In which the doctor is not happy with his wife ignoring him and not giving him the attention he wants
Disclaimer:
Welcome to The Doctor's Wife Diaries.
A bunch of one shots exploring the chilling evolution of Dottore’s marriage to his most intimate subject — you. To fully understand the psychological depths, power dynamics, and tragic arc of this union, start with the first entry: the [Yandere Profile].
This was one of those rare days when Zandik returned home utterly spent—not from mere hours, but from days of ceaseless, relentless labor. He had been caught in a whirlwind of uninterrupted work, and as it finally ended, a profound exhaustion settled into his bones, his body achingly aware of the immense burden it had borne.
The clock had long since passed ten in the evening. The lights of Snezhnaya glowed dimly, yet they held a striking allure, enhancing the white snow that cloaked the earth with a clean, shimmering brilliance.
Today, however, he returned home alone. His wife—his right hand—had finished her work earlier and, without seeking permission, had left the premises, stating she wished to retire early to be ready for an early start tomorrow.
What a creature of routine, Zandik thought.
Yet, it was precisely this quality he cherished about her—the very trait that fed his obsession, which he termed love, making it grow ever more consuming.
Nevertheless, he preferred it when she yielded to his commands and whims rather than clinging so rigidly to her own carefully structured schedule. Dottore himself was a man who despised wasted time—perhaps the thing he hated most, second only to those who possessed even a fraction less knowledge than he, as he hardly believed anyone could truly challenge him.
Still, he did not mind if cracks and fissures appeared in those schedules—especially if the disruption involved him.
Among the things Zandik secretly cherished, though he would never admit it aloud, was walking beside his wife in perfect stride. They would not hold hands; instead, he left a small space between his torso and arm—just enough for her hand to slip in and rest lightly, or he would place his hand gently against the small of her back, guiding her along with him.
If he had to choose, that was his favorite part of the day.
But sadly, today he was deprived of even that simple pleasure. Instead of waiting for him to finish so they could return together, his wife had chosen to leave under the escort of a random Fatui guard assigned to watch the laboratory.
He could have stopped her, but then he thought twice.
Did she not work tirelessly all the time? Did she not deserve some rest?
Though she sometimes appeared weary, she always executed her duties flawlessly—not to mention the endless meetings with investors, one of them being Pantalone, whose encounters with her had become as routine as drinking water.
So instead of picturing the two of them walking home together, discussing the day’s latest developments and tomorrow’s possibilities, he envisioned himself entering their bedroom to find her asleep in their bed, unconscious of her surroundings, her hair cascading over her back with a few stray strands resting upon her face.
He would brush them aside after removing his gloves, touching her with his cold fingers. A faint tremor would course through her body at his touch, but she would remain deep in slumber, undisturbed.
After minutes of studying her face, he would slip into bed beside her, drawing her close to feel her warmth against his cold frame, her calm, slow breaths synchronized with the steady, perfect rhythm of her rising and falling chest.
That vision was a meticulously arranged, flawless masterpiece.
Dottore possessed the habit of envisioning the future before it happened—always knowing, or at least dictating, what would—or what he wanted—to occur next.
And all he desired now was to return home and witness that very scene before him. It would be enough to soothe his wounded pride.
But what he saw instead was merely a cold, empty bed, the covers still neatly arranged from the last time a house servant had made it before their departure.
It was easy to deduce where she was now.
All he did was descend the long staircase, his footsteps ringing loudly in the space. The chill of the place and its gloomy, nocturnal atmosphere—dominated by shades of blue and black, the dark blue tiles like a starless night sky—engulfed him.
And then he saw her.
Lost in another world entirely before the fireplace, seated in a comfortable chair, dressed in relaxed attire—nothing but a sheer nightgown, delicate at the edges. In her hand was a book she was nearly finished reading.
He stepped forward, and with each step, he waited for the moment she would lift her head and look at him. But it never came. In truth, Zandik felt a surge of profound irritation at the situation.
He loathed being ignored in general—so what would it feel like when his beloved wife, whom he valued above anyone else, did so?
It wounded his pride, which he had only just begun to reclaim moments before, though he knew she hadn’t intended it.
A woman of such high principles and refined manners would never stoop to something as petty as deliberate disregard.
Yet his mind refused to accept this truth, and the obsessive compulsion he harbored toward her began sending deliberate signals, making him consider the worst.
“I see you’re captivated,” he said in his usual voice—loud and clear, but something was missing. The smile he always wore like his mask had slowly faded, and his dark crimson eyes settled upon her. She closed the book with a soft tap and placed it on the table before the fireplace, the flames reflecting in her brown eyes, making them appear almost orange.
“Welcome home, Zandik,” she replied calmly, though his sudden words had startled her—she hadn’t sensed his presence in the room at all.
Dottore always moved like a ghost—with slow, measured steps—yet she had never once failed to notice him.
Dottore knew this, too. That’s what made him wonder.
What could that book possibly contain to make her so absorbed that she doesn’t even acknowledge my presence… me, the Second Fatui Harbinger? No—her husband?
“I wonder what’s in that book. I’ve never seen you in such a state of flow before,” he said, placing his hands behind his back as he advanced further toward her. She, still seated, had been about to rise but found herself unable under his gaze—not out of fear, but because her body had expended all its energy trying to comprehend the phenomenon before her. “And at this hour?”
She always retired early. If she ever stayed up late, it was usually for work—reasons directly related to him.
“It seems I lost track of time,” she said, rising quickly from her chair, clutching the book by its edges. “I’ll go upstairs to retire. You may join me afterward.” She moved to pass him simply, but then she felt a powerful force pull her back.
It was his hand, still sheathed in the leather gloves he always wore, gripping her arm firmly, preventing her from leaving—and from escaping the answers he now demanded.
She paused, looking ahead calmly for a few seconds before slowly turning her eyes to meet his face, which remained fixed in an expression of dissatisfaction—or perhaps one entirely devoid of emotion. “I haven’t finished speaking. You know very well I hate being interrupted… my dear.”
“Zandik,” she said his name under her breath with extreme quiet, trying to conceal the mild reproach, hoping he would release her and let her go. But we are speaking of a man as stubborn as Dottore—a man who repeated experiments hundreds of times despite their failures. Did she really think he would let her go and abandon feeding his curiosity?
Certainly not. She knew better than anyone that he was difficult to handle.
If he weren’t, they wouldn’t be sharing a bed tonight.
But then he turned his head toward her, his eyes unnervingly calm, and slowly extended his hand, palm open, waiting for something to be placed in the empty space of his gloved palm.
When he noticed her eyes had registered the simple gesture, he lowered the hand that gripped her arm, knowing the matter was already decided.
“The book.”
She had always appeared composed, but now her eyes seemed slightly troubled as she thought of nothing—for thinking of an excuse to avoid giving him the book was the same as thinking of giving it to him.
So she surrendered, swallowing slowly before handing him the book and looking away, unable to watch as his gloved hands inspected something that belonged to her.
“Hmm…” His gloved fingers brushed lightly over the book’s rough cover, examining its texture, reading its title, searching for something with those sharp eyes while his brows furrowed slightly. It was the expression he wore when he spotted a flaw in a system he’d worked on for hours. Then a smile touched his lips. “If my memory serves me, I don’t recall purchasing a book of this kind for you… Isn’t that right, my dear?”
She remained silent for a moment, feeling his eyes on her, before looking at him. “Yes, you’re correct. But I’m still capable of acquiring a book on my own if it catches my interest…”
“Oh, my dear, who are we fooling?”
Her pupils dilated noticeably as she stared at him without pause, his smile having vanished entirely.
“The History of Fontaine? Really, how random can a woman like you be?”
“....you know I don’t have specific preferences in books. I read whatever catches my eye,” she replied, a subtle sharpness edging her voice.
“I know. But not all of them can keep you awake at this hour.”
In truth, the book itself was not the issue for Zandik—it was merely a trivial pretext. What truly consumed him was her attention, which he compulsively believed belonged to him alone.
She was aware of this, but would she confront him with it? Certainly not.
She did not wish to consider the outcome of challenging a narcissist like him.
“Zandik, please stop,” she said quietly, her voice carrying a trace of weariness. She was tired of this recurring scenario—Zandik creating a problem out of something as trivial as a book that had, moments ago, been resting between her fingers.
“Stop?” he said with disbelief. He found it curious—this hesitation in the frozen home that had not warmed since the moment they had stepped into it together. At least, that was how it felt to her. For Dottore, who had spent all these years alone, laboring to engineer his own kingdom of science, finding a woman who had stolen his breath and his mind was like a difficult, yet realized, dream.
In truth, Dottore was an independent man. He preferred commands over discussions, revered intellect and logic over love and sentiment.
But she was a special case. He could not resist.
For she had granted him this perfect life he had never dreamed of—simply because he had never imagined someone like her could exist at all. Perhaps living all these long years in Teyvat had been worth it.
Infinite resources upon which to conduct experiments without fear of waste or extravagance, thanks to the support of Tsaritsa and Pantalone for his endless research… and a wife who could see the same horizon he envisioned.
The same wife who now sought immersion in another world—a world separate from the one they shared.
“I am merely inspecting,” he continued, studying the tense expressions on her face that she tried to mask with a veneer of calm. A sidelong smile curled his lips, making her feel distinctly uneasy.
“Don’t worry, my dear… you may go and relax. As for me, I will take this book and examine it,” he replied simply, his tone returning to its usual cadence, no longer as stern as before. “After all, if something captivates my wife, it must captivate me as well.”
A lie. He would take it and never return it to her.
Feeling a bitter taste in her mouth, she decided to keep her retort under her tongue after biting the inside of her cheek lightly. If the problem was merely the book, she might have allowed him to do as he pleased.
What made the situation harsh and controlling was that the real issue was her attention, and Dottore was now acting like a spoiled, stubborn child—a combination impossible to deter.
So instead of arguing, she let him press a kiss to her forehead, wishing her a good night, before he turned toward his study where he would spend only a few minutes examining the book—ensuring it would disappear, never to be seen by her again.
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a/n : This is my first time writing a fic. The recent archon quest made me inspired, so I hope you enjoy this !! I hope you guys like it !! This is just the prologue, and I lowkenuinely have no clue what I'm writing.
──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ──── ୨୧
. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁.
For whom I eternally cherish and adore,
May my heart always find its way back.
To you.
— Zandik.
⊹₊⟡⋆
“I want you to come with me. To come with me to Sneznaya.” Zandik said, grasping your hands reverently, as though he was scared to dirty your hands.
“But—”
“If you come with me, you won’t be alone anymore. I vow from this day forward that we’ll be together eternally.” He stated quickly, staring at your eyes in reassurance.
You could feel his face begging you to agree with him. come with me…come…
You pursed your lips to think for a moment – you who have been alone for so long, so, so long. You who had lost family and friends.
Will it be different this time?
“Eternally – but that’s impossible; you’re just a mortal, Zandik.”
You attempted to pull your hands out of his grasp, but he still held onto you tightly, but not enough to squeeze hard.
“I’m a scientist, alchemist, and scholar. I do unethical experiments that break the laws of Teyvat. Please, come with me, I beg of you.”
“But what if it doesn’t succeed, what you’re implying?” You spoke.
“If you can achieve immortality, I can too; you made the impossible possible. So please, cease your questions, and accept me – come with me.”
You hesitated; your way of achieving such a thing differs from what Zandik is trying to do – you were cursed by it. He doesn’t know that you are.
Should you trust him?
You closed your eyes shut in an attempt to think carefully.
Zandik is offering you something no one has ever offered you. But what if he’s just saying that – it would just be a cruel joke to you.
…
There is an emotion that humans often grasp onto in moments of time, an emotion that all are familiar with.
Hope.
…
You opened your eyes again, coming face to face with his red eyes. You bit your lip before slowly nodding.
“Yes...yes...I’ll come with you.” You spoke softly.
In that moment of silence after you spoke those words, you heard a sigh of relief as he kissed your knuckles one by one.
Warning: obsession/possession/yandere themes/forced marriage/ blood / violence/ manipulation/ dottore alone is a warning ...etc
Character Analysis:
_Genius _
Even during his academic years at the Sumeru Academy, Dottore was, unequivocally, a genius. From his research to his experiments, everything was extraordinary, particularly because it came from someone of his disposition.
His work was distinct, not in its perfection, not in its creativity, nor in its application, but in its very foundational principle. Dottore was not merely a researcher; he was a savant who leveraged the knowledge acquired over his years of study and his preternatural intelligence in his practical experiments—experiments he claimed were for the benefit of people, or at least, that was the facade he wished to project.
Dottore is an egoist, a man of profound self-absorption. He acts solely for his own benefit, his desires and objectives. He is blinded by them. The extent of the brutality he would employ, the boundaries he would transgress—none of it matters. If it accomplishes what is in his mind, that is more than sufficient. No other reason is necessary. If he desires it, he executes it. The equation is simple.
And for this very reason, he sees no issue in using people as live test subjects. Be they women or children, it is irrelevant. As long as they possess an adequate number of organs and bones, that is enough. You are more than welcome to be experimented upon... so long as you are alive.
Actually, no—you don't need to be alive. That isn't an essential condition. If you are unqualified for his specialized experiments, he can still repurpose your body. He requires organs and samples more than anyone else; he is prepared to drain the last drop of blood from you, for all of it is useful to him. He will utilize it at a later time.
Consequently, he perpetually maintained a certain reputation in Sumeru: murder, medical negligence, human trafficking, and a litany of other charges levied against him over the years, all due to his unscrupulous methods. Dottore is a man who believes the ends justify the means. It's not as if he cared for the rumors that once swarmed around him like flies. The situation only deteriorated when he joined the Fatui after being expelled from the Academy, once the final straw had broken the camel's back.
Exiled from his homeland, Sumeru, he was once known as "zandik" wich means "heretic"One might have thought this severe punishment would curb his extremism. But life enjoys mocking us; it always gives opportunities to the wrong people. Instead of being forever ostracized along with his experiments, Pierro extended a hand and invited him to join the Fatui Harbingers—a place bound by no rules but its own.
All the lower-ranking Fatui were now under his dominion. Instead of waiting months for a desired sample after extensive searching, he now had hundreds of Fatui soldiers, all dedicated to fulfilling his commands. Now, he was the one seated atop the pyramid. He was the one who gave orders, who judged, who could expel or even execute on a whim. Not that he hadn't done so before.
Dottore is not merely intelligent in a bookish way, or like one obsessed with his experiments. He is something far more. He is terrifyingly perceptive, reading people like open books. From a single glance, he discerns their intentions towards him, their competence, their strength. It is a skill born of vast experience. He has encountered all manner of people in his life, and moreover, has performed myriad experiments on them. He has analyzed and stripped them of all secrets; he understands their body language and psychology better than anything else.
This is why he is so adept at persuasion. Or, to be more precise, he excels at cornering them, presenting them with a *fait accompli*. He knows when to speak, when to interject, when to agree or contradict, when to fall silent and listen. And finally, he knows the precise moment to strike—the moment he lays out his terms and leaves you to decide. And believe me, it is impossible to refuse. After all, you wouldn't want to lose a family member, a loved one, your consciousness, or your body, would you? You certainly wouldn't want to drag yourself into another ordeal with him, or pull innocent people down with you because of your actions. You would live most of your life burdened by a guilt that weighs heavily on your soul.
He pushes you back, slowly and cautiously, so imperceptibly that you don't even feel yourself approaching the precipice. And the moment your balance wavers, he seizes it. Now, it is not fate that decides your destiny, but him. Whether you will step back or plummet into the abyssal depths of oblivion... all of it depends on your answer and, of course, whether it satisfies him.
He is one of the few Harbingers who avoids direct confrontation with his enemies, a testament to his intelligence and sagacity. He is an ambitious man, wholly devoted to his research and experiments, and he despises wasting his precious time, being one of the busiest Harbingers.
_Arrogant_
Dottore would not be Dottore without his excessive self-importance. He is blind when it comes to his own knowledge and experiments; it is impossible for *him* to be wrong—he is the very embodiment of perfection. You will always find him speaking with immense confidence about himself, often beginning his sentences with the word "I." He is simply that arrogant.
He believes himself superior to others, which is perhaps precisely why he is indifferent to their opinions. He is acutely aware of the rumors circulating about him, his tarnished reputation. Even other Fatui harbor a degree of animosity towards him. Not that a bond of love and brotherhood united them in the first place. All the Fatui have their own agendas; what binds them is merely the name "Fatui," nothing more, nothing less. They all serve the Cryo Archon, the Tsaritsa, yet they all hold vastly different perspectives. Every Fatui harbors a measure of malice; none can be considered innocent. But when they all unanimously agree on despising the same person, you know things are profoundly dire. He exists on another level of cunning and deceit entirely.
He is someone who enjoys commanding those around him, rather than heeding their orders. He becomes quickly irritated when someone fails a task he assigned; typically, he will dispose of them swiftly, making the other pay for their mistake with their life. "Most people who have dealt with him have met a grim end in the end."
He possesses an imperious aura about him, evident in his manner of speech, his diction, the way he carries himself, and his expressive body language. Like many scholars of his ilk, he possesses a certain hubris. He is also an profoundly selfish individual, a man who sees only his goals ahead. He does not care how many boundaries he oversteps; those boundaries were not drawn for him. The magnitude of suffering people may endure, the psychological and physical torment they will live through—it holds no weight. When he sees the final result and is satisfied with it, that is all that matters. For he is an exceedingly patient man... *exceedingly* patient when it concerns his research and his schemes.
His Relationships with People:
Dottore can only perceive people as specimens for experimentation. He doesn't even bother to learn their names. However, if a "runaway specimen" were to cross his path one day, he would recognize it instantly, without a doubt. After all, he possesses a penetrating and acute gaze. Deceiving him is not so easy.
And if you happened to be his assistant, whether in the laboratory or accompanying him on missions in Teyvat, it is highly advisable to be a useful person and not obstruct the progression of his plans. For if it happens that he sees you as offering no further benefit to him... don't worry. He will ensure you become *extremely* useful to him. But you will have to accompany him to his laboratory first.
Although he views people as beings beneath him, he does not mind engaging in discourse with someone who is at least somewhat close to his level of intellect—since it is impossible for anyone to match his intelligence. As he did with Nahida, for instance. Although she considers him an enemy, he acknowledged her and told her that he respects her wisdom and knowledge. Thus, he holds at least a bias towards intelligent people, even if they are not his subordinates. He is more than willing to engage in a debate with someone on a scientific topic, especially if it is something that occupies his mind.
A Common Misconception about Dottore:
_Sadism_
Many people portray him as a sadist who revels in the pain experienced by his test subjects. While he sometimes does this, particularly if the person is an enemy towards whom he bears a grudge—he doesn't mind mocking them with his sinister smile as they perish, uttering their last breaths—he does not see pain as a source of pleasure, at least not for himself. In truth, he views pain as a secondary byproduct of his experiments. It is not something he can be bothered to control; he simply conducts these experiments to validate his hypotheses, not because he enjoys the sound of moaning and crying, or even the sight of blood, which has become as mundane to him as drinking water after all these years in his own peculiar world.
Reader profile :
_Intelligent_
The first time you introduced yourself, he did not expect much from you. Most of the researchers working under him were former students of the Sumeru Academy, the only place that met his exacting standards for selecting staff. And you were not one of them. But he needed employees nonetheless—at least until he could find more competent ones.
However, as the days passed, he noticed that you were the least troublesome among all his employees. He is a man of volatile moods, at least within his laboratory. Hearing him reprimand other staff was a near-daily occurrence when he was in Snezhnaya. You observed this from your very first day working there. Everyone would be focused on their work, perhaps occasionally speaking amongst themselves to pass the time. But the moment they heard the sound of his footsteps approaching to monitor their progress, a deathly silence would fall over the place.
He would pass by each of you, one after the other. Although he conceals half his face behind a mask, you could feel his sharp, penetrating eyes scrutinizing everyone present.
"Your hand is trembling far too much... If you continue like this, the sample will spill before it reaches the beaker...."
"I am profoundly disappointed. A week has already passed, and yet you remain incapable of completing a simple dissection like this... To what degree can a person's incompetence reach? What a pity...."
You would hear that condescending, arrogant tone every time he visited the laboratory where you were stationed. You had never once heard him praise anything. Then, the sound of his footsteps would draw closer and closer to you before stopping. You would continue your work with steady hands, even as your heart pounded violently within your chest.
"Now, what do I see here...?"
Hearing his voice, you froze in place. Your hands, which had been holding the scalpel, stopped moving. Silence permeated the room, and you heard his footsteps behind you as your heartbeat began to race madly. This was the first time he had spoken to you since you began working there.
"If memory serves me... this is not the specimen I instructed you to experiment on."
His voice was cold, sharp, as if he were on the verge of losing his temper.
You turned your head slowly towards him, looking at him calmly. "I concluded the experiments on that specimen yesterday, Sir. I was going to inform you of the results today." You picked up the file to hand it to him, extending your arm in his direction.
Silence....
He stood there for a moment, looking at you. Then, he snatched the file from your hand, turned around, and left without uttering another word. After the sound of his footsteps faded and he had departed, you placed your hand over your heavily beating heart. Everything is fine... No need to worry.
Dottore hated to admit it... he hadn't expected much from you initially, but you had proven otherwise. The meticulous way you completed your work, your precision in writing and observation, your thirst for learning more—all these things were captivating to him.
_Composure_
One of the few things Dottore is grateful for is silence. He is a scholar who constantly requires it; without it, he cannot focus. He despises idle chatter; all that matters to him is seeing results.
