, only pulling back a couple of inches to snap his hips forward. You couldn’t hold back your moans, your mewls echoing off the walls around you. “Ahh.. Please, I’m too loud..”

“Not my problem.” He retorted, one hand bracing himself against the alleyway. His other held your hips in a death grip, using the leverage to bury himself deeper each time he lurched forward. “Better keep quiet or else that date of yours will hear your pretty little sounds and know exactly where you are. You want him to find you being fucked by another demon?”

You could feel a warm sensation begin building in your abdomen, your eyes fluttering as your head lolled back to lie against his shoulder. He felt blissful inside of you, his cock brushing along all of the spots that made you quiver. This isn’t how you’d expected your first time with Belphie to be, but it was perfect in its own way. His jealousy revealing his true feelings for you. 

“I don’t c-care about him..” You whined out. “I want you.” Sure, you’d been having a good time on your date, but this was what you truly wanted. You wanted Belphie - all of him and nothing less. 

It was a good thing you had the wall to support you because your legs felt like they were going to give out at any moment now, blurred vision trying to focus on the night sky above you instead of the creeping sensation of your climax.

"You're mine." It came out as a grunt, the demon getting closer and closer to his own orgasm as your walls squeezed around him in pulses. "Got it? You belong to me." With his chest flush with your back, his scent was now covering your body. And, soon, it would fill it too.

You nodded your head as best you could, attempting to answer him out loud but into dissolved into a choked sob, your back arching and toes curling in your high heels. "Belphie!" His name left your mouth without any hesitation, all of your reservations gone from his assault on your body.