He finds your composure admirable. He appreciates how you act with quiet deliberation when a problem arises in the laboratory—a spilled beaker, lost important papers. When your colleagues fail and panic, you do not become agitated or resort to reprimands and shouting. Instead, you seek solutions. You were the complete opposite of him. He was not the loud type, but he would never tolerate failures. A single mistake, and he would dispose of you. The rule was simple. Yet, you possessed the audacity to remain calm in those situations.
This made Dottore feel inferior to you.
It made him feel vulnerable. How could someone like him, so easily controlled by his emotions, be contrasted with your unshakable poise? And this, despite him being the Second Fatui Harbinger.
But wait...
Perhaps it was because those failures didn't concern you, but him. That was a logical reason.
He would test your patience again and again. He would order someone to discard the fruits of your labor or hide them, watching you search for them in desperation, just to see the contours of your face transform from serene to furious. All of this, just so he wouldn't feel mundane in your presence.
But it never happened. He continued trying and waiting, over and over, until he grew weary... but the sight of you losing your composure never materialized.
_Seriousness_
Dottore is a man who scorns emotions and sentiment, especially in a field like his. He possesses not an ounce of empathy for his staff, regardless of their circumstances. He detests excuses; all that concerns him are the results, of course—the ones that satisfy him and meet his exacting standards. Otherwise, you will meet an ignominious end like the others.
However much he tries to deny it, Dottore found himself fascinated by you, or more precisely, by the way you expressed your feelings—which was by not expressing them at all, at least during work. It was exceedingly rare to see you smile or converse with a colleague unless they initiated. This led Dottore to commend your devotion to your work; he, too, believes the laboratory is a sanctified place, a space where you devote yourself solely to work.
Furthermore, he admired the way you maintained your equanimity and refused to react impulsively. On the contrary, you always seemed to set your feelings aside and strive to complete your work with the best possible outcomes—the ones that pleased him, the ones he would be satisfied to see before his eyes.
Even when you were sick and exhausted and failed to finish your work on time, he would ask for the reason, though he knew it perfectly well—oh yes, better than anyone, as he is a doctor, after all. But you would always tell him that the fault was your own, that your carelessness led to this result.
Dottore could not have been more pleased in that moment. As a person who hates excuses and pretexts, and as one who cares only for the final result, you had done the most rational thing possible. As stated before, Dottore has no room for excuses, but if you had offered one, you would have been a dead woman. He would have disposed of you without a second thought, and that would have been your fate.
Had you done the opposite, had you blamed circumstances instead of taking responsibility, Dottore would have considered the possibility that this was a mere manipulation on your part to escape his grasp—which it was. And while he pondered ways to expose your ruse, he found none. In fact, the very idea excited him. What kind of gambit would you attempt next?
_Understanding and Complicit_
Soon, Dottore began to trust you immensely. The two of you were aligned in many ways; one could say you were a good duo when it came to work... at least from his perspective. Dottore would come to see you as a trustworthy individual. After all, he had tested your loyalty more than once, and what could he say? You had never failed his expectations. He was thoroughly satisfied with your performance.
This brought a sinister smile to his face.
Finally, someone worthy.
Someone worthy of sharing his secret experiments with , the ones he rarely let anyone hover near, reserved only for those he found intriguing and the most skilled among his staff. But he would reveal this gradually, of course. After all, he didn't want to frighten you, did he?
And when he did, he would be elated, especially since you never voiced opposition to his inhuman experiments. You would see those specimens desperately trying to escape, striving to flee that hellish pit. But what could their injured, exhausted bodies do? They could barely breathe regularly, let alone escape the grasp of the Second Fatui Harbinger, Dottore.
But what could you do?
You didn't even possess the courage to express your opinion honestly and tell him that what he was doing was unethical and monstrous. Some might call this cowardice, but you considered it intelligence. Yet, do you consider yourself guilty?
Absolutely yes. However numerous your reasons, you remain a selfish human who chose the safe path to tread. And no matter what, you will still be responsible for what happens, even if you are not the one performing these experiments.
If the day ever comes when this filthy laboratory beneath Snezhnaya's snowy soil is destroyed, you would be more than willing to die buried under its rubble, alongside him and the past you are not proud of in the least. But as the sole provider for your family, you are prepared for that.
As long as you are alive, you will do your utmost in your work. After all, if you become the guilty one, it means your brother won't have to walk the sordid path you walk now. The vision of him and your mother under the roof of a warm home, the gentle smiles on their faces as they open the gifts you brought them—all of that was enough for you.
Even though all you saw before you were bloodstained hands... *your* hands. But this was better than seeing your mother's worried face and your brother committing the foulest of crimes just to earn his daily bread.
You know that no matter how much you try to extricate yourself from this laboratory, things will not end as you wish. Not when you see your superior daily, often accompanying him during those experiments, and perhaps even assisting him. All while avoiding looking into the eyes of those poor wretches, not while they gaze at you in despair—those weak, tearful eyes, their bodies emaciated and frail, some on the verge of death. Soon, they will become mere waste to be incinerated. They won't even receive a funeral to bid farewell to their poor, broken souls.
"You are slacking."
You jumped from your seat upon hearing his voice behind you. Turning, you found him advancing towards you with slow, deliberate steps. You lowered your eyes to the floor to apologize in a quiet voice. "Forgive me, Lord Dottore... This was careless of me."
Silence.
The silence was lethal. Then, he stepped closer, placing his hands behind his back and bending down to your level, as you were still seated. "I must admit, I thought the same, as such behavior is uncharacteristic of you."
You felt his breath close, the chill of his words. It made you feel intensely nervous, as the atmosphere grew thick and vile. Then, your eyes fell upon his hand, which had emerged slightly from behind his back. The same hand that had shattered a joint mere hours ago in the operating room. The same hand he now raised slowly and placed on your shoulder, his gloved fingers touching you in a way that made you feel a sickening twist in your stomach.
"Nevertheless, I can only think one thing about you...."
Slowly, you raised your head from the floor to look at him. His face was obscured by his beak-like mask, but you could see his sidelong smile clearly. You remained in that position for a moment, the pressure in the room increasing more and more until...
He removed his hand and straightened up, walking behind you towards the window. It was late in the evening; the snow was falling in a slow pattern, something that made you want to watch it for the rest of the night. The moonlight reflected on his mask as he said, "Is it possible that you feel any sympathy towards them?"
You exhaled slowly through your nose. "Who do you mean by 'them'?" you said in a quiet voice, unable to completely hide the sorrow in your tone. Dottore could easily sense it, distinguishing it from your usual neutral cadence.
"The specimens," he said, turning his head to look at you—you, who were staring into space, utterly lost. How had things come to this?
"I would be lying if I said I did not... but is it truly important to you, Sir?... Whether I pity them or consider them mere soulless, feelingless objects..."
Dottore's smile gradually faded as he listened to you with utmost attention. Your eyes finally met his, and your gaze held a tremendous amount of anguish and desolation.
"...These are merely feelings I share with myself internally, nothing more, nothing less."
You rose from your seat, the chair making a faint sound. Your eyes never left his form as you slowly approached him, your arms crossed at your chest, your medium-heeled shoes making a sound like clock ticks with each step forward.
"As long as my feelings remain confined to an isolated place and do not affect you, Sir... I believe that is more than sufficient." Your tone was neutral, almost unemotional, but in a way that was strangely unfamiliar... it was cold. It was the first time you had spoken to him in this manner.
Dottore, the genius he is, understood the full implication of your words perfectly. Or rather, he could read between the lines.
...Whether I am empathetic or a callous monstrosity like you is none of your concern. Your sole purview is the manner in which I execute my duties. Should you find my performance lacking, you may question my professional conduct, not my personal sentiments.
Dottore felt a powerful urge to laugh. The way you meticulously manipulated language ignited a novel and peculiar sensation within him—an intoxicating pull that made him yearn to plunge deeper into this perilous dialogue.
He might even order an attendant to bring you both a drink, so he could sit and converse with you late into the night. Only then would he decide whether to permit you to leave. The thought was almost cruel, considering you had worked from dawn until dusk without reprieve. It had been a long time since you last visited your family's home. But Dottore was a selfish, capricious man, concerned only with his own desires. If he wanted you to stay, you would remain against your will.
"Is that so? ...Good" He could feel the uncharacteristic roughness in his own voice at that moment. The word emerged from his very core, yet it was simultaneously a warning.
Dottore turned, and with the motion, you were engulfed by a palpable, overwhelming aura of danger. His expression was starkly emotionless, and the mask did nothing to soften it. Had you overstepped during your conversation?
"Then I shall ask you another question..." Slowly, he closed the distance between you until mere centimeters separated you. You instinctively retreated a few steps, but to your dismay, he continued his advance until you realized the futility of resistance. Sometimes you wondered if Dottore even recognized the concept of personal space.
"If you were given the opportunity to work with someone else... let's say, someone more empathetic than I... would you accept ?" His voice was sharp, perilous... This was the first time you had felt such pure fear toward him, even though you had witnessed his anger before—when a specimen escaped or a subordinate failed, the way he gritted his teeth, the way his tone shifted to something caustic and piercing. But none of those instances compared to the gravelly menace in his tone now.
You were certain of only one thing: he was on the verge of losing his composure.
"My loyalty to you is unconditional, lord dottore. After all, despite the disparity in our status, you treat me as an equal. I cannot envision myself working with anyone else," you stated quietly, attempting to de-escalate the situation. You chose your words with extreme care to avoid further provocation. Though you engaged in this verbal dance with him daily, you were now more cautious than ever before.
"Hmph... I see." He sneered as he finally stepped back. An immense wave of relief washed over you; you hadn't even realized you had been holding your breath the entire time. The worst part was knowing Dottory would have sensed that subtle tell—the simple, biological signal of your fear. It was a vulnerability you never, ever showed him.
"But do not misunderstand," he said, his tone still laced with venom, his displeasure lingering. "I treat you as an equal solely because you prioritize the work above all else, unlike the others... It is a conditional privilege. My respect is not freely given."
"You may go now."
You might assume that what unsettled Dottore was your choice of words. In truth, it was, but not in the way you imagined. You might think he found your tone impertinent or insubordinate, but the reality was quite the opposite.
What truly agitated Dottore was your rebuff—your repulsion of his attempt to encroach upon your inner feelings. It was a territory he had long desired to possess, something he had become fixated on and entangled with. And you, with utter simplicity, had told him it was none of his business.
It made him feel the blood boiling in his veins.
Actions The Second Harbinger, Dottore, Would Take Upon Discovering His Feelings For You:
_His Personal Assistant_
One of the primary methods Dottore would employ to maintain a constant connection with you is to appoint you as his personal assistant. After dismissing his previous aide for a minor transgression, he found himself in need of a replacement.
Seated in his study, he contemplated a suitable candidate—someone worthy of standing by his side. And every time, despite his attempts to consider others who yearned for even a single word of his praise, his thoughts inexorably returned to you. You were, in his estimation, the most fitting person for the position. He contemplated the prospect of you remaining at his side for most hours, executing the tasks he delegated.
He might ask you to bring him a cup of coffee to sustain him through his manic, disordered experiments all night, or to organize his desk when it descended into chaos. Yet, these would not be the duties he would primarily assign you. He wouldn't dare; he holds an inordinate amount of respect for you, a regard he offers to no one else. Instead, he would view you as a partner—a collaborator capable of discussing his test results and the subsequent steps he should take. Though he rarely divulges his plans to anyone, he would be more than willing to explain the intricate details of his schemes to you in a confident, steady voice, or to express his satisfaction with the outcome of a concluded experiment.
And speaking of experiments…
The idea of witnessing your expressions—each time you observed a test specimen in agony—was so profoundly stimulating to him he could do little but smile with sinister delight. He was obsessed with the notion of your internal opposition to his methods, yet your lack of courage to refuse him and his ideas. He adored your acute awareness of the power disparity between you, the understanding that he could turn your life into a living hell if he so desired. He saw this as a marked sign of the maturity you possessed.
Who knows to what lengths he would have to push before you finally tore away that mask of composure—the mask he had become so obsessed with.
Sometimes, he would dispatch you to distant locations to procure items necessary for his experiments: perhaps a sample from a specific dragon, or the skeletal remains of some forgotten Archon—anything required to continue his endless research. He often sent you to Sumeru, as he himself was considered a dangerous person in that region.
But here was the catch: You were not the one who would actually be hunting these items; it was highly unlikely you would even find them. No, no. After all, he would not risk his most favored individual on such perilous missions. You would not be fighting dragons nor exploring crumbling tunnels.
Instead, you would be the coordinator on-site, essentially acting as his proxy. You would delegate tasks to the Fatui agents, placing you in a position of authority in his absence. Although you wouldn't be engaging in direct combat, he would provide you with an artificial Vision for self-defense, despite taking meticulous measures to ensure such a situation never arose. He hadn't selected the strongest Fatui operatives for your team arbitrarily.
If he was so concerned for your safety, why send you away at all?
The answer was simple: He wanted you to become more intrinsically linked to him. He wanted you to be known as *so-and-so, who works directly under Dottore's command*, to the point where a misconception would begin to circulate—that you were a Harbinger yourself, despite merely working for one in a capacity far removed from combat, as an intelligence operative. He simply wanted the world to know that a profound connection bound you to him.
Even when he personally led these research expeditions, you would always remain at his side. After some time, the people of Teyvat would bestow a title upon you: The Doctor's Right Hand.
You found the name trite and paid it little mind, but Dottore… oh, how he adored that title. It was as if people were indirectly stating that you belonged to him—a notion he was keen to achieve and perpetuate. They no longer saw you as a separate entity, but rather as an extension of him, a person he trusted and valued.
"It seems we have concluded our business here for today. I must admit, it has been a fruitful excursion. We have gathered the necessary samples, and now we must take the next step… you and I, returning to the laboratory to continue what we have started," Dottore would say, carefully holding one of the samples with his gloved hand, a satisfied smile evident on his face.
You would be standing behind him, hands clasped, features calm as you read the document in your hand. "If I am not mistaken… our next destination is the Nod_krai. "We still need to transport those experiments there after we return to Snezhnaya," you would reply quietly, placing the document on his nearby desk.
"As always… you are already contemplating the next move, leaving no room for delay or indolence. It is a quality I truly admire." He would turn to you, the same smile widening. "But…"
Your attention would snap to him immediately, your eyes settling on his form. "There is a gala being held in Snezhnaya soon, to commemorate the donations being organized by one of the Harbingers… and I thought it imperative that we attend." You could detect a hint of enthusiasm in his voice, as if he was anticipating the event.
"You mean Lord Pantalone?"
"The Ninth… After all, there are certain matters I need to discuss with him regarding our shared schematics, and that soirée presents a prime opportunity. He is a busy man, much like myself," he would reply calmly, his tone serious.
Amidst his explanation, a thought occurred to you regarding something that had been on your mind for a while. "So… may I consider it a short-term leave of sorts?" you asked, holding your chin with your fingers as you pondered.
Dottore was silent for a few seconds before responding. "You could say the workload will be… mitigated that day. You know better than anyone that I despise wasting time."
"If that is the case… I see no need for me to attend the gala. I still have unfinished work in my office."
Dottore frowned slightly at your words. This was not part of his plan. He wanted you by his side at that event, close to one another, a small distance separating you as you mingled through the hall amongst the elite—dressed in attire befitting a refined gala hosted by the wealthiest man in Teyvat. And you had simply informed him you were not interested and had work to complete. How inconsiderate of you.
"And why, precisely, do you need to finish that work on that specific day?" His tone became slightly sharper, enough for you to perceive the edge in it. "Do you have other plans for that evening in my absence?" The subtle smile was gone from behind his ever-present mask.
"Actually, I do… I would like to visit my family that day, since my presence is not essential. Surely, if you have no objection, Lord Dottore," you said calmly, though something inside told you he would not permit it and would find an excuse to compel your attendance.
"How unfortunate…" Dottore turned away, moving towards the large glass window in his office to look out at the glittering nightscape of Snezhnaya. His voice carried a feigned, artificial pity. You knew that tone—that manufactured understanding he used during negotiations, often for reasons far removed from the innocent pretexts he cited.
"I was planning to introduce you to the host." Your eyes widened slightly at this information. Pantalone was one of the Harbingers you frequently encountered in Dottore's laboratory, visiting often due to their shared business ventures—things you knew were better left unknown. It seemed Dottore had been planning to unveil this aspect of his work to you soon.
"As one of the Harbingers I deal with extensively, and one of the primary patrons of my research… I believe it is time for you to become acquainted with him, given your position as my right hand. Affairs in Nod_krai will become more hectic… Who knows, you may well become the messenger between us. There are certain matters no one else is fit to mediate but you."
And with that, he effectively closed the door on further discussion. In truth, Dottore would have arranged an introduction later, on a separate day, but he changed his mind the moment he sensed you slipping from his grasp.
"Understood, Sir. Then we will attend the gala together."
Oh yes, you would.
"Good…" He chuckled darkly—a thing he did only when he got exactly what he wanted, allowing his emotions to briefly take control.
_Acts of 'Kindness'_
By his very nature, Dottore is perhaps the least empathetic individual imaginable. He lacks what one might call conventional emotions, which renders his tongue particularly caustic when confronted with the failures of others. As the skilled physician, researcher, and engineer he is, it is an impossibility for *him* to commit errors—a belief that has fostered an arrogance he makes no attempt to conceal, whether through his disappointed expressions or the words that lacerate those he delights in labeling failures.
He was simply that conceited.
However, when it concerns you, he is more than willing to offer assistance—or rather, to provide guidance, as that term suits him better. It feeds his ego to think you seek knowledge from him, even when you haven't asked. He will simply impart information without warning or preamble, especially on matters of history. Having lived for centuries longer than any other human, the breadth of his knowledge is staggering. Just ask, and he would be more than happy to answer your queries. He adores the way you lean closer to the book you're reading when trying to comprehend a complex concept, or furrow your brow at a difficult name, the intense focus you exhibit when he explains one of his experiments. Instead of merely following orders, you strive to understand the experiment's foundational theory, the materials used, and the preparation time required.
Furthermore, although he often burdens you with an excessive workload, sometimes pushing you beyond your limits, he is prepared to find a solution for your ensuing, relentless headaches.
He would see you attempting to write while massaging your temples with your fingers, precisely where the pain throbbed. Then, you would feel his hands cup your face from both sides, making you startle slightly, as you hadn't noticed his approach. You were immersed in thought, and your aching head had been no help at all.
He would tilt your head up slightly as he bent down to your level, closing the distance until mere inches separated you.
"It seems you are suffering from a cephalalgia… are you not?" he would say in a low, quiet voice, his thumb slowly stroking your forehead. You would freeze in place, momentarily forgetting to speak. "Hmm…?"
Upon hearing his prompt, you would reply quickly, breaking eye contact. "I'm afraid I am, Sir."
Oh, how he relished it—the sight of you weary from work, and himself as your sole salvation. That twisted, symbiotic cycle; he had become utterly addicted to it.
Furthermore, when the two of you were together and came under attack, his power, befitting the Second Harbinger and rivaling that of the Archons themselves, meant he could dispatch such foes within seconds. His priority, specifically, was protecting *you* from them.
Like the time in Inazuma when you were ambushed by soldiers who launched a surprise assault. Ignoring everyone else, he secured you firmly by wrapping his arms around your waist and effortlessly leaped away with you in his grasp, carrying you as easily as a groom carries his bride at their wedding. You had been on the verge of activating the artificial Vision he had crafted for you, but he was faster, deeming a tactical retreat more prudent in that instant—even though he could have annihilated them all in the blink of an eye.
But wait... this incident would not be taken lightly. After all, they had targeted not only him, but *you* as well. They would pay the price dearly. Oh, the multitude of sinister schemes swirling in his head, the intricate methods of retribution, the sheer magnitude of suffering he would inflict upon them. But before that, he had to ensure his dear one was unharmed, was that not so? He had no desire for you to sustain a serious injury.
"From my initial assessment... it seems you have sustained no injuries. I acted in a timely manner," he stated quietly after setting you down gently, allowing you to stand on your own feet once more. Yet, his tone was somewhat arid, as if he were concealing a profound and venomous rancor within.
You breathed a sigh of relief. The event had been sudden, everything happening in a single moment. You were grateful Dottore had been with you; otherwise, you didn't know what kind of fight you would have been plunged into. Even though you were sufficiently trained in combat and self-defense, especially with the Vision he had created for you—one could say you were far stronger than a regular Vision holder blessed by an Archon.
"I am fine as well.... Thank you, Lord Dottore," you replied calmly, attempting to steady your escalating breath. "But... what about the others?" you asked, gesturing towards the Fatui agents who had been accompanying you at the scene. The last thing you'd heard was one of them screaming in pain. "We must go back to save them."
In all likelihood, they had already met their end.
"If they are sufficiently useful and competent... they will manage to survive with ease," he retorted sharply, turning his back to you to gaze down at the city from the cliff edge where he now stood, while you remained in place, still feeling the powerful thrum of your heartbeat. "If not... then let them perish.... Consider what happened a test of their capability."
You could never fully comprehend Dottore. Would he have chosen to fight and kill those soldiers to save both you and the others? And what kind of test was this, where the lives of his subordinates were so easily jeopardized merely to gauge their competence? Your head began to spin suddenly.
Would it be your turn one day...?
_Marriage_
Dottore is not the type to initiate a relationship through courtship. He views it as a frivolous waste of time, especially since he is resolute in his determination to make you his, bound to him by a permanent contract for the remainder of your intertwined lives.
The location would be far from simple or romantic. It would be a formal place, perfectly suited to his serious nature.
His office.
He would summon one of his subordinates to call for you, who would have been immersed in work for hours. You would assume it was a routine matter, as he often called for you—a frequent occurrence given your role as his personal assistant. You would ignore the serious and stern tone of the Fatui agent, a tone that was commonplace, but never directed at *you* with Dottore. When speaking to you, one could almost discern a hint of humanity in those masked followers, their crimes notwithstanding, with the Doctor at the forefront.
But the last thing you would ever expect was for him to reveal a small box, open it before your eyes, and directly request your hand in marriage, without any preamble whatsoever.
The problem was, you had never anticipated it. Perhaps if he had dropped hints, you would have been more prepared, or at least more expectant. The issue was that not even once had you viewed Dottore from that perspective.
Since when, exactly, had he loved you?
Or perhaps he did not? Perhaps he merely desired a traditional marriage, devoid of love.
But in truth, Dottore had become so obsessed with you that he could not erase you from his mind. Every breath, every word, every movement was an indelible imprint upon his memory, impossible to eradicate.
Like the time your hand accidentally brushed against his when he was removing his glove. That entire night, before succumbing to sleep, he kept tracing his palm with his cold fingers—the very spot your skin had touched.
Or the time you left your coat in the laboratory. Oh, how he adored its scent. When you inquired about it the next morning, the staff informed you they had discarded it after cleaning. Or at least, that is what Dottore wanted you to believe. It was unnecessary for you to know it was secretly stored in his wardrobe, was it not?
What might seem to you as a stiff, formal, mere proposal—just another piece of Dottore's propaganda—was something he wanted to convince *himself* of. For him, it was a dream, a vision in which he saw only himself and his own desires. His narcissism and ego rendered him incapable of noticing the uncertainty on your face as you stared at that ring.
But who would believe the lie? We are speaking of Dottore, who is capable of noting every one of your breaths and its duration. He saw your hesitation with his own eyes but chose to ignore it… cruelly and dismissively.
"I, the Second Fatui Harbinger, Dottore… request your hand in marriage, so that you and i are bound to each other's , remaining as such for the rest of our extensive lives. Now, tell me… Do you accept?"
That final word sent a full-body shudder through you, jolting you from your thoughts and forcing you to comprehend that what you were seeing was reality, not a fantasy—not a dream that would end upon waking.
His smile was wider than you remembered ever seeing it. He placed his hands on his desk with an air of confidence, ready for your response at any second. Meanwhile, you sat frozen opposite him, utterly motionless, unable to even utter a word.
You clenched your hands tightly and slowly on your thighs, trying to release the tension overwhelming you, and finally spoke in a quiet voice, quieter than usual.
"Please, Lord Dottore… allow me to think on the matter." Even though you spoke those words with utter calm and composure, what you were hiding was a mass of fear on the verge of revealing itself at any moment.
Dottore's smile gradually faded. You knew you had done the thing he hated most, refusal. But he restrained himself and his temper. After all, you were his future wife, were you not? You would not have reached this position if he did not respect and value you above anyone else.
"Hmph…" He rose from his desk and walked past you. You could do nothing but lower your head toward the floor.
*Think on the matter?* …What exactly was there to think about?
Saying yes, or saying yes?
The outcome would be identical in either case. "Thank you," you continued, sensing that Dottore had paused and had not yet left the study.
"Do not misunderstand… I am confident you will make the correct decision, as you always do. That is the sole reason I am granting you this reprieve." That arrogant, haughty voice slithered into your ears.
Yet, you did not truly hate Dottore.
At least, not in the beginning.
But now, all you see is a criminal… whose every facet is laid bare before you. After all, you are aware of all those experiments he conducts, the secrets he conceals, and sometimes, you have even participated in them.
Some might consider you a victim with no other choice but to comply to survive. However, no matter how many reasons or excuses are presented, your own perception of yourself will never change.
You were as culpable as Dottore. You concealed his experiments and organized them in your capacity as his personal assistant.
You were a sinner
The ceremony would be held at the earliest opportunity. It was not simple, nor was it ostentatious, of course. Dottore preferred matters to be understated yet not cheap—of high quality and impeccable craftsmanship. From your wedding dress to the venue, from his tailored suit to the wedding bands he coordinated himself, everything was pre-arranged. He only had to add the final piece... you.
Under the auspices of Her Majesty, the Tsaritsa, the Archon of Love.
That wedding was an unbreakable, perpetual bond between you.
Who would have thought that after all these years, his life artificially prolonged, he would find his other half, the one with whom he would spend his existence? The only woman, the only person, he deemed to possess incalculable value in his presence.
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I know I just sent in that eremite hcs thing but idk if your requests are open and I'm shy💔
I really love your writing and I was hoping you can do Dottore x eremite reader, GN is pref but I would like descriptions of them being big and muscular (because they are, they're better than most playable models i fear) if ever
maybe eremite reader being the representative that will form an alliance with the fatui?
or..Dottore disguised as a regular person (we all know he can ehapeshift, or atleast his segments) and gets bumped into yadda yadda to see if Sumeru has changed since his last visit, only to be greeted with absolute kindness from eremite reader? :3
(I’ve seen your previous messages anon, and mmmm do I love your interpretation of modern Dottore’s design and small influences of eremite culture in it. I know this is not what you exactly wrote, but I needed to let this out of my system. For all those requesting more Dottie stuff, this is for you)
✦ An Oasis in the Desert of Heretics
(Zandik/Dottore x Eremite Reader: sfw)
✧ Imagine the astonishment of your tribe when you return one day with a scrawny kid dragged by the collar in your hands. He looked disheveled, and a single glance at his Akademiya Jellabiya was clearly indicative that he was some wandering fool from Sumeru City. Your peers were confused, who was this blue-haired kid and how did you even find him amidst the desolate dunes of Deshret’s lands?
The youth was disgruntled when you dragged him here, however, the elders of your tribe warned him to be thankful. Had it been anyone else, he wouldn't have made it in the desert alive.
✧ It took a couple of days for this young man to recover. After he was nourished and offered plenty of water and rest, he was the one who slowly moved out of his shell. In the scorching sun of the day, he sat silently in the shade of the tents, observing you training with your Eremite peers. When you sparred and moved on with your duties, it looked as if Deshret’s gaze itself blessed your sun-kissed skin. And in these moments, the youth realized how far from home he was; even if he never considered Sumeru City his home.
You offered him company, but he often remained apprehensive between the Eremites. You weren't surprised, you thought he'd be another student who looked down upon your folk. But this boy showed none of such inhibitions - what you saw was genuine pain and fear in his ruby eyes.
✧ After much coaxing and several Ajilenakh Nut candies, this young man began sitting down with you more frequently. Whenever dinner was served, you offered him a seat amongst your people. When he silently stood in the cool shadows of the desert night, you were the first who'd welcome him by the fire. It was in these moments that you learned his name, Zandik. And it was by the stillness of the night he confessed about his exile from the Akademiya, of his heresies.
You listened patiently to every word. Though you did not promise him paradise amongst your tribe, the young boy never forgot your words: “In the desert, we're all exiles. Is there a difference where you come from when we're all abandoned by our Gods?”
✧ From here on out, Zandik could be found lingering in your secluded tribe. Perhaps it was an unofficial welcome, but you often showed him the ropes of your community. His once tousled uniform was forgotten, and instead, people provided him with more suitable clothes to protect him from the harsh desert sun. His silent brooding slowly shifted into timid approaches. At least he didn't ogle you whenever you trained in the mornings, he now asked you to train him. And though he was awkward at first, he didn't have the heart to confess his eyes were drinking praise of your muscles whenever you taught him.
Your peers joked and called him the foreigner of the tribe. Zandik never rebutted; he said it was better than being called a heretic. He just relished sitting next to you on the carpeted floor, listening to your chatter and chuckles as everyone ate Tahchin for dinner.
✧ Zandik wasn't gullible though, he knew he shouldn't take your hospitality for granted. Eremites were cautious of outsiders, and no matter how he may look, he is one. The eremites saw hardships more than his young, inexperienced self did, thus his ignorance was transforming. Even without the Akademiya, he learned you valued any knowledge and books your people collected. The folk of the tribe were not uneducated. If anything, the people here welcomed topics that were often shunned in the halls of the institute.
Whatever books and notes Zandik had on him when you found him in the desert, he felt more compelled to share them with you. In the silent hours of the night, you and he would share a tent hurried in some books he brought. He listened to you in awe when you said your tribe was never prohibited from exploring the Valley of Darhi and the giant Ruin Guard slumbering there.
✧ But even your tribe harbored a tumor no one could eradicate – Eleazar. Many elders suffered from it, and more symptoms were showing in some of your peers. Zandik watched with a solemn gaze as you toiled and helped with whatever resources your tribe had. It was a grave topic in your tribe, to take care of those suffering, or honor those who passed from it. However since the young man had academic knowledge in biology and medicine, he wished to provide medical help.
When his hand reached for vials of medicine, your own jolted to grasp his in a warning. You stopped his interference, telling him not to meddle. Zandik only gazed at you, a silent plea: “...You don't trust me yet?” Alas, you remained silent.
✧ Zandik’s restlessness was evident. With unbridled determination, he desired you to teach him to be competent in the desert. If he wants to be of use for the Eremites and his own research, his academic knowledge would not suffice under Deshret's red sand. Zandik instead followed you, like an eager child ready to mimic and learn, he desired to accompany you beyond the safe grounds of the tribe and venture forth on expeditions.
You taught him to wield a spear first. It didn't take long for him to lose his footing and get a face full of sand… But after much trial and error, you mentored him with a claymore. Your hand was often on top of his when you guided him to hold onto the hilt, his skin getting warmer than usual.
“Okay, maybe the heavy weight of the weapon will make sure you stay on both your feet for now.”
✧ You were surprised at how much of a chatterbox he became wherever the two of you ventured on expeditions. He'd blabber endlessly about the numerous academic matters regarding the ruins you two found; of the leylines and its history. He never spoke for so long whenever the two of you were in the tribe. Yet as the sun cast its golden hues upon you two, Zandik realized he never found the desert sun cumbersome while trekking alongside you. When he smiles a boyish grin, his shoulders brushing against yours, the sunset becomes a queue to find shelter and set up camp for the night.
In a secluded nook hidden from the endless expanse of sandy dunes, the dim glow of a single lantern illuminated the small makeshift tent. Within its confines, Zandik found himself nestled close beside you. It was his idea to push the sleeping pads together - to save space, as he had suggested with feigned practicality. Yet now, with his head resting on your arm and his short, unruly curls brushing against your shoulder, the throes of cold desert nights faded into irrelevance. All that remained was the tender warmth of your embrace, a solace he quietly cherished, cradled in the stillness of your presence.
✧ Perhaps this is why, after many centuries, a certain Harbinger was adamant about finding a cure for Eleazar. Having been recruited by the Jester, the Doctor rarely visited the lonesome desert of Sumeru. Yet it didn’t stop him from gazing off with wistful melancholy at the land. Perhaps the ever-shifting sands had since swept the evidence of yours and his footsteps, but his fond memories of trekking with you alone never faded.
All his relentless research, the unyielding pursuit of knowledge and cures – were all to honor your people and the memory of your smile that lingered in his dreams, cradling a young Zandik in the warmth of your embrace.
(My headcanon stays, Pierro just magically teleports and appears to those he wanted to recruit. No questions asked, he just adopts them)
Summary: You get teased by your friends for being inexperienced, so Puma lends you her book to help you understand the basics of “how to make yourself happy.” But right in the middle of your little experiment, your big soldier neighbor barges in and catches you red-handed—worse still, instead of screaming in shock, you let out a moan.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, AGE-GAP, AU, HEAVY SMUT, suggestive tone, explicit content, mature language, sexual innuendo, erotic, possessive, obsession, mention of jerking off, mutual pining, erotic, assurance, gentle, slightly rough, desire, heavy tension, ownership, lots of teasing, manhandling, petname, dirty talk, degradation, oral activities, unprotected, PiV, squirting, spanking, fingering, deflowering, blowjob, overstimulation, breeding, markings, older man x younger woman, obsess neighbor! König x inexperienced! Reader
The carpet in Puma’s living room is soft under your crossed legs, fairy lights strung along the ceiling casting a warm glow over the circle of you and your girls. Bottles of soju and tequila sit in the center like a small, dangerous altar.
Everyone’s in oversized tees and shorts, hair messy, makeup half-gone from laughing. It starts easy. About work drama, new jobs, who’s dating who, and the usual updates.
You sip your drink, nodding along while letting the alcohol loosen the knots in your shoulders.
Then the second bottle empties, and the vibe shifts.
The stories get bolder. Fantasies spill out first about someone wanting to be tied up, another admits she’s into choking.
Laughter turns sharper, breathier. Someone recounts a terrible date that ended with the guy asking if she “usually queefs.”
The room howls.
Puma goes next, voice low and annoyed.
“ This guy from the club a few weeks ago…he's a cute and decent dancer. We go back to his place, clothes off, and literally three minutes in he’s done. Rolls over, snoring. I’m lying there like…hello?” She mimics his pathetic grunt.
“ So I lock myself in his bathroom, finish the job myself, wash my hands, and leave while he’s still passed out. Never again.”
Next is Lila, eyes wide, already giggling in disbelief at her own memory.
“ Okay, but listen. This guy I hooked up with last month…when he pulled it out, I almost ran. I swear it touched his belly button standing up. He laid it on my stomach to ‘measure’ and the tip reached my chest. My actual chest.”
She throws her head back. “ I was terrified. I walked funny for two days. Never. Again.”
The stories keep coming about positions, sizes, disasters, and triumphs.
You stay quiet, cheeks warm from more than just the liquor, nursing your cup while the room fills with their confidence and history.
Then it stops.
Four pairs of eyes turn to you at once.
“ Soooo…” Puma draws out, smirking.
“ You’ve been awfully quiet. Spill. What’s the wildest thing you’ve done?”
Your throat tightens. “ I…uh—”
Lila leans forward. “ Come on. You’re always so mysterious. Bet you’ve got stories that’d make us blush.”
Heat floods your face. “ No, really, it’s not—”
Puma gasps dramatically. “ Wait. You’re hiding the best ones, aren’t you? You’ve probably done way more than us.”
You shake your head too fast. “ It’s…not that.”
Silence stretches.
You wish the floor would open up.
Finally, you mumble into your cup. “ I haven’t…done it. Ever.”
Four jaws drop.
The room goes perfectly still.
Lila blinks. “ Wait. You’re joking.”
You shake your head again, cheeks burning hotter.
Puma actually gasps. “ Girl! You’re twenty-six!”
“ I know.” You mutter, staring at the carpet fibers like they’re fascinating.
“ I’m waiting. For someone…worth it.”
They groan in unison, fond and exasperated.
“ Traditional queen.” Lila teases gently.
“ We can’t even be mad.”
Then Puma tilts her head. “ Okay, but…you’ve at least, you know, taken care of yourself, right? When you’re ovulating and feral?”
Your voice is tiny. “ I tried once. Just…my finger. It hurt. And there was blood, so I freaked out and never tried again.”
They all soften at once.
Puma scoots closer, rubbing your knee.
“ Sweetie, that’s normal. First time stretching anything down there, a little blood can happen especially if you were nervous and not relaxed. It doesn’t mean anything’s wrong.”
Lila nods. “ You just need to go slow, use lube, breathe. It’s supposed to feel good, not scary.”
You nod, embarrassed but grateful.
Puma suddenly stands, wobbles a little from the drinks, and disappears into her bedroom. She comes back with a slim paperback and drops it in your lap.
You frown at the cover. “ What’s this?”
“ Educational material.” She says proudly.
“ Everything you need to know about pleasure…solo and with someone else. Diagrams, tips, the works. When you’re ready.”
You flip it open and immediately gasp at a very explicit illustration of an orgasm cycle.
You snap it shut, face on fire.
They laugh, but it’s kind.
You hug the book to your chest anyway, voice small.
“ Thanks, but…no guy’s ever gonna want me. Look at me. I’m not like you guys. I’ve got fat thighs, belly rolls because men want skinny, sexy girls. They’d be turned off the second they saw me.”
The room erupts.
“ Excuse me?” Puma says, offended on your behalf.
“ You’re gorgeous.”
Lila points aggressively. “ Any man who’d be ‘turned off’ by your body is a walking red flag and doesn’t deserve you naked.”
“ Real men…” Puma adds firmly.
“ Want real bodies. Curves, softness, all of it. The ones who only want some airbrushed fantasy are shallow and boring in bed anyway.”
“ You are beautiful.” Lila says, softer.
“ And anyone who can’t see that is blind. We all have flaws…stretch marks, uneven boobs, whatever. Embracing them is what makes us sexy.”
You look down at your lap, eyes stinging a little.
Puma reaches over, squeezes your hand. “ When the right person comes along, they’ll worship every inch of you. Promise.”
The room settles into a warm quiet, the teasing gone, replaced by something protective and fierce. You clutch the book tighter, heart thudding with a mix of nerves and something dangerously close to hope.
Maybe, someday, you’ll be ready.
…
You sit cross-legged on your bed for three nights straight, the book from Puma open in your lap like it’s a textbook for the most important exam of your life.
You highlight passages, mutter anatomical terms under your breath, and feel your face burn every time you turn a page with a particularly vivid illustration.
The girls’ words echo in your head about going slow, relaxing, and breathing, but the memory of that one painful, and bloody attempt years ago still makes your stomach knot.
Finally, on a quiet Saturday evening, and you can’t ignore the ache anymore. The house is empty, the street outside silent.
You sigh heavily, close the book, and whisper to yourself, “ Nothing bad will happen if you just…follow the instructions.”
First things first: privacy. You triple-check the front door (locked), every window (curtained), and your bedroom door (locked twice).
You even wedge a chair under the knob for good measure.
No one is catching you this time.
The embarrassment would kill you faster than anything else. You stand in front of the full-length mirror, slowly peeling off your clothes.
The soft light from your lamp doesn’t hide anything. Thick thighs that touch, the gentle swell of your belly, and stretch marks like silver lightning on your hips. You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly small.
“ No one would want this.” You think, the old voice loud in your head.
But the warmth low in your stomach pushes back harder.
You want to feel good.
Just once.
For you.
You climb onto the bed, heart hammering, and lie back against the pillows. Knees up, legs apart exactly like the diagram on page forty-seven.
The book rests open beside you. You take a shaky breath and let your fingers trail down, tentative, barely there.
The first touch is electric.
A soft gasp escapes before you can stop it.
You circle slowly, just like the instructions say about gentle pressure, no rushing. Warmth spreads fast as you feel yourself getting slick, and the realization makes you bite your lip hard.
It doesn’t hurt. It feels…good. Really good.
Your hips shift without permission. You glance at the book again about encouragement to keep going, to explore what feels best.
Your eyes flutter shut.
The room fills with soft, wet sounds and your own uneven breathing.
Downstairs, König stands on your porch, shifting his weight.
He knocks once, twice.
No answer.
He tries the knob and it's unlocked, as usual. You always forget. He mutters under his breath in German and steps inside.
“ Liebling?” He calls quietly. Nothing.
He only came for the cordless drill you borrowed last month. He needs it tonight for a rush job.
He’ll grab it from the kitchen counter and leave.
That’s the plan.
Then he hears it.
A faint, breathy sound from upstairs.
His head tilts. Another soft noise, higher this time. His instinct kicks in soldier mode. Quiet footsteps on the stairs, hand hovering near the knife he always carries.
If someone’s hurting you…
He reaches your door. The sounds are unmistakable now in small whimpers and rhythmic. His brain short-circuits for half a second before protective panic surges again.
He doesn’t knock.
He kicks.
The door flies open with a bang.
You’re sprawled on the bed, fingers buried between your thighs, back arched, eyes squeezed shut at the perfect, overwhelming moment—
Your orgasm crashes over you just as the door hits the wall.
Instead of a scream of terror, what rips out of you is a long, broken moan in loud, helpless, and mortifying.
Your eyes snap open. König fills the doorway, massive and frozen, blue eyes wide beneath the black mask he always wears.
His gaze locks on you.
You're naked, flushed, and trembling through the aftershocks.
Realization hits a second later. You shriek, scrambling for the blanket, and yanking it over yourself like it’ll erase the last ten seconds.
“ What the fuck, König?!” Your voice cracks, half fury, half pure humiliation.
He stands there, stunned, chest rising fast. You see the exact moment his brain reboots as his gloved hand twitches, then clenches at his side.
His pants are…noticeably tighter.
He clears his throat, the sound rough.
“ I—Scheiße…I came for the drill.” He stammers in that deep, accented voice.
“ You borrowed it. I knocked. The door was open. I thought—” He gestures vaguely, as if danger still lingers in the air.
“ I thought someone was hurting you.”
“ Get out!” You yell, clutching the blanket to your chin.
“ Let me get dressed, then we’ll talk…downstairs!”
He nods jerkily, backs out, and pulls the broken door closed as best he can. You hear his heavy steps retreat down the hall.
Outside your room, König leans against the wall, head thudding back.
“ Verdammt nochmal.” He curses under his breath.
His cock throbs painfully against his thigh, fully hard from one single image burned into his mind.
You, cumming apart, moaning his name…
No, not his name, but still, because of your own touch, legs spread, beautiful and unguarded.
He’s wanted you for months. It's quietly, desperately, and every time you smile at him over the fence or bring him baked goods “just because.”
He jerked off to thoughts of you more times than he’ll ever admit, always feeling like a creep after.
Now he’s seen the real thing.
And you came right as he walked in.
He palms himself once through his pants, hissing.
“ Beruhig dich, verdammt.” He mutters, willing the erection down.
It doesn’t listen.
Downstairs, he waits, heart pounding, mind racing.
This obsession just got a thousand times worse and he’s not sure he wants it any other way.
…
You hide in your room for a full twenty minutes, face buried in a pillow, replaying the disaster on loop. Your skin still tingles from the orgasm, traitorous body refusing to forget that the peak happened right as König’s massive frame filled the doorway.
Eventually you force yourself to dress in loose sweatpants and an oversized hoodie, armor against the world, and trudge downstairs.
He’s sitting on the edge of your couch, elbows on his knees, looking comically large in the small space.
The moment he spots you, he shoots to his feet like he’s been caught stealing.
“ Entschuldigung.” He starts, voice low and rough.
“ I am so sorry. I should not have barged in like that. You were…busy. Private.”
Your cheeks flame again. “ Yeah, private is the word. Just…forget you saw anything, okay? Pretend it never happened.”
He nods quickly, the black mask shifting with the motion. “ Ja, of course. Next time I will knock. Loudly. Many times.”
A pause.
“ I heard noises. Strange noises. I thought someone was hurting you. My training…it took over.”
You soften despite yourself. “ I get it. You were worried. It’s fine. Really.”
You grab the cordless drill from the kitchen counter and hold it out. “ Here. Sorry I kept it so long.”
His gloved hand closes over yours as he takes it. A big, warm, and calloused fingers brushing your smaller ones.
A jolt shoots straight up your arm, pooling hot and low in your belly.
You both freeze for half a second too long.
“ Danke.” He murmurs.
Then, clearing his throat. “ I should go. Before I embarrass you more.”
“ You better.” You mutter, face burning again, but there’s a tiny smile you can’t quite hide.
He turns, shoulders stiff, and strides to the door. You watch the broad line of his back disappear outside, then slam the deadbolt and slide down the door until you’re sitting on the floor, knees to chest.
A mortified groan escapes. You thump your head gently against the wood.
How are you ever going to look at him again?
Across the hedge, König shoulders into his own house, tosses the drill onto the couch without a glance, and takes the stairs two at a time.
He drops onto his bed, back hitting the mattress hard. The erection that started in your bedroom hasn’t flagged once.
It’s worse now, straining painfully against his zipper, leaking steadily.
“ Scheiße, verdammt.” He growls, yanking the zipper down.
His cock springs free, thick and flushed, already slick at the tip. He hisses at the cool air, wraps a big fist around himself, and starts stroking roughly, fastly, and with no finesse.
In his mind it’s you.
Your legs spread on that bed, fingers buried in your wet cunt, moaning so prettily as you came.
He imagines replacing your hand with his own, then his tongue, then his cock is stretching you open, making you take every inch until you’re sobbing his name.
“ Du kleine Schlampe.” He whispers harshly to the empty room, hips bucking into his fist.
“ So desperate you fuck yourself where anyone could walk in. Should’ve been my cock ruining that pretty hole. Should’ve been me making you scream.”
The fantasy sharpens in your soft thighs wrapped around his waist, your nails digging into his back, your voice begging please, König, more.
He pumps faster, grip bruising, breath ragged under the mask he hasn’t bothered to remove.
It hits him like a freight train.
Three minutes or maybe less and he’s coming hard, thick ropes spilling over his fist, splattering his shirt and the front of his pants.
He groans long and low, hips jerking through it, milking every pulse.
When it’s over he’s panting, chest heaving. He stares at the mess, dazed. Then he looks down and he is still hard.
It's twitching, angry red, and demanding more like it didn’t just empty itself.
“ Un-fucking-believable.” He mutters and grabs yesterday’s workout shirt from the floor to wipe his hand and stomach.
The fabric comes away sticky. He forces his sensitive length back into his pants, wincing at the friction, and sits up.
He drags a hand over his masked face.
The want is worse now in sharper and vicious.
He doesn’t just want to fuck you anymore.
He wants to own you.
He wants to pin you down and sink into that soft, untouched body until the only thought in your head is how perfectly you’re filled with him.
He wants to ruin you for anyone else, ever.
König exhales slowly, steadying himself.
He’s a patient man.
He can wait.
But not forever.
…
The next afternoon, you’re crammed into your usual corner booth at the café, iced lattes sweating rings onto the table. The girls are already halfway through their drinks when you finally blurt it out.
“ So…yesterday. After I went home. I, uh…tried it. Like, really tried. Following the book.”
Four heads snap up. Puma chokes on her straw.
“ You finally got yourself off?” Lila squeals.
You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “ Yes. And no. Because right as I…right at the good part, my neighbor kicked the door in.”
Dead silence. Then the collective gasping so loud the barista looks over.
“ HE WHAT?” Puma shrieks.
“ Kicked. The. Door. In.” You repeat miserably.
“ He thought someone was attacking me because of the…noises. I was literally coming when he barged in. Instead of screaming in terror, I moaned. Loudly. In front of him.”
The table erupts. Lila slaps the table so hard her coffee sloshes. Gina wheezes into her sleeve.
“ I’m sorry, babe.” Puma says, wiping tears.
“ But that is the most tragic comedy I’ve heard all year. Your first real orgasm was ruined by a home invasion.”
“ It’s not funny!” You wail.
“ Every time I try to touch myself, the universe sends a disaster. First blood and pain, now a six-foot-five Austrian commando getting a front-row seat. Clearly I’m cursed.”
They’re still howling when Lila catches her breath enough to ask. “ Wait, wait…who is this neighbor?”
You mumble into your cup. “ König.”
Four blank stares.
“ King?” Puma translates, eyebrow raised.
“ That’s his actual name?”
“ Code name, maybe.” You shrug.
“ He’s literally special forces. Always in tactical pants and that black sniper mask thing.”
The mood shifts from hysterical to hungry in a heartbeat.
Puma leans forward. “ Hold up. Big scary soldier guy? European accent? Wears a mask?”
You nod reluctantly.
“ Oh my Gosh.” Lila whispers.
“ Those guys are animals in bed. Like…they are aggressive and focused with zero-chill animals. I hooked up with a Marine once and he rearranged my organs.”
“ Lila!” You hiss, face on fire.
“ What? It’s true! And this König guy, bet he’s stupid hot under that mask. Strong jaw, blue eyes, the whole brooding package.”
Gina nod vigorously.
“ Definitely.” Puma agrees.
“ You can’t hide a face like that forever. He’s probably gorgeous and just socially awkward.”
“ Or hiding scars.” Gina offers.
“ Which is even hotter.”
You sink lower in your seat. “ Can we not objectify my neighbor who’s seen me naked?”
“ Too late.” Lila grins, already pulling out her phone.
“ Does he have Insta? TikTok? Anything? We need visual evidence for science.”
“ I don’t know!” You protest.
“ I don’t stalk his socials. We just say hi over the fence and borrow tools.”
They all cackle again.
“ Borrow tools.” Puma repeats, waggling her eyebrows.
“ That’s foreplay, sweetie.”
“ Stop!”
“ No, seriously.” Gina added.
“ You realize he’s replaying that scene in 4K right now, right? Man walked in on you mid-orgasm. That’s burned into his brain forever. He’s probably jerking off to it as we speak.”
“ Gina!"
“ What? Soldiers have needs. And stamina. And big—”
You throw a napkin at her head. “ I hate all of you.”
Puma dodges the napkin and leans in conspiratorially.
“ Real talk, though. You better lock your windows. One day that man’s gonna snap, climb through your bedroom, and devour you whole. Mask and all.”
The table loses it again. You bury your face in your arms on the table, groaning dramatically.
“ He’s not gonna devour me.” You mutter.
“ He was mortified. Apologized like crazy and practically ran away.”
“ Uh-huh…” Puma says knowingly.
“ That’s restraint. Give it a week. You’ll be watering plants in booty shorts and he’ll be over the fence like a heat-seeking missile.”
“ I do not own booty shorts!”
“ You should!” They chorus.
You flip them off, but you can’t stop the tiny, traitorous flutter in your stomach.
Because now every time you picture König in tall, broad, quiet, and those pale eyes flicking away politely yesterday.
You remember the way he’d frozen in the doorway.
The way his shoulders had tensed.
The subtle shift in how he’d held the drill when he left.
The girls keep teasing, voices overlapping in delighted chaos, but you’re only half-listening.
Because maybe, they’re not entirely wrong. And that thought terrifies and thrills you in equal measure.
…
Days blur into a week, then two. You turn into a professional avoider.
Groceries? Only after dark, when his truck isn’t in the driveway.
Trash day? You wait until you hear his garage door close.
When he rings your bell, once with a plate of homemade schnitzel, another time to borrow sugar as you freeze like a deer, heart hammering, and pretend you’re not home.
You even crawl on the floor to peek through the curtains before cracking the door to snatch whatever he left on the porch.
Immature? Absolutely. But the memory of his huge frame in your doorway while you were mid-orgasm is a permanent resident in your brain, rent-free and screaming.
You keep waiting for him to be repulsed.
Men don’t like desperate women, right? Women who can’t control themselves?
He should be keeping his distance, maybe nodding politely from across the street and never making eye contact again.
Instead, he still waves when he mows the lawn. He still leaves little notes on the food containers.
“Hope you like it – K.”
It makes no sense.
It makes your stomach flip in ways you refuse to examine.
Then the universe laughs in your face.
You’re washing dishes when the pipe under the sink gives a death rattle and explodes. Water gushes everywhere in the cold, relentlessly, and soaking your socks.
You yelp, grab every towel you own, and stuff them around the flood while frantically googling emergency plumbers.
Every company is booked solid or closed for the weekend.
You stand in your soggy kitchen, water dripping from the cabinets, stress climbing your throat.
There’s only one option left.
You pull on shoes, take the deepest breath of your life, and march next door.
You knock in three sharp raps.
No answer.
You knock harder, then call out. “ König? It’s me. From next door. I need help!”
A loud thump upstairs, like someone tripped over furniture. Heavy footsteps thunder down the stairs.
The door yanks open.
König stands there in a tight black tank top clinging to damp skin, chest heaving, and hair messy under the edges of his mask.
A faint sheen of sweat glistens on the exposed strip of his neck.
He clearly wasn’t expecting company.
His pale eyes widened behind the mask.
“ You…” He says, voice rough and a little breathless.
“ What are you doing here?”
Heat floods your face.
Of course you interrupted something.
Probably push-ups.
Or…something else that makes a man sweaty and panting.
“ I...I’m sorry. I clearly disturbed you. I’ll just—” You spin to flee.
A massive hand closes gently but firmly around your wrist, stopping you cold.
“ Nein, wait.” His thumb brushes your pulse point without meaning to.
“ I’m not mad. Sorry if I sounded rude. I was…surprised. You’ve been avoiding me for days."
You swallow hard, staring at his fingers on your skin.
“ Yeah. About that. Um. My kitchen sink pipe burst. Water everywhere. Plumbers are all busy. I thought maybe… since you’re a guy and in the military. You might know how to fix pipes?”
The words tumble out, higher and faster than you want.
He huffs a low laugh that rumbles through his chest. “ I’m not a plumber, Liebling. I’m a soldier.”
Your cheeks burn hotter. “ Right. Stupid. Obviously. I’ll just call someone else—”
You try to pull away again.
This time his grip tightens just enough to tug you forward then off balance. You collide gently with the solid wall of his chest.
One of his arms steadies you instinctively, palm splayed across your lower back.
He’s warm.
Hard.
Everywhere.
You freeze, breath catching.
He smells like clean sweat and something faintly metallic in gun oil, maybe. His heart thuds fast under your cheek.
His voice drops, low and gravelly. “ I don’t mind fixing your pipes.”
The sentence hangs heavy in the air, dripping with unintended suggestion. Your brain short-circuits.
Pipes.
He said pipes. But the way it rolled off his tongue, rough and deliberate…
He seems to realize it the same second you do.
His grip loosens, and he clears his throat awkwardly. “ The water pipes. In your kitchen. I meant those.”
You jump back like you’ve been shocked, smoothing your shirt even though it’s already soaked at the hem. “ Right! Yes. Kitchen pipes. Thank you. That’s…really kind.”
He rubs the back of his neck, the movement making his bicep flex impressively.
“ I’ll try to be a good neighbor. If I can’t fix it, I have a friend who owes me a favor. Real plumber.” He pauses, blue eyes searching your face.
“ Give me two minutes to grab tools. I’ll follow you over.”
You nod, probably too eagerly. “ Okay. Great. I’ll…wait outside.”
You back down his porch steps, heart racing faster than when the pipe burst. Behind you, the door clicks shut.
Inside his house, König leans against it for a second, exhaling hard. The run he’d been doing upstairs to burn off the near-constant ache since ‘That Night’ had done nothing.
And now you are soft, flustered, finally talking to him again, and smell like vanilla and panic and something he wants to bottle.
He adjusts himself in his sweatpants with a muttered curse, grabs his toolbox, and heads out.
Slow, she’s skittish. But Gott, those pipes aren’t the only thing he wouldn’t mind fixing.
…
Minutes drag into what feels like hours. You pace the living-room carpet until you wear a groove in it, then finally give in and tiptoe back to the kitchen.
The leak has slowed to a pathetic drip, but König is still on the job, half his massive body wedged under the sink.
You stop in the doorway and immediately regret it.
He’s flat on his back, tank top riding up just enough to reveal a strip of hard, ridged abs glistening with effort.
One thick arm is braced overhead, muscles flexing as he twists a wrench. His tactical pants are pulled tight across powerful thighs, and lower, a prominent bulge strains against the fabric.
Your eyes snap away, but the image is seared in. Heat floods your belly, traitorous and sudden.
“ Is everything okay down there?” You ask, voice higher than intended.
“ Ja, almost.” He grunts.
“ One more turn and it’s fixed.”
“ Thank you again. Seriously.”
A pause. Then, “ Actually…could use your help. It’s dark under here. Can’t see the small fittings.”
You grab the flashlight from the junk drawer and kneel beside him, aiming the beam into the cabinet.
He squints, turning his masked face away. “ Too bright. It blinds me. Try the other side.”
You shuffle around his head to the opposite side.
He groans. “ Still bad.”
“ It’s literally right on the pipe.” You say, exasperation creeping in.
“ I can’t see the threads.” He mutters.
You huff. “ Fine. Scoot over…no, wait. I’ll just…”
You sigh dramatically. “ I’m going to sit on your chest so the light’s directly above. Okay?”
A low string of German rumbles out about something that sounds suspiciously like a curse and a prayer at once, but he answers.
“ Ja. Good idea.”
Careful not to knee him in the face, you swing a leg over and lower yourself onto his broad chest. The heat of him seeps through your thin leggings instantly.
He’s solid, warm, rising and falling a little faster than before.
Another mutter in German, softer this time.
You lean forward, flashlight steady. “ Better?”
“ Perfekt.” He rasps.
You stay bent over him, thighs framing his ribs, trying to ignore how intimate this feels.
Then he shifts.
“ Little farther back, bitte.”
You slide down an inch, then another until you’re straddling the lower part of his chest, almost on his stomach.
Still not quite right.
You wriggle, searching for balance.
A low groan vibrates under you.
“ You okay?” You ask, concerned.
“ Fine.” He says, voice noticeably deeper.
“ Close now.”
You nod, adjusting the position again and freeze.
Something hard presses firmly against your lower stomach.
You assume it’s his phone in his pocket.
Makes sense.
Big guy, big pockets.
But then you rock slightly to steady the flashlight, and the pressure feels…different.
Long, thick, unmistakable.
Heat surges between your legs. You bite your lip to stifle a gasp. Unintentionally or maybe not, you roll your hips again, and chase the friction.
It feels good.
Too good.
A small, helpless sound escapes before you can stop it. König’s hands, which had been working overhead, suddenly still.
You don’t notice at first as you’re too busy trying not to grind down again then the drip stops entirely.
The pipe is fixed.
You glance down and find both of his large, gloved hands now resting on your hips. His chest rises sharply beneath you.
When your eyes meet his, the pale blue is almost swallowed by blown-wide pupils.
You jolt, trying to scramble off. “ Sorry, it’s fixed, I’ll—”
His grip tightens, not painful but immovable. “ Stay.”
One word, low and rough, laced with command and something dangerously close to pleading.
The kitchen goes perfectly silent except for your shared breathing. You’re straddling his thighs now, bent forward, flashlight forgotten in your slack hand.
The hard length beneath you twitches unmistakably against your core, and this time there’s no pretending it’s a phone.
Your heart hammers so loud you’re sure he can feel it. His thumbs stroke slow circles on your hips, almost absentminded, like he’s testing whether you’re real.
“ König…” You whisper, not sure if it’s a protest or a question.
His gaze drops to your mouth, then lower, tracing the way your body curves over his. The mask hides everything except those eyes hungry, restrained, and burning.
Another small shift of his hips, deliberate this time, pressing up just enough to make you gasp softly. Your hands land on his chest for balance, and fingers curling into the damp fabric of his tank top.
The tension coils tight and electric between you, thick enough to taste.
One wrong move, one tiny rock forward, one squeeze of his hands, and the thin thread of control will snap.
Neither of you moves.
Not yet.
…
The air between you snaps like a frayed wire. One second you’re frozen, straddling his thighs, feeling the thick, and the unmistakable ridge of him pressed against you.
Next, König moves in fast, decisive, and pure soldier efficiency. Massive hands grip your hips, spin you, and suddenly the world flips.
Your back hits the kitchen floor with a soft thud, all the breath whooshing out of you as his enormous frame cages you in.
He hovers above, and forearms braced on either side of your head, chest heaving, blue eyes wild and dark. Your fingers clutch his soaked tank top like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to earth.
“ W-what is this?” You stammer, voice small and trembling.
König growls, low and guttural, the sound vibrating straight to your core. “ I can’t take it anymore, Liebling. Too much. I’m too fucking hard right now.”
To prove it, he rolls his hips slowly and deliberately.
The rigid length of him drags against your clothed folds, and a loud, involuntary gasp tears from your throat. The heat floods you, shame and want to twisting together.
“ You have no idea…” He rasps, voice gravel-rough.
“ How you climbed on me earlier…squirming, grinding that sweet little cunt against me and nearly made me cum in my pants like a fucking teenager.”
Your eyes go wide.
He leans closer, mask brushing your temple.
“ Every night since I walked in on you…” He continues, words dark and filthy.
“ I see you on that bed, fingers buried deep, moaning so pretty as you cum. I’ve jerked my cock raw thinking about it. I cum so many times it still isn’t enough. Still wake up aching for you.”
He rocks again, harder, and you whimper.
“ I wanted to fuck you that night.” He confesses against your ear.
“ I wanted to pin you down and stuff you full right then. But I held back. Restraint.”
A bitter laugh.
“ Then you straddle me today, rubbing that wet pussy all over me like you need it…I’m done holding back. I need to take you. Right. Fucking. Now.”
You open your mouth to protest, but before a single word escapes, his arms band around you like steel. He stands effortlessly, hauling you up and slinging you over one broad shoulder.
You squeak, legs kicking uselessly.
“ König…put me down! This is a bad idea!”
He’s already moving, long strides carrying you out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
“ Bad idea?” He laughs, dark and dangerous, one huge hand splayed possessively over your ass.
“ You want it just as much, kleine Schlampe. Don’t lie. I can smell how soaked you are my favorite fucking scent.”
You pound a fist against his back, mortified and throbbing. “ You’re insane!”
“ Ja.” He agrees easily.
“ Insane for you.”
He shoulders open your bedroom door. The same one he kicked in weeks ago and tosses you onto the bed like you weigh nothing.
You bounce once, hair fanning across the pillows, before he’s on you again. Knees bracket your thighs, one massive hand gathering both your wrists and pinning them above your head.
His weight settles over you, overwhelming, and perfect. German spills from him, low and filthy.
The degrading words you don’t understand but feel in your bones.
“ Du kleine, geile Hure…so nass für mich…treibst mich in den Wahnsinn…” (You little, horny whore...so wet for me...you're driving me crazy...)
He switches to English, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide. “ I’ve been obsessed with you for months."
" Since the day you moved in. Those soft curves, that shy smile…it caught me like a fucking trap. I tried to hide it. Be a good neighbor.”
His free hand trails down your side, thumb brushing the swell of your belly. “ Then I saw you that night, spread open, desperate. Everything snapped.”
You shake your head, old insecurities rising. “ I’m not…attractive like that. My body…men don’t want—”
A growl rips out of him. His hand moves lightning-fast, wrapping around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, and claiming.
The pressure steals your breath and sends sparks down your spine.
“ I don’t give a fuck what other men want.” He snarls.
“ I’m not them.” His grip tightens a fraction, eyes blazing.
“ Everything about you is perfect. These thighs—” He wedges a knee between them, spreading you roughly.
“ This belly—” His palm slides under your damp shirt, splaying possessively over the soft flesh.
“ These gorgeous rolls I want to bite. I’m starving for all of it. Starving for you.”
You whimper, hips arching without permission.
“ No more agreeing to stay away.” He says, voice dropping to something feral.
“ Tonight, I own you. Every inch. Every moan. You’re mine now, Liebling. And I’m going to ruin you so beautifully you’ll never want another man again.”
His thumb strokes your pulse point, gentle despite the threat in his words.
The contradiction is tender and brutal that makes you dizzy. You’re trembling beneath him, soaked, aching, terrified and exhilarated in equal measure.
And still, he waits in one heartbeat or two, watching your face, and giving you one last chance to say no.
But the word won’t come.
Because you don’t want it to.
…
König’s grip on your throat tightens is not enough to hurt, and just enough to remind you who’s in control. His thumb presses against your racing pulse.
“ Why did you touch yourself that night, hm?” He growls, voice dark and demanding.
“ Tell me, kleine Schlampe.”
You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
Shame and heat battle in your chest.
He doesn’t wait. With a sharp tug, he rips your shirt clean down the middle. Fabric tears like paper. Cool air hits your bare chest as your breasts spill free.
Instinctively, you move to cover yourself.
His free hand snaps up, catching both wrists and pinning them back above your head.
“ Don’t you fucking dare hide from me.” He snarls.
“ I’ve waited too long to see all of you.”
Your cheeks burn.
He leans closer, mask brushing your cheek. “ Answer me. Why were you fucking that pretty little cunt with your fingers?”
You swallow, voice barely a whisper.
“ I…I’d never had an orgasm before. My friends kept talking about it and how good it feels. I got curious. That’s all.”
He groans low in his throat, eyes darkening further. “ So you sat there with that little book, studying how to cum like it was a fucking exam?”
You nod, mortified.
A dark chuckle rumbles out of him.
“ Adorable.” He shifts his weight, and the hard line of his cock pressing insistently against your thigh.
“ I’m going to do better than that book, Liebling. I’m going to give you pleasure from a real man…one who’s been obsessed with you for months. One who dreams about ruining you every night.”
He releases your throat, hand sliding down to cup your jaw. “ Do you want that? Say yes.”
You hesitate, breath hitching.
He doesn’t like the silence.
His fingers find your nipple, pinching sharply and perfect pain that shoots straight between your legs.
You whine, back arching.
“ Say it.” He repeats, voice dangerous.
“ Yes.” You gasp.
“ König, please…yes.”
A feral growl tears from him. He yanks his mask up just enough to expose his mouth. It's scarred, stubbled, hungry, and crashes it against yours.
The kiss is brutal at first, all teeth and claiming. You freeze, unsure. He feels it, nips your lower lip hard enough to sting.
“ Open for me.” He mutters against your mouth.
“ Follow me.”
He slows, coaxing as his tongue slides along your lips, and teaches rhythm. You try, clumsy and eager. He hums approval when you finally match him, soft tongue meeting his, tentative then bolder.
Wet and filthy sounds fill the room.
“ Good girl.” He breathes, then dives back in deeper, slower, different angles, and different pressures.
“ So many kinds of kisses, ja? We’ll try them all.”
He moves lower, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise. You cling to his shoulders, nails digging into muscle as he marks you in the collarbone, throat, and the swell of each breast.
By the time he reaches your nipples you’re writhing.
He takes one into his mouth, hot and wet, tongue swirling, teeth grazing. His huge hand torments the other is rolling, tugging, and pinching until you’re sobbing his name.
He switches sides, relentless, until both peaks are swollen and shining with his spit.
Then lower.
He nips at the soft skin of your belly, growling appreciatively. Both hands seize your waist, fingers sinking into the plush flesh.
“ This…” He rasps, squeezing hard.
“ Drives me fucking insane. So soft. So much to grab.”
You whimper as he bites gently, then harder, leaving little crescents.
“ Schöne Fette.” He mutters in German, voice thick with lust. (Beautiful fats)
“ All mine.”
Your pants are gone before you register the motion and ripped away like everything else. He spreads your thighs wide, groaning at the sight of your soaked panties.
“ Look at you. Drenched for me.” He presses his face between your legs, inhaling deeply.
“ Best fucking smell in the world.”
The vibration of his words makes you jerk. Then he tears the last scrap of fabric away. Cool air, then hot mouth as he drags his tongue up your slit in one long and filthy lick.
You cry out, hips bucking.
He pins you down easily, tongue plunging inside, fucking you slow and deep. You fist the fabric of his mask, anchoring yourself as he devours you.
He's lapping, sucking, and teasing your clit until your legs shake. One thick finger circles your entrance, gathering slickness.
“ Relax, Liebling.” He murmurs against you.
“ Let me in.”
He pushes in slowly and carefully. Even one finger feels enormous, stretching you deliciously.
You moan, walls fluttering around him.
“ So tight.” He praises roughly.
“ Perfect little virgin cunt.”
He crooks his finger, finds that spot that makes you see stars. He added a second is a burning stretch and perfect fullness.
You arch hard, keening.
He crawls back up your body, fingers still buried deep, thrusting steadily. His mouth finds yours again, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. Between the kisses, he mutters in German filth, dirty and degrading, reverent.
“ Du kleine Hure…taking my fingers so greedily…made for this cock…”
His thumb circles your clit. Pace quickens. Knuckles deep, relentless, hitting that spot over and over.
“ I know you’re close.” He whispers, biting your earlobe.
“ I feel you squeezing me. Cum on my fingers, baby. Show me how you fall apart.”
The command undoes you. Pleasure coils tight, snaps as your orgasm crashes through you harder than anything you’ve ever felt.
You scream into his shoulder, legs trembling violently, walls pulsing around his fingers. He works you through it, slowing only when you sag, boneless and gasping.
Finally he pulls out gently and brings his glistening fingers to his mouth. He licks them clean, eyes locked on yours, groaning deep in his chest.
“ Verdammt nochmal.” He rasps.
“ You taste like heaven, you filthy little thing.”
He collapses half on top of you, still fully clothed, cock throbbing against your hip.
The storm has passed and for now, but the hunger in his eyes promises this is only the beginning.
…
König’s eyes are still glazed with satisfaction as he licks his lips, tasting you on them. But the hunger hasn’t dimmed.
If anything, it’s sharper now.
He slides back down your body without warning, massive hands clamping onto your thighs and spreading them wide, almost painfully wide until you’re completely open to him again.
“ König…wait, I’m still—” You gasp, oversensitive and trembling from the last orgasm.
He doesn’t wait. His mouth seals over your soaked folds, tongue plunging deep, fucking into you with slow, deliberate strokes.
The wet sounds are obscene in the quiet room.
You curse loudly, back bowing off the bed, fingers twisting in the sheets.
“ It's too much…fuck—”
He groans against you, the vibration making your hips jerk. “ Give me another, Liebling. I want you dripping down my chin.”
His tongue curls, ruthless, lapping and thrusting until your thighs quake uncontrollably. When you come again, it’s explosive as your whole body seizes, a shocked cry tearing from your throat as you squirt, hot and helpless.
König growls like an animal, drinking every drop, nipping your swollen clit once, twice, before finally pulling away.
He rises slowly, face and mask soaked, and wipes his mouth with the back of his forearm like a satisfied predator.
“ Now…” He rasps, voice gravel-rough.
“ It’s your turn to please me.”
You blink up at him, chest heaving. “ I…I don’t know how.”
A dark chuckle rumbles out of him. He pinches your chin playfully between thumb and forefinger, tilting your face up.
“ That’s why I’m here, kleine Schlampe. I’ll teach you exactly how to worship a cock.”
He shifts off you, climbing properly onto the bed. In one smooth motion he peels off the tank top, revealing miles of scarred, muscled torso. Then the pants and boxer briefs follow, kicked somewhere into the corner.
Your breath catches hard.
His cock slaps heavily against his abs. It's thick, veiny, and angrily red at the tip, already leaking steadily.
It twitches like it’s alive and too heavy to stand fully upright.
You’ve never seen anything so intimidating in real life.
He settles back against the headboard, legs spread, and crooks a finger. “ Come here. Straddle me.”
You crawl over on shaky limbs, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. Up close it looks even bigger.
“ It’s not gonna fit in my mouth.” You blurt, half-panicked.
He laughs softly, brushing your messy hair back from your face. “ I'm not asking you to deepthroat me yet, baby. This is training day. I’ll be gentle.”
His hand wraps around yours, guiding it to his shaft. The heat of him makes you gasp. He’s velvet over steel and pulsing in your grip.
He groans deep in his chest, head falling back against the headboard. “ Just like that. Up and down. Slow at first.”
You stroke him tentatively. His hips twitch and pre-cum beads at the slit and smears over your fingers.
“ Your other hand too.” He orders, voice strained.
“ You need both to cover me.”
You obey, wrapping your second hand above the first. Now both fists work him in tandem, barely meeting around his girth.
He hisses, abs flexing.
“ Good girl…faster now. Twist a little at the top.”
You find a rhythm, guided by the small thrusts of his hips and the filthy praise spilling from his mouth in two languages.
“ Ja, genau so…look at you, jerking my cock like a greedy little slut. Made for this, weren’t you?”
His big hand fists gently in your hair, not pushing, just holding. “ Time to taste me. Open that pretty mouth.”
You lean down, nervous.
He guides the fat head past your lips.
“ Teeth back…suck like it’s a lollipop. Swirl your tongue.”
You do your best, cheeks hollowing, tongue tracing the ridge. Salty precome coats your mouth. He groans long and low, hips rocking carefully.
“ Scheiße…solche eine geile, kleine Hure…taking my cock so well for your first time.”
You bob faster, sloppy and eager, drool escaping the corners of your mouth. You only manage half his length, lips stretched wide, but the sounds he makes.
The grunts, curses, and your name broken on his tongue that spur you on.
“ I'm close…” He warns suddenly, voice ragged.
“ I'm gonna cum Can I finish in your mouth, baby? I want you to swallow every drop.”
You pull off with a wet pop, gasping. “ Yes…please.”
He guides you back down instantly. You suck harder, hands twisting in sync, until his thighs tense under you.
With a guttural, loud grunt he holds your head steady and erupts.
The thick and hot pulses are flooding your mouth. There’s so much you almost choke, swallowing frantically as he keeps coming, hips jerking through it.
Finally spent, he eases you off gently. A stray drop clings to your lower lip as he wipes it with his thumb and pushes it back into your mouth.
“ Swallow.” He murmurs.
You do, throat working.
He exhales shakily, muttering more German in half degradation and half worship then pulls you up against his sweat-slick chest.
His mouth finds yours, kissing deep and filthy, tasting himself on your tongue. When you break apart, both breathless, he smirks against your lips.
“ That was just the starter, Liebling. We’ve got all night.”
His cock that is still half-hard and twitches against your thigh like it’s already impatient for round two.
…
König shifts, rolling you beneath him again with effortless strength. Your legs are trembling, but he doesn’t give you time to recover.
Large hands hook under your knees and pull until your thighs wrap around his hips, ankles locking at the small of his back.
The position opens you completely, and the blunt head of his cock slides teasingly through your soaked folds.
You whimper while he hisses through clenched teeth.
“ Look at you…” He murmurs, voice low and rough.
He drags his length upward, laying the heavy shaft along your soft belly. The tip reaches past your navel is farther than should be possible.
“ Tell me, Liebling…think this will fit inside your tight little cunt?”
You shake your head frantically, eyes wide. “ No way…”
He laughs, dark and fond, the sound vibrating against your skin. “ Trust me. Trust my cock.”
He tucks a strand of sweat-damp hair behind your ear, thumb stroking your cheek. “ You were made for me. Every inch of you was built to take me. I’ll prove it.”
He wraps a fist around himself, stroking lazily, eyes never leaving yours. The fat head dips lower, sliding through your slickness, nudging your entrance.
It's poking, retreating then poking again until you’re squirming and whining.
“ Stay calm, baby.” He soothes, leaning down until his forehead almost touches yours.
“ Tell me something…” His tongue flicks out, tracing your lower lip.
“ Did you ever fantasize about this? About being fucked properly?”
You hesitate. He grips your chin, forcing your gaze to his.
“ Be honest.”
“ Y-yes.” You admit in a broken whisper.
“ But…I never thought it would be you.”
A slow, wicked grin spreads beneath the mask.
“ I’m honored to be the only man who gets to ruin you.” He presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth and is almost tender then lines himself up again.
The blunt tip breaches you slowly, stretching, burning. You hiss sharply, fingers digging into his shoulders.
“ Breathe.” He whispers, kissing you deep and slow to distract you.
“ It hurts at first. I know. But I promise, but soon you’ll be addicted to this feeling. Addicted to me.”
One sharp, controlled thrust and he sinks halfway in. The stretch is overwhelming and tears prick your eyes as something inside gives way.
You cry out, half pain and half shock.
“ Shh, shh…” He hushes immediately, stilling, buried deep.
His arms wrap around you, holding you close. “ Good girl. So fucking good. Taking me so well already.”
He buries his face in your neck, lips brushing the marks he left earlier. “ I’ve got you.”
He doesn’t move, letting your body adjust around the impossible girth. You cling to him, breathing ragged, feeling every throb of his cock inside you.
Minutes pass, two or maybe three until the burn fades into a heavy, aching fullness.
Your nails scrape lightly down his back, a tentative signal.
He lifts his head, searching your face. “ Ready?”
You nod, biting your lip.
He groans like a dying man and starts to move slowly and deliberately drags that make you feel every ridge and vein. Your walls flutter around him, gripping so tightly he curses under his breath.
“ Scheiße…so verdammt eng. Sucking me in like you never want me to leave.”
His pace builds gradually, thrusts deepening until he’s seated fully on every stroke. You cling harder, moaning into his shoulder as pleasure finally overtakes the pain.
Suddenly he pulls out completely.
You gasp at the emptiness, hips chasing him instinctively.
“ Turn over.” He orders, voice rough.
“ Ass up for me.”
You roll onto your stomach, face pressed to the sheets. He strokes himself once, twice, then lands sharp slaps across your ass and thighs.
It's stinging, and possessive marks that make you yelp and arch. Before the sting fades, he’s pushing back in from behind.
The new angle takes him deeper and impossibly deep. You cry out, muffled by the mattress, as he bottoms out against your cervix.
“ Fuck…yes.” He growls, collapsing over your back, one arm banding across your chest.
“ Feel that? That’s me owning you.”
He fucks you hard and steady, hips snapping, skin slapping skin.
Every thrust punches the air from your lungs.
You moan helplessly, fingers clawing the sheets. He shifts again then suddenly, strong arms are flipping you both until he’s sitting against the headboard and you’re straddling him once more.
“ Your turn…” He says, eyes blazing.
“ Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me how much you want it.”
You whimper, but his hands guide your hips. You grip his shaft that is still slick with you and sink down slowly.
The position drives him even deeper as the head kisses your womb. You collapse forward onto his chest with a broken cry.
“ That’s it.” He praises, voice strained.
“ Ride me.”
You start moving. It's awkward at first, then bolder by rolling your hips, and grinding down. His huge hands seize your ass, kneading roughly, then spanking until your skin burns with handprints.
“ Good girl…faster…ja, just like that—”
Pleasure coils tight again. You’re so close when he suddenly stills you.
“ Enough.” He snarls.
“ Let me finish this.”
His arms wrap around your waist like iron bands, hugging you tight to his chest. Then he takes over in brutal, and upward thrusts that drill into you relentlessly.
The headboard bangs against the wall.
“ Cum with me.” He demands between gritted teeth.
“ Milk my cock…let me feel you fall apart.”
One final, deep thrust and you shatter.
The orgasm is ripping through you harder than any before. Your legs quake uncontrollably, walls clamping down in waves. König roars your name, hips jerking erratically as he cums in hot, thick pulses flooding you, and marking you inside just like he promised.
You feel every spurt while his cock throbbing deep.
Finally spent, you collapse fully onto his chest, both of you panting, sweat-slick and trembling. After a long moment, a soft, incredulous laugh rumbles from him.
He strokes your back gently, almost reverently.
“ I can’t believe it.” He murmurs against your temple.
“ I finally got to own you. Thought you’d stay a fantasy forever.” His lips brush your skin.
“ Thank God for that night I walked in on you. It gave me the push I needed to claim what’s mine.”
You’re too boneless to answer, but you press closer, feeling his heartbeat thunder under your cheek.
He holds you tighter, possessive and content.
Mine as the embrace says.
And for the first time, you don’t want to argue.
…
The fairy lights are back on at Puma’s, bottles scattered across the carpet like always. The girls are deep in their usual chaos.
They recapping bad dates, mediocre hookups, and one disastrous attempt at anal that has everyone howling.
You sit tucked into the corner of the sectional, knees drawn up, sipping your drink slowly.
You're quiet. Too quiet.
Your body still remembers yesterday in aching detail.
The stretch, the burn, and the way König filled you so completely you saw stars.
Every time you shift, a dull throb between your legs reminds you exactly how big he is. You’re sore in places you didn’t know could be sore.
And yet…you can’t stop the tiny, secret smile that keeps tugging at your lips.
Lila stops mid-sentence, eyes narrowing. “ Hold up. Why are you glowing like you swallowed a ring light?”
Puma leans forward, smirking. “ And why are you sitting like you rode a horse for twelve hours straight?”
Heat floods your face. “ It’s just…natural glow. Good skincare.”
Four sets of eyes roll in perfect synchronization.
“ Girl, we know post-dick glow when we see it.” Puma says flatly.
“ That’s not La Mer. That’s laid.”
You hide behind your cup, mumbling, “ Fine. I…finally did it. The other day.”
The room explodes.
“ YES!” Lila throws both hands up like her team just scored.
“ About damn time!” Gina cheers.
“ Details!” Puma demands, crawling closer.
“ Who? When? How many times? Spill!”
You bite your lip, cheeks burning hotter. “ It was…König.”
Silence. Then four jaws drop in unison.
“ Your scary-hot soldier neighbor?” Lila squeaks.
“ THE NEIGHBOR?!”
“ MASK GUY?!”
“ SPECIAL FORCES HULK?!”
“ The one who kicked in your door during solo orgasm hour?” Puma adds.
You nod miserably.
“ How the hell did that happen?” Someone demands.
You exhale, defeated. “ My kitchen sink pipe burst. Plumbers were booked. I went next door…asked if he could fix it.”
The room goes dead quiet for half a second then erupts again.
“ Oh my God, he fixed your pipe.” Puma cackles, falling sideways into Lila.
“ He really fixed it well, huh?”
You groan, covering your face. “ Stop.”
“ No, no, continue.” Lila says, wiping tears.
“ What happened next?”
You peek through your fingers. “ He came over. Got under the sink. I tried to help with the flashlight. Ended up…straddling his chest to get the angle right.”
They lose it again.
“ Then?” Puma prompts, eyes gleaming.
“ Then he kind of…lost control. Carried me upstairs. And…” You trail off, gesturing vaguely.
“ And?” They chorus.
You drop your voice to a whisper. “ He was…huge. Like…scary huge. I didn’t think it would fit. He had to go really slow at first. But then…”
You blow out a breath. “ It was intense. He was intense. Aggressive but careful. Kept calling me filthy things in German. Marked me everywhere. Made me come so many times I lost count.”
Puma fans herself dramatically. “ Soldiers, man. Built like tanks, fuck like they’re storming a beach.”
Lila leans in. “ Scale of one to ten?”
You hesitate. “...Twenty.”
They scream.
“ Details on the size.” Puma demands.
“ We need visuals.”
You hold your hands apart like an embarrassing distance.
Their eyes widened.
“ No fucking way.” Someone breathes.
“ He reached here…” You admit, pressing a palm low on your belly.
“ Every time. I felt him for hours after.”
Lila pretends to faint.
“ And the stamina?” Puma asks.
You laugh, shy and giddy at once. “ We went until I literally couldn’t move. He carried me to the bathroom after because my legs were jelly.”
The teasing comes fast and relentless.
“ Guess he really did come running when he heard you needed your pipes cleaned.”
“ Bet he used all his special forces training and precision insertion.”
“ Careful, babe, you keep limping like that and he’s gonna come fix round two.”
“ Look at you…” Puma teases.
“ Walking around bow-legged because your soldier neighbor rearranged your guts. Bet you can still feel him when you sit down.”
You groan, hiding your face in a pillow, but you’re smiling. “ Shut up.”
“ No chance, girl.” Lila laughs.
“ This is prime teasing material for life. You went from virgin queen to getting absolutely wrecked by Captain Austria in one afternoon.”
“ Bet he ruined you for normal-sized men forever.” Someone else chimes in.
You don’t deny it.
You can’t.
Because every time you close your eyes, you feel him.
König stretching you open, growling your name, and filling you so completely the world narrowed to just the two of you.
You throw a pillow at them, face on fire, but you’re laughing too.
Because yeah, in every ache, every mark, and every sore muscle feels like a badge.
Puma raises her glass. “ To our girl who is finally properly railed by the masked mountain next door.”
Glasses clink. You duck your head, smiling into your drink. And between your thighs, the delicious throb echoes.
You never thought you were attracted to grease and grime, sweat and exhaustion, definitely needed a shower and scrub, but no one has worn it like he is.
Mechanic! Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Fem! reader
Tags: dirty, greasy, grimy, sweaty, blue collar worker, yeah I’ll take one of those! you own a pick up, & I actually don’t know anything about cars, eventual smut
Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Ao3 | masterlist
You’re entirely too eager to return to ‘Ghost’s Garage.’ Maybe you walk through the front doors of the rundown shop a little early, definitely do.
Your shitty pick-up probably only needs to be topped off, but you did drive 3000 miles, and it’s not like being on top of maintenance would hurt.
So, you brush your arrival off as maintaining the integrity of your pick-up, and not the fact that sweat drenched skin and a Manchester accent hasn’t left the confines of your mind since.
Unfortunately, you’re not greeted by Simon when you arrive, instead, blonde hair is replaced with a brown Mohawk, said English accent replaced by a Scottish one.
“Oi, hello lass!” The man greets, a wide smile on his lips.
“Oh, hi,” You respond, giving him a tight smile in return, “Is Simon not here?”
“Aye, he’s busy wi’ another car right now, but ah can help ye, nae worries,” He explains, with an encouraging nod.
You try your best to hide the disappointment in your tone, but its hard when you did your hair this morning with Simon in mind, when you wore your uncomfortable pencil skirt to work with him in mind, when you showed up after work instead of on your day off because you had been hoping that you could see him just as filthy after a full days of work.
“Ah, okay,” You mumble quietly, “I just need my oil changed is all.”
You can’t help, but mourn the money you’re about to spend on an oil change you don’t really need, when the whole reason you were so adamant to return isn’t plausible. It’s too late to walk out now, how desperate would you look if you left because Simon wouldn’t be the one working on your car?
So, you accept your fate, that it wasn’t in the cards, listen to the new man’s instructions and pull your truck into the service drive.
Guilt eats at your chest because it’s not really the mohawked mans fault; he isn’t even ugly, definitely a sight for sore eyes— desperate eyes that is. He wears less than Simon had, a white tank top that’s a little too tight for him, and worn in jeans with more than one rip in them. Wears it a little braver than Simon had, smug and confident, probably a heartthrob for all the mom’s cars he works on, probably flirts with all of them too with no actual intentions, just to make them feel good.
When you park in the service drive, your wandering eyes find Simon across the garage, bent over the hood of a car. It’s not your truck; you won’t get to talk to him, but you think it’s worth it when he’s bent so low over the sedan that his white shirt rises over his hips as he reaches forward. The sliver revealed is paler than the rest of his bronzed skin, freckles littered across the lighter flesh, draws excess saliva in your cheeks, embarrassingly so, over an inch of skin.
But it makes your mind wander, filthy images of connecting the sun marks with timid fingers and shaking hesitation, find out how far down the brown freckles trail.
You don’t have to imagine for long, not when he realizes you’re standing across the garage, gawking at him with a ravenous hunger in your eyes, and starts to walk over to you. He dabs at the sweat on his hairline, makes his shirt rise even higher, reveals light brown freckles curled over his abdomen and a blonde happy trail disappearing into his coveralls.
It’s almost impossible to force your eyes up, find his gaze when he’s walking around like that. With his fucking happy trail on display between the sweat drenched skin and grimy oil marks. The spitting image of a hard working man, powerful and stout, makes a stinging warmth coil in your limbs, thighs pressing tightly together.
“Hi,” You squeak when he stops in front of you, cheeks burning hot in embarrassment because you can’t decide if getting caught drawing lewd shapes with his freckles outweighs the reward of him approaching you.
“Hi, sweeth’art.”— and you decide right then and there that getting caught was worth it when the deep timbre of his voice washes over your shoulders.
He’s positively filthy, more so than last time.
Wet, greasy.
You can smell it on him just as strongly as you can see it on his skin. Like car oil that sat out for too long, the rubber burnt off tires.
A heavy musk, acrid, pungent odor.
You have half the mind to know you should be disgusted by it, that a dirty mechanic calling you a term of endearment should crawl under your skin and make you uncomfortable, but it does the complete opposite. It’s not like you have much of a fight in that game when you were just greedily memorizing his blonde tufts of hair, picturing how it would curl over his pelvis, matted and damp from his hard work.
Even still, you’re pinpointing all the places fingerprint grease stains would imprint on your skin in his wake. How thick the layers of sweat and grime would taste on your tongue.
“Johnny, I got ‘his one, okay?” He shouts to the other side of the garage.
Johnny wears a devious smirk on his face, but Simon doesn’t let you see it for long, shifting to face you just as quickly as he wore it.
You’re not sure if you took a step forward or if Simon was standing this close to begin with. Maybe he was just truly this massive, but you have to tilt your head back just to look at him. He doesn’t necessarily make it easy either, not when he stares down at you with piercing eyes, makes you feel out of your own skin.
“You jus’ need yer oil again?” He asks.
You nod, licking your lips, “Yes, but I thought you were busy? You don’t have to stop to help.”
“Don’t y’worry,” He reassures, shaking his head, “I’ll do it, told you t’come back ‘n you listened didn’t ya?”
You can’t do anything else but nod because you did listen, practically thought of any excuse to find yourself back in his office, his thick build over your engine over you, as soon as possible.
Simon’s lips twitch at your agreement, “Jus’ sit in my office, yeah? No worries, I’ll take care of you.”
You find yourself back in Simon’s office, a warmth to your skin that you can’t seem to shake, not when you keep thinking of every imaginable way he could take care of you. It only gets worse when you perch yourself on the edge of the seat to get the best view of him working on your pick-up.
Maybe it’s something primal, but seeing his large frame bent over, working on your truck and not someone else’s sedan flares satisfaction in your chest. Especially when you watch his sweat drip from his forehead onto your engine, splattered droplets on your blue hood.
If it was anyone else it would make your stomach twist in disgust, gnawing at the back of your mind until you could wipe the hood clean, but it’s not. You’re not entirely sure why you feel this way, maybe it’s his physique that allows you to brush these things off, but it scratches at something carnal in your conscious.
You don’t get much time to appreciate the divots in his shoulders and neck like you truly wanted, like a specimen of his kind really deserves, when Johnny walks in the room. You fall back into the chair quickly, trying to hide the way you were practically leaning forward desperately to see Simon.
He wears a knowing smile, but thankfully, he doesn’t say anything about it, “Didnae think ma work would be up tae par?”
You chuckle lightly, shaking your head, “No, Simon insisted.”
“Never heard of tha’ man takin’ on extra work willingly,” He jokes, leaning against the window sill— quiet irritation settling in your stomach as he covers Simon completely from your view.
“Must be that skirt yer wearin’.”
Your eyes widen, face burning, “Jus’ my work clothes.”
You’re not lying, they are your work clothes, just happen to be the more form fitting ones, is all.
“And your work clothes?” You remark, arching your brow at him, gesturing from head to toe, because his outfit is entirely more barren than yours is.
“Workin’ man’s uniform,” He shrugs nonchalantly, but he struts across the thin office and does a twirl for you, propping his hip out as he poses.
You open your mouth to retort, but before you can, Simon walks into the office.
“Johnny, I thought I told ya to stop harassin’ our customers.”
“Ah’m doin’ nae such thing. Just tellin’ lass here she might’ve got oil grease on her skirt.”
You furrow your brows at his words, looking down at the front of your skirt with a pout because you really didn’t want to stain the skirt without a purpose, except you don’t see anything.
“Nae, nae,” He shakes his head, gesturing to your back.
You do a spin of sorts, arching your head to find what he’s referring to.
“Johnny.” Simon spits.
His tone has more bite to it than you completely understand, but he grabs your arm, pushing you to face forward again.
“There’s nothin’,” Simon explains.
You’re still confused, brows still pinched together, until you look at Johnny, a proud smile smeared across his face.
“Aw, come on, ye liked it jus’ as much, Si,” Johnny teases, realization dawning on you, throat constricting in embarrassment, but he mumbles an apologize when he meets Simon’s scowl.
“Your pick-ups ready for ya,” Simon says, ignoring Johnny.
You follow him out of the office gratefully, too humiliated to even think for yourself right now.
“Is it too much?” You ask Simon with a frown.
“Huh?”
You tug on the seams of your skirt as an explanation.
“Oh,” He says before pausing, “No, no ‘ts not— you look great.”
“Thank you,” You murmur bashfully, atleast you got a compliment out of the whole ordeal, “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothin’.”
“No!” You protest, “You have to let me pay you back somehow!”
You’re not prepared for the way his expression changes, irises dipping into something dark, and you’re definitely not prepared for his next request.
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ wc: 8.2k
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Your husband asks for an open marriage leading into it breaking and your life blossoming into something new.
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ repost + 18+ only content: mdni + explicit smut + oc! husband + cheating from him + angst + I added all parts together
"I want an open marriage." Your husband's words take you off guard, the rhythmic chopping of your knife against the cutting board stops abruptly.
Crickets fill the silence in the kitchen from the open window as you look at him taken aback.
A colorful blend of emotions burst behind your eyes like fireworks. Pain, hurt, anger, sadness, and then betrayal. You've heard of men asking their wives for this to have a clear conscience while cheating to make themselves feel better.
He stands on the opposite side of the counter watching you closely, waiting for your answer.
Who does he want to fuck so bad?
Mentally you flip through pictures of your friends.
Then it hits you. He wants your co-worker, Mia. Young. Pretty. Basically flawless.
You grip the knife tighter and flip through his friends.
Mia even told you accidentally once that he is "Just so handsome!" Albeit she was under the influence, though the saying goes. 'A drunk tongue speaks a sober mind.' She isn't lying.
Your husband shifts his weight between both feet clearly anxious, his fingers drum against the counter as you resume chopping vegetables for the meal prep for both of you.
"John."
His eyebrows meet in the middle confusion written all over his face. "John?" He repeats.
"Yes, I want to go on a date and potentially fuck your friend, John Price." You simply reply.
Something between disgust and jealousy crawls into his expression. "No way. Why him?"
You hum and look at your husband, the man who promised you forever to be only with each other is now asking for a girlfriend?
For a few beats too long you stay silent and add the vegetables to the pot letting him suffer. "He's cute, also I like the beard." You say and hear your husband scoff.
He strokes his bare chin and looks at the floor. “You don't like beards. Why now?”
“I thought since we're trying new things out, why not? I'll be there tomorrow to ask him out for dinner this weekend.” You say.
Tension crackles in the room as your husband paces the kitchen. “He won't do it. Price would never agree to date you.”
His words come out sharp, aiming to make it hurt. It wasn't too surprising to find out what he wants, but now he's being a dick?
You click the lid shut to only your lunch container and put it in the fridge. “Oh, he'll want more than just to date me, don't worry.”
Monday morning came a lot faster than you anticipated, as if the universe knew what you were doing. Last night you called Mia and told her about the whole ordeal that left you feeling a storm of emotions. Part of you knew your marriage was over. The relationship grew stale and while you tried to fix it, soak up some of what used to be between you and your husband was now dried up and brick hard like a dry sponge.
Anxiety pulses through your veins, making the spot below your neck throb visibly, the soft leather of the car seat barely feels real, nor does the sun shining through your windshield, which does little to warm the dread in your belly that quickly turns into an iceberg freezing you to your spot. But you were not about to let your husband show you up, get a date, and fuck someone else when he hasn’t fucked you in months.
You check your reflection once more in the visor to make sure your hair and little bit of makeup are in place even though you kept the window up on the drive over, suffering from the heat because your husband refuses to fix the AC. You snap it shut with a soft sigh. John Price is inside the building in front of you, where your husband happens to work and spends a lot of time, but where does he go after?
His words come back and hit you square in the face like a baseball, shattering everything you thought you knew about your marriage and who he is as a person. “I want an open marriage.” Who asks for one already with a person in mind? Someone with an intent to cheat but who wants permission because it's easier to beg for forgiveness than to just ask your wife to have a side relationship?
Apparently not such a good one if he wants to fuck your co-worker, who literally squealed and gushed over the phone when you told her about him asking her out. You could hear her voice still, shrill and filled with that sort of excitement you used to get when your husband asked you on your first date.
“Here goes nothing.” Gathering up all the courage you have, you push the door open and walk up the sidewalk, each step slower than the last as your hands fidget and smooth down your skirt. You tugged on a simple skirt and shirt, nothing fancy, or said, “Hey! I want to fuck you to piss my husband off!”
It wasn’t just that you wanted to piss him off, it was mostly about you taking back the power and your sense of direction you lost over the last year in your marriage and well, maybe a little bit of it was you wanting to give him his own taste of medicine, hold his nose shut and make him swallow it.
You already called a lawyer this morning because, like hell, were you staying married to him.
John is probably in his office, maybe waiting for you already? You talked to him a few times at the holiday party they have, where he was nothing but a gentleman, paying close attention to what you spoke. He even leaned in when he didn’t hear you, and his musk was strong, earthy, and all fucking man.
Did your husband tell him already? What would he think about getting involved? Would he? Your mouth felt like you stuffed cotton in it and it didn’t matter how many times you try to swallow to wet it or your lips, your nerves felt like they were flayed and then seared on a grill.
A few seconds later you realize you're inside.
The small lobby is lit up with soft buttery lamps that didn’t make your eyes strain, with a few couches in the corner and a desk. A cool breeze from the AC helps the heat that flushes through you when the secretary greets you when you see him by his office or what you think is talking to someone else, nodding his head.
You look at her, her words not registering when John approaches, and all your blood rushes to your ears from the nerves tingling all over like tiny thumbtacks being rained down on you. “Your husband isn't here. He’s at lunch. You need anythin’?” He asks kindly with a smile that crinkles.
You snap out of your trance and smile back, trying not to fidget with your hands too much. “I know, I came to see you actually.” You say and give him a look that all but begs for him to take you to his office.
The secretary is now leaning in subtly, her eyes trained on the computer while listening. “Come to my office then.” John smiles and waits for you to step next to him before he walks with you down the tiled hallway, where he reaches a heavy door that has his nameplate: Captain John Price.
When your husband enrolled in the military at the tender age of nineteen, he insisted that you two get married so he could take care of you, so young and dumb and helplessly in love, you agreed. Now it’s biting you in the ass and speaking of ass, John has a nice one, plump and very round too.
Mentally you scold yourself and let your gaze travel up his broad body, settling on his eyes that most definitely caught you checking him out, but he didn’t say anything, just smiled and opened the door, his large palm stretching out to show you to the chairs he placed in front of his desk. “What’s goin’ on?”
You walk inside and feel your heartbeat triple and the butterflies in your belly flap harder like a whirlwind of buttery soft wings that could make you float, your muscles like jelly as you walk to the chair that John pulls out for you, a broken thank you parting your lips, and then you sink into the cushion, now fidgeting.
John took his seat behind his desk and leaned back, the chair creaking. His eyes stay trained on you, warm and gentle, waiting patiently for you to tell him why you’re here, a soldier’s wife? He’s always wondered what you saw in your husband, but seeing that John didn’t even have a girlfriend, he couldn’t speak on that. “Has my husband talked to you?” You ask and pull on your fingertips, watching him.
“About?”
That fucking bastard! Of course, he wouldn’t talk to him.
Your thoughts unravel like yarn being spilt from a bowl, the colorful strands, each one depicting your emotions, left a mess in your skull as you blink and gather up the rest of your courage. “He…asked me for an open marriage the other night, he wants to fuck my co-worker and I asked about you.” You reply basically in one breath and opt to stand up now, the chair making no noise as it slides back.
John wasn’t expecting to hear that. If anything, he thought it was some type of drama at home that was being brought to work, and while it was being brought to your husband's job, it wasn’t the type of drama John was thinking of. He ran a palm over his beard, watching as you paced in front of his desk anxiously.
He stands and walks over to you, his hand resting on your shoulder, stopping you in your tracks. Your wide eyes meet his, your legs already quivering because what the hell were you thinking? “I think a beautiful woman like yourself deserves to be wined and dined first, yeah? Here’s my number.”
His answer brings so much relief that floods your body your knees give out and John is right there, one strong arm hooks around your waist, holding you upright. “Okay.” Is all you manage as you rest your hands on his chest, your gazes locked for a moment as you count the dark blue flecks in his eyes when he pulls away to scribble his number on a piece of paper and hand it to you with a softer smile than before.
“A man who doesn’t know his wife’s worth isn’t a man worth keeping around.” John whispers in your ear when he leans in to kiss your cheek before he walks out with you to your car, where you two stand, your eyes unable to meet his as his words replay in your head like a broken record. Does he like you?
It’s been about five years since your husband started working on this base, sometimes he would be deployed to a different one, and hopefully soon he would be shipped out again, giving you the house to be alone without him talking about Mia and how well the date went while she blows your phone up.
“Thursday at six? I’ll pick you up. I’ll tell your husband too.” John says, his voice tightening when he says "husband," and all you can do is nod again and flash him a smile before returning the cheek kiss. He opens your door and closes it and watches as you drive away, mentally doing backflips the entire ride home.
Part of you couldn’t believe he actually said yes, that he was going to take you on a date while already married and you know this should make you feel guilty, but you can’t, not while your husband wants this. His car greets you first, gleaming under the sun. Confusion and irritation seep into you as you get out.
He greets you by the front door, face blank and lips drawn into a thin line. “Mia had to cancel our date on Thursday. Do you want to keep the reservations?” He asks, watching as you hang your keys up and laugh.
Full-on bladder-bursting laughter spills from your lips, the last few days of knowing your marriage was finally over have stained your sanity only temporarily, thankfully. You wipe at your eyes and pat his chest with a mock smile. “Thursday? I’m busy. John’s picking me up, by the way. Fuck you for asking him.”
His eyes widen only for a second, then they turn into slits. “Who asks their wife for an open marriage and then, when his date has to cancel, asks her to go on it with him to a dinner set for another woman? Anyway, I came home to look the dresser for a dress, but I think I’ll go out and buy a new one.”
You grab your keys and turn on your heel leaving your husband speechless like he did on Friday night.
Multicolored fabric pops out at you like a magician's bad trick, nothing was color coordinated, and the sizes were a mess too, making it impossible to find yours. Your phone vibrates in your pocket, another text from your husband. Ever since last night he has been pouting and stomping.
His footsteps were literally rattling the walls while mumbling under his breath so you slept on the couch because sleeping next to him was like being in bed with a stranger. You debated texting John under the covers like a teenager staying up way past their curfew, but you didn't and fell asleep, waking up with a kink in your neck.
John’s face flashed in your mind, and you remember how his arm felt around your waist. How would it feel to have him hold you as he stretches you out? Nasty images of riding him in his car or him bending you over his desk blurred behind your eyelids, making you flush with heat and grip the shirt in your hand.
Before taking the couch last night, you went to the park instead and sat in your car and ordered a pizza before going home because you were too exhausted to go out in public, nor did you really want to. You weren’t ready for that and you spent most of the night crying away the remnants of what you felt for your husband. Little does he know it, but he’s giving you the best gift he could’ve ever given you.
Now it was Tuesday afternoon and you were at the mall in one of the many boutique stores looking for a dress or at least something you could put together for your date Thursday, which felt like forever away.
He was home and you didn't want to be around him anymore so before he woke up, you bolted out the front door, hardly getting yourself together. You couldn't stomach being around him and went to the mall in hopes of finding a new outfit and maybe a new lip gloss or something.
All the ones in your closet were outdated and ones you wore on dates with him and your makeup was expired. Long ago you stopped using it to impress him, but you always appreciated a good lip gloss.
Mia's shrill voice shatters your concentration, her heels sinking into the plush carpet with her arms wide open as she strolls toward you with a smile that makes your cheeks hurt. “Hi! It's so funny seeing you outside of our work!” She squeals and hugs you, a heavily familiar scent assaulting your nose.
It was your husband's.
A sick feeling crept up your throat like vines slowly growing, suffocating you little by little until it choked you. However, you manage to speak to her so you don't do something you’ll regret.
“Mia. Hello. It's because we're there a lot.” You reply with a cool tone, stepping back.
Your eyes travel up the length of her body twice because you saw the bruise on her ankle, a lovely place your husband loves to kiss on you, well loved. She giggles and waves her hand like you told her a joke.
For a moment you stare at her, wanting to grab her shoulders and scream in her face for agreeing to sleep with your husband. The other part was glad she helped implode your marriage, exposing the snake your husband really is. Even before suggesting all this, he was slowly turning into someone you didn't recognize, taking the image of your marriage with him, what were butterflies at first was now lead in your gut.
Dates postponed, only to never happen. Conversations shift to arguments. Kissing and sex stopped altogether, leaving you pent up over the last year basically and always taking care of yourself with a toy that could never replace the touch or kiss of someone. Yes, it made you cum, but you wanted someone to talk you through it and make you theirs over and over, something John could easily do.
Him asking for an open marriage concreted the thoughts you were already having.
It’s time to divorce him.
“Are you shopping? I think that would look awesome on you!” She says, pointing at the hanger in your right hand with a grin, bringing you back to Earth.
“It seems we have the same taste.”
The subtle insult didn't faze sweet little Mia. Immediately you felt a twinge of guilt and gratitude because ultimately she was taking the trash out for you. “Can I join?”
For the next hour you let Mia tag along for some reason.
She was excited the entire time, practically glowing as if you weren't the wife of the man she was hooking up with. You knew why she was beaming like a light. Good sex with someone you love will do that.
“I'm sorry for everything, you know.” You snap your head up from digging in your purse for your keys to look at her, it was time to part ways as she wants to go home. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I love him.”
Mia's bottom lip trembles as she sucks in a breath. Her sentence makes your chest pulse with the memory of the same realization you had when you first met him. Now when you look at him, you feel disgust, and you’re not even sure who he is. “Don’t worry about it. Honestly. I'm a little sad, upset, and pissed, but now I know he truly doesn't want just me, and our marriage was on the rocks when he suggested it anyway.”
Her eyes flash with regret as she suddenly takes your hands and squeezes gently. “He told me you got a date. I say, go get laid. You deserve it.”
You try not to grin and nod your head.
“That's the plan.”
Mia walks you to your car and hugs you before walking off and pulling her phone out. You slid into the driver's seat and sigh rubbing your face not believing what you did.
What the fuck just happened?
Your emotions came swinging like a pendulum. Pissed. Sad. Happy. Shame.
It was strange to shop with Mia after everything went down, after she confessed she loves your husband.
A few times you almost asked why she canceled the date then.
But you truly didn't care anymore. You checked out of the relationship a long time ago, now it was your turn to be happy.
Your husband wants an open marriage?
He's about to find out just how open it can get. You knew about John's friends and teammates, you've met them before and seen them around a few times. Maybe you might go on a few dates and fuck them. There weren’t any rules now. As soon as you pull in your driveway and see your husband's car, you feel all the life drain out of you. There was a point when you would've fought for your marriage.
It wasn't like he was trying to fix it or spice it up either. This was him wanting to openly cheat. With your bags in hand, you get out and take slow steps until you're inside.
Thankfully the downstairs was completely dark, meaning he was upstairs. Relief floods your body and you flop on the couch thinking of John. You reach for your phone and scroll through your contacts for him.
Outgoing message
Hi. Are you busy?
Incoming message
No.
You stare at the screen and decide to call him and sit up, melting on the cushion like lava, hot and bubbly from hearing his voice.
“Are you okay, love?”
It takes you a second to respond. “Yes, I wanted to talk to you. How are you doing?”
“I'm a lucky bloke then. Doing right as rain, darlin’. Yourself?” He asks unknowingly, doing the same thing you are on his couch, sitting there with his free hand on his knee wondering what you were doing.
Another wave of heat floods your veins, your body tingles with emotions you haven't felt in a very long time. “I'm okay. Today was a day. I ran into my husband's girlfriend and we went shopping together.”
“Your husband's girlfriend? Bloody hell. How are you handlin’ this? I'm listenin’.”
He wants to know how you're doing.
You couldn't remember the last time your husband asked you that, or when you two had a conversation that didn't end ugly.
“Can you pick me up?” The words tumble from your mouth before you can stop them.
Immediately, John says. “Yes, send me your address.” You hang up and clutch your phone to your chest with a smile.
John's phone dings with a new message two seconds after you hang up containing your address and a few square blocks.
His flip phone doesn't receive emojis.
You two mirrored each other in your own homes. As soon as you hang up, you scramble off the couch and get ready as quickly as you can, stopping to check your reflection in the mirror.
With quiet footsteps down the hallway, you go through the clean clothes in the laundry room looking for something decent. As soon as you pull it on, you dash out to the bathroom and add the final steps. You're glad John agreed to pick you up.
John is warm and kind, but so was your husband at first too. He was charming and able to have you under him on the first date.
No! Stop. John is different.
You scold the negative thoughts. You fucking deserve this and your pussy ate.
Maybe not tonight, or maybe. You wrestle with the decision as you slip your shoes on and head outside, closing the front door.
You lock it up unsure and turn just in time to see John's vehicle pull in.
“Hi!” You greet John with a hug the moment he steps out of his truck, gravitating to his force, you snuggle into his shirt and sigh, grateful that he came without even needing to be asked to and for how quick he showed up.
Tears prick your eyes, and the next thing you know, you're bawling into his chest from holding everything in the last few days. John's hand smoothes down your back in comforting circles, inviting you closer.
Everything has finally bubbled over, leaving you a mess of tears and snot.
Your husband's girlfriend and her saying she loves him as if she were telling her best friend and not you, the wife. “Today fucking sucks.” You cry and grip onto him tightly.
John is gentle as he guides you to the passenger side of his truck, opening the door and helping you in, making sure you're buckled. “Tell me about it then, love.”
His door clicks shut, shutting out everything, giving you a moment to breathe as John's musky scent surrounds you like a well-worn veil. “Where to?” He asks, taking your hand.
Everything felt so right but yet a little wrong at the same time. Getting in a man’s car and asking him to take you to his place? Maybe because you're still married, you look down at your wedding ring now, seeing a mini handcuff.
“Your place?”
“Off we go.”
You slip off the glittering band from your finger, roll the window down, and throw it in the yard, letting the cool breeze wash over you. “You're better off without that arse, you deserve better than that, love, someone who will love you and only you.”
Tears stream down your face like steady waterfalls, soaking your shirt. “His girlfriend told me she loves him, which means they've been fucking before he even asked about the open marriage. What the fucking fuck?” You mutter.
Anger seeps into your voice now as you dry your face and lean back into the seat, daring a glance at John, who looks calm, but his jaw says a different thing.
“He's a bloody dick for treating you that way. And her? She's as bad as he is, darlin’, you're better off without both of them." He says and squeezes your hand.
A flutter of something kicks off in your chest and rains down into your stomach. He listens and has your back? That's a change, and it feels so good you want to kiss him. “Thank you for listening to me. It means a lot.”
On the ride over you stew in your thoughts of Mia going to your house and fucking your husband in the bed you two used to share, him inviting her once you left without even wondering where you went probably.
What shitty things to do.
John pulls into his driveway. “Not a problem, love.” He murmurs, looking at you, knowing you were deep in your head.
You lean in, giving him the go to follow your lead. Your faces are inches apart as you stare into his eyes, feeling blood rush to your ears and heat pool in your cheeks, then spiderwebsall over. “Can I kiss you?” You ask shyly.
His lips brush against yours, warm and chapped. He tastes like mint, with each peck you deepen it, feeling the knot in your belly untie, and your tongue teases the seam of his lips. It was everything you want in a kiss, the longing that burns like hot coals in your throat.
Just as hungry as you are, John kisses you deeply. “I couldn't stop thinking about you, darlin', since you came into my office.” His voice is soft, laced with pure adoration, making you tremble. He pecks your lips softly, his fingers curling around the back of your neck as his warmth seeps into you like a balm that heals you.
“I can’t stop thinking about you either, since that day in your office.”
John smiles against your lips and kisses you again, growing drunk on your taste. The way you lean into him is enough to have the poor man’s cock throbbing and twitching behind his zipper, but you don’t deserve to be fucked in his truck. No, you deserve a lot better than that. “Let’s go inside, darlin'.”
He gets out of the driver's seat and rounds the hood to open your door, his hand warm and steady in your palm. John Price’s house was quaint, small enough to fit all of his belongings, which wasn’t much for a man who doesn’t need a lot. “Thank you for, you know,” you gesture to him and you.
“You don’t need to thank me. Shoes love.” John crouches by your feet and slips your shoes off one by one, his fingers tracing over the bone as his eyes meet yours, charging the moment and making your insides melt and slosh around.
You swallow the lump in your throat and lean down to kiss him again, helping him stand. Hand in hand he led you to the kitchen and pulled out a barstool.
“White or red?” John asks, pulling out two wine bottles, both half drunk.
“Sweet white, please.”
Glug. Glug. Glug.
You watch the white wine gush from the top like a rushing waterfall before John tips it back up and sets it down with a gentle thunk, then he takes the spot next to you. “Talk to me.”
His hand rests on your back as he watches you intently and clearly interested in whatever else you might need to spill.
“I feel so…stupid. I let her come shopping with me, and deep down I think I wanted to see what it was about her that made him fall in love with her and out of love with me like some sort of self-punishment even though I didn’t do anything wrong or for him to not want me anymore.”
Your confession hangs like a heavy curtain, one that suffocates. “I know our marriage was over before he asked about opening it. But why not divorce me and then go fuck someone else? We…” You draw in a shaky breath and take a sip of wine, leaning subconsciously into John, seeking out more of his steady warm presence.
“We've only been with each other in every single way, and I think he wants a new pussy to fuck, which is whatever. We haven’t had sex in months, probably close to a year, I lost track after the first month. I’m pretty and good in bed. His fucking loss.”
It's vulgar and raw, but you can't seem to stop yourself. Wine flows easily in your blood, making it easier to tell John, who tries not to think about just how pretty you are or how good you are in bed, he is a gentleman, not a horny teenager.
You slip off the barstool, hating how it took away John's touch, but you need to pace or you'll start screaming. Emotions burst free like squealing fireworks.
You tilt your head back and drain the rest of your wine before letting John refill it.
“Get it all out, sweetheart, tell me.”
His words only encourage you further. “I can't believe I let his girlfriend tag along with me! It must've been shock, I think. The betrayal of my co-worker who knew I was married! Did I tell you that before she ran into me at the mall, they fucked in our bed? Where the fuck is the class!?” You all but shout.
John stands and leans against the counter, crossing his arms, his jaw tight with the new information. Later tonight he would call his mates and tell them about your husband and make a plan to visit him and have a conversation.
“They're mutts.”
“You're absolutely right. Mia is a bitch, a sneaky little slut. I don't like saying those things about someone, but damn. She is.” You raise your hands and let them drop to your sides, then lean against John, letting him swallow you in his arms as he kisses the top of your head.
“Let's get you on something more comfortable for you, love.” He places his hand on your lower back and guides you to his living room that scarcely has any furniture, but enough for a few people to sit on.
You settle on the couch and sag against the cushions, thankful for John, who takes the end and pats his lap. “Feet.”
“You're not going to tickle me, are you?” You tease and laugh, a little wine tipsy.
John chuckles and shakes his head. “Unless you're into it.”
You giggle and cover your mouth. “Foot massages? Yes. Feet tickling? No, unless you're into getting your face kicked.”
He rubs his chin and shakes his head as if to say no as you perch your feet where his hands were open, waiting. “Good girl.”
Oh fuck.
Those words went straight to your neglected clit that throbs. You try to ignore that feeling, but John knew what he was doing as he massaged away the ache in the arch, one that you’ve been trying to get rid of yourself with cold water bottles and your own fingers that did not do the job.
“That feels so wonderful. You’re good with your hands.”
You met his gaze and flushed with heat as you smiled and tried to hide the fact that you felt like a damn teenager on a first day, the butterflies flapping so hard in your stomach you swore you could take flight right off John’s couch.
For a few minutes he works on your left foot and then treats your right the same way. “Need anything else?” He asks, making sure you didn’t want for anything. It was such a difference between him and your husband.
“Maybe another glass of wine?”
John leans over and kisses you, barely, but enough that it makes your toes curl. You watch him, your eyes glued to his ass, round and plump. You need to ask him what it is that he does to get it like that, then you glance around his living room to see a few pictures you didn’t notice before.
You stand and walk over to the frames that hung neatly on the wall, scanning each one, able to pick out his teammates when you see a picture of the four of them and Mia standing next to Simon, her hand tightly holding his as she stares into the camera. The look in her eyes tells you one thing: she hates her life. Because as someone who has been hating their life the last year, you knew.
Confusion swirls like a raging winter storm in your head icing out every other thought, the howling of thoughts sounds anguished as you stare at the glaring glass that held the frame of John and his team, with Mia.
You stumble back and feel bile rise like floodwater, the wine sloshes in your belly as you run to the kitchen to empty your stomach trash can, hunching over it as John turns around to watch with wide eyes.
“Aye! What’s the matter darlin’?” John asks, his tone full of concern and worry and his touch is warm on your shoulder as you grab a napkin and dab at your mouth while jerking away from him with a frown. Your whole body shook as you glared at him, your lip curling in disgust.
You point to the living room, tears welling in your eyes. “You…you know Mia! Did you fuck her too? Did she hire you to make my life a living fucking hell or something? I don’t understand her problem with me!” You spit and corner yourself against the counters watching as John’s face contorts with his emotions.
“Mia? As in Simon’s wife?” He asks confused and clearly thrown off by your change of character, but he stays put by the wine glasses, the kitchen now thick with a different kind of tension, one that you’ve been trying to run away from in your own home, and now this?
Simon’s wife? His words hit you like a train. Mia is married too? She’s never said a damn word.
But it wasn’t like you two were best friends, just co-workers who idly chatted about their day, and of course, you used to gush about your husband to your few friends and sometimes Mia would listen. Has she been planning this the entire time? Your head spun like an out-of-control washing machine.
“She’s married?”
John sighs and rubs his beard like he didn’t want to tell you because it wasn’t his business to be telling anyone, but he isn’t going to waste time in calling up Simon to ask permission. “Legally yes, they’re separated, have been for months now love.”
“She’s married to Simon Riley but chose my husband to fuck and fall in love with?” You ask and grip the counter for support. Your entire body feels like it is on a Weeble-Wobble while you desperately hang on, hoping you don’t fall and crash, but it was too late. You sink to the floor in a heap of raw tears.
John is immediately at your side, his hands cupping your face, his rough thumbs wiping away the fat streams of water that stain your cheeks. His blue eyes remind you of the deep end of the pool where water cuts through. “I never liked Mia or fucked her. If she ever asked me to hurt you, I’d never do it.”
His warmth seeps into you like soil soaking up rainwater. It reaches parts of you that have never been touched before, he shifts closer and sits on his kitchen floor with you, his hands never leaving your face as he wipes away the falling tears.
He continues to wipe away your tears as your sobs turn into sniffles. “Welcome to the club of not liking Mia.”
You look at him and the both of you smile then laugh and press your heads together. “I need to brush my teeth… And I’m sorry for accusing you of trying to mess with me, the last year has been something and you’ve been nothing but sweet to me and I’m sure you’ve got more than you bargained for.”
“I understand, darlin’. You’ve been through hell and learned more about your husband’s affair. It’s only natural that you would lash out like that. I bargained for someone real, and that you are my love. Let’s get you up and get you in the bathroom. I have a new pack of toothbrushes, you can use one.” His understanding of the whole situation floods you with relief and leaves your body sagging with it.
How he looks at you and how he listens like you didn’t act crazy is mindblowing. Your brain feels fuzzy as you take his hand and let him help you up. John never lets go of you as he guides you into the small bathroom, where he shows you where everything is. “I’ll be in the livin’ room when you’re done, love.”
You stare at your reflection in the mirror and hate how lifeless you look. All because of a man.
What the fuck?
It took you a few minutes to brush your teeth and tongue before you slip out of the bathroom and back into the living room where you hear the last bit of John’s conversation. “...Mia is fuckin’ with her, and I won’t stand for it.” His eyes lock onto yours as he mutters something into the phone before putting it down.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hear that. Thank you again, John, really. You have been wonderful and I hate to ask, but can I stay here? I don’t want to go home.” You fidget with your fingers and look away from his intense gaze.
John pats the couch and holds his arm open for you. “Stop apologizin’ love. You can stay as long as you want, I’ll take the couch and you can have my bed. Whatever you need.” It takes only a second to make it over to John, where you settled in next to him. Nuzzling your face into his side with a soft sigh.
Silence fills the space of the living room, letting John hold you close to him, his fingers smoothing down your shoulder and arm. “You smell so good and you’re so kind. I think you're made up of husband material.” You tease and melt in his embrace thankful that you have someone here with you.
You know it’s not John’s job to clean up the broken pieces of your life, but having him hold the dustpan was more than helpful. It was so nice to be held again that it made you tear up, the physical release is draining. “Hopefully someone someday gets to wear me then.” He teases back.
You pull away and look at him biting your lower lip. “Will you sleep with me? Like actual sleep, I wanted to have sex, I have my favorite panties on too and everything. However, I am so exhausted.” You murmur.
“Say no more. Holdin’ you is a privilege and havin’ you in my bed is a bloody blessin’.”
A few minutes pass and John has you back in his arms after you tugged on his shirt in his bed where the scent of you is absorbed by his sheets and John finds out that your head fits perfectly on his chest too.
Sleep took hold of you like a thief in the night, never moving from your spot until you felt the cold sheets under you the next morning. Light streams highlighting the dustmotes that glitter in the sun from the open curtains, the smell of food beckon you from the warm sheets as you pad down the hall and into the kitchen where you watch him for a few seconds before stepping further in with a soft smile. “Good morning.” You tell him.
John stands at the stove, changed from last night. “Mornin’ sweetheart. Medicine and water on the counter.” He tells you with a smile that makes your tummy flutter. The last couple of days, John has been nothing but sweet to you, willing to listen, help whenever and however you need it. He’s what you want.
His shirt tickles the tops of your thighs as you settle on the barstool and take the medicine he put on a small plate with the ice-cold water. “How did you sleep?” He asks and hands you a plate full of food that steams, the thick aroma makes your stomach growl as you barely reply and start eating fast.
It’s been too long since someone else has cooked you food. It was either you made dinner or your husband ordered something from somewhere because he couldn’t be bothered to cook anything. “This is delicious. Thank you again for everything, it means a lot that you have my back when no one else does.”
“You’ve been pourin’ into everyone else but yourself, time to start doin’ that, innit?” He asks and leans over to steal a piece of food off your plate making you laugh and playfully swat at his hand before you tug him closer to hook one arm around his waist while you eat and feed him in between each bite.
You know John is right. You do need to pour into yourself. Otherwise, you’d be feeling like this for the rest of your life and you refuse to do that. “You’re a smart man. How the hell do you not have a wife?” You ask and slide off the stool to wash the plate, but John takes it from you and puts it in the sink.
“My job keeps me busy. It wouldn’t be fair for my missus to wait for me.” He replies with a shrug that makes your heart ache. John deserves to be happy and right now that’s what you want to make him since he’s been doing that for you. He takes your hand gently and tugs you into his chest, kissing you.
His lips taste faintly of tea, making you want more. Greedily, you peck his lips and wrap your arms around him, letting his tongue tease yours before they tangle together creating an eruption of butterflies deep in your stomach, their wings melt together to create a ball of desire as you deepen the kiss slowly.
John lets his hands trail down your sides, feeling and teasing each inch that he gets further taking his time to acclimate you to his touch until his fingers tease the bottom hem of his shirt. "Simon's keen to meet you. Bloody hell, my whole team is dyin’ to meet the woman who's got me thinkin' of her all the time." He whispers against your lips and you try not to think with your pussy, you really do.
Heat crawls up your neck like vines as you curl your fingers in his shirt and pull him closer until there isn’t a single inch between the two of you. “I would like to meet him too, but right now, I want to give you a little gift.” You murmur and sink to your knees, but John stops you midway and stares down at you.
"This is somethin’ you don’t have to do.” He whispers wanting you to fully commit to this when you’re in the right headspace, the last thing he wanted you to feel was used or anything but wanted.
“Good thing I want to.” You reply and smile as your fingers unbuckle his belt, the metal clinks together as you focus on the task, biting your bottom lip, trying not to moan at the scent of John when you pop the button to his jeans and unzip it, the sound crackling in the small kitchen space. Your nerves erupts in flames knowing this is the only second man you’ve done something with. What if he didn’t like it?
John’s steady hands perch on the counter behind him, his cock twitches in his boxers, which did little to conceal the thick stalk. You gently peel down the fabric and inhale his musk. “Holy shit. You’re big.” You swallow the lump in your throat and stare at his dick, all girth and the perfect size at almost seven inches, maybe closer to six and a half, thick brown bushy hair covers the base with a thick weepy tip.
Before he could say anything else and before you could stare, you wrap your fingers around the middle of him, hearing John inhale sharply. “Take your time, love, no need to rush. Just go at your own pace, yeah?”
His words wash over you like cool water after spending time under the scorching sun. You nod and jerk him off, letting your mouth part and tongue hang out. Then you slap the head of his cock on your tongue watching and gauging his reactions. “Bloody hell, love. You’re goin’ to be the death of me.” He groans.
The blowjob is messy and wet, the suctioning sounds fills the room as you bob your head up and down the length of his cock feeling the stretch in your lips, but you burn through the pain and grip onto his jeans making it messier. Spit dribbles down your chin and splatters on John’s shirt you wore but you couldn’t care less, not when he’s thrusting in your mouth lost in the pleasure of how good you feel.
“Just like that. Good girl, keep goin’.” John urges you and lets you set the pace while your hands roam his body, your hand sliding up his shirt feeling the soft layer of fat with a thick mat of hair that seems to cover every inch of his body and how bad did you want to bury your face everywhere and just sniff him.
You use everything you have, licking and sucking his cock like it was the first and last time you’d do it. Every inch of him was covered in spit as you pulled back enough to suckle just the tip.
Something about John makes fireworks explode in your brain, the fizzles showering you with warm affection. Your nose meets his pubic bone as you deepthroat him loving the way he twitches on your tongue. It’s still such a mess as you suck him off while you squeeze his ass that you grope.
It’s a sticky mess of spit and precum that mix together and gloss over your lips that wrap beautifully around his dick that it takes everything inside John not to ask you to marry him. His eyes cut downward and he groans, the loud and vibrating in his chest that you feel when you take him all the way again.
John’s head tips back as he moans your name and curses before he pulls you back and off his cock with a wet pop. He jerks himself off until he cums, using the sticky essense as a lube that drips down his fingers making a mess of his fist while his gaze locks with yours. His cheats heaves as you stand and kiss him.
Your hand covers his as you follow his movements, the pearl necklace he gave you twinkles under the kitchen light. “Bloody hell love. That was-” John broke off and groans as he kisses you back, his clean hand wraps around your waist and tugs you closer again loving how you perfectly fit against him.
“Wonderful? Sexy? Unexpected?” You tease and ask glancing at the clock knowing you have work in an hour where you might or might not see Mia and you only wonder how you can stomach that.
“All three of ‘em. Do you got to go?” John asks, his voice rough after his orgasm and edged with a soft vulentribiry he’s never willingly shown anyone, but something about you makes it easy.
You nod and wrap your arms around him, squeezing before you kiss him again and wink and pull away to watch as he collects himself and grabs his keys to drop you off at home first.
“Think of that as a thank you for everything you have done for me. You can eat my pussy tomorrow.”
John chuckles and gently grasps your wrist to pull you back in his arms, his nose nuzzles against yours as he pecks your lips. “How about tonight? I’ll cook you dinner and have you for my dessert.” His words make you shiver as you nod and splay your hand on his chest feeling how wildly his heart is beating.
You really have no clue just how much John Price is going to change your life.
There references used in this from Skyrim as well. Also links to the original creators of the art used.
Taglist- @yuetakeda45
credit info link to gif
Previously in Chapter One- King Sargon has sent letter to the King with no Face with a marriage proposal. To his surprise the King has accepted. While away from his family and his subjects his lovely daughter Arwen accompanies her father in battle. With a heavy heart she doesn't want to return home to face the harsh realities of an arranged marriage. Arwen and her four sisters lives were gonna be changed forever. Maybe for the better or worse.
But will the marriages work out. King Sargon held a deep secret to himself. As all of daughters were born of human flesh, they all hold the same curse or blessing as their father.
credit to gif
Looking at the letter König held the letter near his heart. The smell of the letter had bright back so many forgotten memories of his childhood and his beloved mother.
Those memories flooded his mind remembering when she would take König to the flower fields when he was a child.
Seeing his mother last smile made his heart break.
The last memory of his mother was on her deathbed when he had turned 17. His mother was his guardian angel, advisor. He only had his mother, since his father died a warriors death. He was only 10 when his father was killed in battle. Leading his men into battle he fought valiantly against the wild men of the Thicket forest they founded their alliance with the orcs of the north. With their alliance they were unstoppable pillaging and slaughtering so many innocents.
With his father’s last fight in him he led small siege to battle. With all the odds against him he conquered the enemy. Pushing the rather large armies back he saved thousands of lives. In return he gave his life protecting his family, his kingdom and his subjects.
König father men had carried his body back to his wife and son who were waiting at home for him. Carrying him with honor he was brought back to be cleaned and taken to his final resting grounds.
König remember that day vividly. The way his mother collapsed to her knees. The tears that fell from her eyes the whimpers and screams that torn through the home they had build together. She couldn’t comprehend the grief and loss of her beloved husband, König’s father.
König watched his father men take him away to be prepared for burial. His father’s right hand man had his son with him. Lord Sakai had kneeled down beside König he sigh softly patting his shoulder softly before he could speak he paused for a moment. Lord Sakai son, Horangi stood beside his father.
“Lord König, please come with us. Let us help with the burial of your father.”
Horangi father gently guided König to the nearby flower fields. They gather flowers together taking their time Horangi stayed by König side. They did not speak to one another but as they looked to one another it was a silent exchange.
König stayed silent as they went to the see his mother. Holding the flowers in his hands he stood in silence. His father had been bathed, dressed in his silk and beautiful robes. His mother kissed his father’s hands. She carefully pulled his father’s ring off his hand. Holding near her heart she sob uncontrollably. Kneeling down to König she placed the ring into his hands. The ring his father wore.
A family heirloom.
König watched his mother be ushered away by her ladies in waiting.
As the burial site was freshly dug up his father’s men carefully carried him to the tomb of his forefathers. Inside the tomb there waited a few church members.
König watched his father be taken away. He stayed in place not moving nor saying a word. He just watched them.
Lord Sakai his father’s right hand man stood beside König. Patting his back he said something in his native tongue. Horangi stood beside König taking the flowers from his hands gently. Horangi placed the flowers on the ground where the entrance of the tomb stood.
König silently shedded tears as the tomb was officially sealed closed. He ran to the sealed doors banging on them pleading to see his father again.
Lord Sakai ran over kneeling down to young König he gave him a hug. Feeling König little fist hit his chest and his kicks in his stomach. The cries of his best friend child was a harsh reality and a reminder of the dangers of war.
“Lord König look at me. Look at me. Your father was a brave man. But I promised your father if anything happened to him I would look after you and prepare you to take the throne.”
Lord Sakai hail from the Korean Dynasty that was doing trading with König’s father. König father Lord Heinrich was a broad shoulder man he had the strength of five men. He was considered to be the bear of his village before becoming a Lord.
As the years passed from König’s father death his mother watched in awe as her sweet boy her son was becoming a man.
As he grew he was in every way just like his father Heinrich. His father had the strength of five men, so did König at a very young age. He showed exceptional strength and his ability to carry, handle a sword, battle axes. His training for hand to hand combat was all overseen by his father’s best friend Lord Sakai.
As König turned 17 his mother became very ill. She stopped walking through their home and caring for her garden. Konig finished up his training walking back to his mother’s chambers he walked in silently. Wanting to not disturb his mother he crept to her bedside. His mother laid in bed as the sun was setting. She smiled with her eyes closed and laughed softly.
“My son you’re gonna have to be more sneaky like a thief in the night. I heard you walk in before I laid my eyes on you.”
König smiled to his mother, giving her a kiss on her forehead. Smiling to her son she pulled him in for a hug. She pulled herself up in bed struggling to open her eyes rubbing her eyes gentle she was able to open them.
Slowly she blinked a few times. Her once beautiful hazel green eyes had become so clouded that she became blind.
Her cloudy eyes reminded König of the spring rains that were gonna fall in a few months from now.
Holding her hand she kissed his now calloused and bruised hands. Caressing his hands in her soft hands she started to cry reaching out to him. Feeling his face she noticed a scar on his cheek. Frowning to him he looked down to the ground.
“König don’t be sad when I’m gone. Please my son.”
“You are my sweet angel, my miracle child.”
Caressing her son’s hands she looked to the window. Listening to the winds blow into her room a few tears welled up in her eyes.
“My sweet bear go get your mother some fairy flowers. Please I want to hold and smell them again.”
Listening to König run out of the chambers she sighed. Blinking her eyes a few times wiping the tears off her cheeks her stifled sobs muffled under her hands. She laid down looking out the window whispering to the winds she prayed her last wishes into the winds.
“Heinrich, I’m ready. Our sweet boy will be okay he’s a strong man just like his father. One day he will meet a girl who will adore him in every possible way and form.”
Taking her last breath she smiled facing the window, closing her cloudy eyes.
A few servants entered the room rushing to the queens bedside they screamed in horror. Lord Sakai entered the room looking over her majesty’s body. She had left this plane of existence leaving behind her 17 year son.
Back in the meadows König rode his stallion to the meadows where his mother’s favorite flowers grew.
Picking as many as he could he tossed in a few baby’s breathe for a large bouquet. Riding back to the castle he saw everyone from the village to the servants all around the castles entrance. In disbelief he rode fast over the draw bridge.
Jumping off his stallion running past everyone up the stairs to his mother’s chambers. Running in he held the bouquet of flowers, dropping them he ran to his mother’s bed. Lifting his mother in his arms he sob into her chest. His muffled voice and screams echoed into the chambers.
Lord Sakai and his son Horangi watched Konig holding his mother.
Konig had lost his father now his mother. Horangi picked up the flowers holding them Lord Sakai gently patted König’s shoulder.
“Your majesty, we need to prepare your mother for burial. She will be laid to rest next to your father.”
Konig laid his mother back down on the bed. Taking the stray hairs off her face. Caressing her face gently leaning down to her forehead he placed a light kiss to her face.
Taking the linen sheets covering her gently. Turning away from her he walked to her wardrobe. Looking through her dresses. All beautifully made he sifted through all her clothes. Finally finding the one dress she wore when they would venture to the meadows.
Looking over dress he noticed a few imperfections holding the dress he laid it down beside her.
“Lord Sakai…..make sure my mother is buried in this. No need to mend her dress. She loved the small imperfections on this. She always said our scars and the small tears in our hearts and clothes have a story to tell and they hold memories.”
Sitting down in the corner glancing out the window with tears in his eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the women of his mother’s court take her away. Lord Sakai picked up the dress handing it to the servants.
König stood up looking out the window he wiped his eyes. Walking back to his chambers he closed the doors behind himself. Pacing his chambers he found a black scarf. Taking the scarf in hand he stitched it up creating his black cowl.
Covering his face he weeped into his mask. Covering his face he muffled his sobs into it. For in this moment he was truly alone. His father died in battle and his mother lost her war to her sickness.
None of the healers in the region could heal her.
Deep down König didn’t know what the future held for him and his gifts.
A soft knock on the door pulled König from his thoughts and his grieving.
“What!”
“Your Majesty König its Lord Sakai.”
“Come in”
“Lord Sakai you’re my trusted advisor and in a a way like family to me. You’re like the father I never had. You trained me till my hands and feet bled. Treating my wounds but training me brute force and strength to be better. But to be better than my father Heinrich”
Sighing softly he looks away looking ahead of him. Clasping his hands together he stand up straight walking over to Lord Sakai.
“Erase everyone’s memory of my face. Everyone last one of my subjects and servants. The only people who will have seen the real me will be my mother and father. Lord Sakai please do this for me.”
“My father was always away. War never changed a thing in his heart. He never truly loved my mother.”
“The memory of my mother’s vision of her sweet delicate boy are dead along with her. All that remains is me.”
Walking out of his chambers he pull down his black cowl over his face. The sounds of his boots hitting the floor echoed as he made his way outside. Looking ahead he saw where the tomb was being opened again. Stepping forward through the crowd that had gathered with offering they all bowed to Lord König. The young prince with no face.
Lord Sakai had erased everyone’s memories of Lord König’s face. He stepped outside looking to König as he made his way to the family tomb.
Horangi stepped beside his father.
“Father, what is gonna happen now?”
“My son, we will continue to serve his family and his offspring as we step forward into the future. He is a strong man, he has his abilities to tame. But in time he will be King, for now he is grieving."
König walked past everyone as they all had stared at him as he made his way down the stairs into the crypt that held his forefathers, now his father and mother being laid to rest there.
Watching the pallbearers lay his mother down in her bed he watched as they wrapped her up and seal her away into her tomb.
Konig continued to train day after day. Hands and feet bleeding but he wanted to be better than his father. When the proposals from the surrounding kingdoms started sending letters. He tossed aside many of the letters.
As he strolled through his mother’s garden he heard a few servants gossiping about a King who has the abilities to change shape shift at will.
Quietly he left the garden to send someone to investigate his claim on this Kingdom.
As the days pass so did more letters pour into his study. Many of these Kingdoms offering up their daughters with many gifts. But he finished them all sitting in silence that when the letter with the red seal caught his attention. Buried under all their other letters he grab it opening it.
Indeed it was the Kingdom he wanted to see if they would write to him. To his surprise there were indeed five daughters of age to be married. The scent of that letter made him think about his mother and his childhood, but the day he decided to hide his face away.
Present Day (back on the battlefield)
Her father had seen the storm coming in the direction Sir Johny pointed out that Sir Ghost had left on.
King Sargon waited but grew impatient for the return of his daughter and his righthand man, he walked around the camp. Looking around admiring the beauty of the winter and the snow covered trees. Sighing softly Sargon coughed again this time falling to his knees. Looking up to the skies he cursed the gods who were listening to him.
“My beautiful daughter, my shield maiden please forgive your father. If there was another way I would take it in a heartbeat my child. By the nines please protect my daughters. My beautiful wildflowers, please forgive your father.”
Kneeling down with a heavy heart King Sargon stands up walking back to his tent he catches in the distance his daughter and Sir Ghost walking back.
Seeing her jump up waving to her father it makes his heart skip a beat.
“Father!”
Watching her running back to him he smiles profusely. Embracing her tightly he can’t find it in his heart to let her go.
“Father, please find it your heart to forgive me-?”
“Shhh, Arwen…my wildflower if I could protect you and your sisters I would. I have failed you as a father and protector. My illness cannot be fixed, all the best apothecaries and wizards cannot help me. If I could do it all over again I would. I have left my beautiful girls with a curse.”
King Sargon reaches into his pocket taking out his ring placing it on her finger.
Arwen looks down at her hands smiling and crying he embraces her father tightly.
“Father, you have not failed me or my sisters. I wouldn’t be a shield maiden if if wasn’t for you. And for this curse that is left with us. I will use this to my potential. Father if my time is up here I will see you at the Gates of Sovngarde.
Smiling to her father she walked with him back to his tent where they begin packing for the journey home.
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The man took the bottle of wine, yanked out the cork with his teeth, and spat it across the room. He chugged the bottle down in only a few seconds and set the bottle back down on the kitchen island.
"Cheap wine." He grumbled and then let out a belch.
"Who are you?" You managed to ask aloud.
"You know who I am." He spoke with a chuckle, and his intense gaze returned to you.
"No. I-I have no idea who you are or why you are in our house." You took a small step back as you spoke, knowing escape was impossible. Nowhere to run with snow still covering the car, and nowhere to hide in the cabin.
The man smirked as he turned to walk around the kitchen island. You expected to hear heavy footsteps, but instead you heard quick, sharp steps on the tile. When the man rounded the corner, you were horrified to see that his bottom half was like a goat's and his feet were hooves. He was not wearing pants but shorts connected by straps, like his own spin on traditional Lederhosen.
Your mind was racing, trying to make sense of the monster that stood in front of you. So many questions came to mind, and you felt sick to your stomach.
"I am Krampus, and you summoned me here, Liebste."
Your vision began to spin as you leaned on the wall for stability.
"This isn't real. I must be dreaming." You uttered as your hands covered your face.
"I assure you that you are not dreaming, and I am very much real."
You watch as Krampus turns and walks back over to the kitchen island and picks up a gingerbread cookie to eat. His long tail swishes and then rests beside his left hairy goat leg.
"No way I summoned a demon! I thought you needed candles and a blood sacrifice to do something like that." You studied Krampus as you began to ramble, secretly admiring how his body curved and blended so smoothly between man and beast. He was incredibly tall as well, easily over six feet. "All I did was speak a poem aloud, it had no warning or anything!"
"That's all you needed to do, Schatzi. I designed it so the owner of my book could summon me easily, and so you did."
"But I'm not the owner! The owner had to have been the woman who owned this house; she recently passed away; it was hers and-." You paused for a moment after you spoke. A cold chill ran down your spine. Suddenly, the opening of the door felt anything but a coincidence.
"The book is now all yours, Liebste. As am I."
Krampus began eating another random cookie off the counter before he spoke again.
"Meine poor sweet Hildegard, she will be missed." Krampus finished chewing his cookie and then swallowed. "You know, you remind me of her in some ways, a gorgeous woman with a lovely, fiery spirit." Krampus leans his back against the kitchen island, letting out a low sigh. "I begged that woman to come with me to my castle, but she was already betrothed to another by the time we first met. Lucky bastard." Krampus crosses his arms close to his chest. "But that never stopped us from spending Christmas together; however. That was always her favorite holiday."
You looked up to Krampus with sympathy, connecting with his yearning for a love unattainable.
"I'm so sorry for your loss."
"That is very kind of you." Krampus pushes off the kitchen island and lets his arms fall to his sides. "I see why she wanted you to have me. You're different in a way you could never really explain, but you already know that, don't you, Liebe?"
Krampus steps closer to you as his eyes rake over your face and chest.
"As I recall, while you were looking through my book, you said something particular, hmm, how did you say it? 'I'm totally into this,' not phased by my appearance at all, are you?" His gaze was scalding as he looked down at you.
"It's okay to say you like it." You instantly felt your cheeks and ears begin to burn hot. You started to look anywhere but at Krampus, and he found it incredibly amusing.
"I have no idea what you are talking about!" You say as you desperately attempt to avoid his gaze.
"What a pretty little shy thing you are." Krampus paused as he looked at you with a kind of soft admiration that made your heart melt.
Krampus takes another step forward, closing the gap between you two. He takes one of his fingers and lifts your chin to meet his eyes directly.
"I cannot deny my attraction to you. You, meine Liebste, have a beauty I have not seen for centuries. Come with me to my castle, and I will give you anything your heart desires."
As your eyes met, you quickly fell into his trance, which he had so carefully cultivated. His beautiful, pale blue eyes were a stark contrast to the bright fire that had ignited in your heart. You knew exactly what he was referring to earlier, but it wasn't easy to come to terms with your own attraction to him. You could have never known it until now, but the kind of love you had desperately been searching for was not from another normal human all along.
"AHH! Tyler! There's a monster in the kitchen!" A high-pitched scream pulled you away from your trance as Shannon yelled at the top of her lungs. "Get away from her, you freak!"
You looked to Shannon with utter confusion, then back at Krampus, who kept a smirk even in the chaos. Then it finally registered the severity of the situation; you weren't dreaming, there was, in fact, a monster in the kitchen. Suddenly, multiple footsteps were heard rushing down the stairs, and around the corner, Tyler, Sean, and Kelsey ran into the kitchen doorway. All three froze as they saw the giant half-man, half-goat demon way too close to their friend.
"Holy shit! What the fuck is that thing?" Tyler yelled as he pulled Shannon closer to him.
"Has it hurt you? Are you okay?" Kelsey called out as she hid behind Sean.
You were about to speak when you felt a tingle in your head, then you heard Krampus speak within your mind. "How about we make a bet? I bet I can prove to you these people are not your friends; they think of you as a pawn, a loser. They would sacrifice you in a heartbeat if given the chance. Just know, if I win the bet, you must come live with me in my castle, forever."
You scoffed at the idea in your mind. "My friends would never do that, I'd win. Easy."
"If you do win, I'll clear a path out of the cabin all the way to the main road, and you'll never have to see me again. Unless you want to summon me, of course."
"Uh. I'm not sure, I mean, we could really use the help getting the car unstuck, I suppose."
"Afraid you'll lose, Liebe? You were so sure of yourself a second ago."
You turned to look up at Krampus, upset over his words. "Fine, it's a bet."
With a cocky smirk, Krampus turns to your friends. He stands directly in front of you, blocking you from them.
"Your companion is under my spell, don't bother." Krampus takes his hands behind his back, and a bundle of sticks tied together with a string materializes. He holds it up in an intimidating manner, and your two girlfriends cry out in fear.
"Someone will be coming with me tonight for punishment; it can be any one of you, but just know once you go, your soul is mine to punish forever." Krampus takes his bundle of sticks and points it at Kelsey.
"Maybe you?" He then points his bundle at Sean, then Shannon. When Krampus points his bundle at Tyler, however, your heart drops.
"You seem to be the naughtiest, how about you?"
"Bullshit! There is one person in our friend group who wouldn't be detrimental if we lost, and we all know it. I vote for her."
"Tyler!" Shannon exclaims.
"What? Do you want to go with the goat demon, Shannon? Spend all eternity with him? I'm being practical here."
Sean scoffed, "Maybe we don't have to sacrifice anyone, Tyler. There are two of us and one of him."
Krampus lets out a hearty laugh before he rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck to the left and right. "Go ahead and try, little man."
Sean immediately deflates and goes silent. "Sean, baby, we can't let him take our friend, that's terrible."
"I know, baby, but I don't think we have a choice. I vote for her as well."
"Sean! I expected Tyler to pull some shit like that, but not you!" Shannon huffs and stomps her feet.
Kelsey turns to Shannon with a look of absolute heartbreak. "Shannon I."
"Don't you say it, Kelsey, I swear to God."
"I vote for her as well."
"Kelsey!"
Tyler takes Shannon by the shoulder and gives her a quick shake. "Shannon, listen to me, if you don't vote for her, he's going to take you and leave me here all alone. I love you more than anything, and I need to keep you here and alive." Tyler grabs Shannon's clammy hands.
"I know she's your friend, but she would want you to let her go so you could live. What more can we do for her, huh? She's always going to be the odd one out, always alone; hell, she will probably end up dying alone. Do you really want that for her?"
Shannon begins to cry, and through her sniffles, she answers, "No."
"Then vote for her and save us!"
It takes another few moments before Shannon looks over to Krampus with tears in her eyes. "I vote for her."
"Wow," Krampus exclaims. "You people are terrible, terrible friends." His bundle of sticks disappears behind his back, and he turns to show your friends that you had not, in fact, been under any spell but quietly listening the entire time.
When your friends meet your gaze, they are all heartbroken by what they have done. You were red-faced with tears streaming down your cheeks.
"How could you?" That's all you manage to say before Krampus intervenes.
"A bet is a bet, meine Liebe." Krampus snaps his fingers, and his book appears in his hands. He speaks a few sentences in German that you couldn't understand, and then a portal opens up in the kitchen. In your shock, you didn't notice Krampus coming up behind you, but when he did, he lifted your legs under your knees with his right arm and cradled your back with his left arm.
You held onto him the best you could in a one-person lift; Krampus held you close to his chest like you weighed nothing.
"Let's go home, Schatzi, and Merry Christmas, you naughty bastards."
That's the last thing you remember hearing before you were carried through the portal.
Wait what happened to the friends???? Did they get trapped there? Dayum this fanfic is good, I could only imagine what the Krampus and the Reader’s babies would look like ❤️❤️❤️
Whatever you do, don't think about how suddenly one day, Ghost stares at you and realized he might not be able to accompany you to the end of your life.
The line of work he's in doesn't allow that kind of luxury. There is no guaranteed of tomorrow and Ghost know that well.
That's why one day, he begin to make preparation for you. Legal documents that he thought you might have trouble filling, a fund to make sure that at least he can still protect you financially, and connections to people who would ensure your safety. And only after Ghost has every possible precaution done did he finally able to rest his mind and continue working.
Cut to years later, that box contains everything he did was still gathering dust under your shared bed. And Ghost leave for yet another mission.
So imagine the shock when Ghost finally comeback after fighting through hell to complete the objective. And as he step down to the Tarmac, what welcome him was John's solemn expression.
"It's good to have you back, Simon. But I'm afraid I have some difficult news."
"No, don't do this to me John." Ghost had been in the military long enough to recognize the "Talk." He saw his teammates looking at their boots, unable to meet his gaze. He saw the folder in John’s hand.
"I'm sorry, Simon. I truly am."
Imagine Ghost who would've never in his wildest nightmare thought that you would be the one to leave first. He had prepared for your grief, for your financial security, for your safety in a world without him.
Ghost had never prepared for a world without you.
Yea this was shitty, but at least it's done now. Tbh I didn't know where I was going with this but I just need to let it out so I hope it at least make some kind of sense to you guys. English is not my first language so pls excuse any grammar mistake, I tried my best. Thanks for reading to the end of this mess 🥹🫶
cw: kidnapping; wife stealing/claiming; violence; dub/non–con; primal possessiveness; size kink; degradation; Game of Thrones AU
Your lip trembles.
The blade stays pressed just under your chin, cool and sharp against your skin, forcing your face up ever so slightly. The man—no, beast—kneeling in front of you is a wall of muscle and scar and heat. His eyes—one slightly lighter than the other—drip with something ancient and hungry, framed by dirt-smeared lashes and a jagged brow that twitches as he examines you.
He looks like he's deciding whether to eat you or keep you.
Maybe both.
"Mine now," he repeats, rougher this time, as if speaking slower and louder might help you understand. His accent is strange. Northern. Harsh and clipped. Something wild clings to it, untamed like the storm still howling outside the heavy furs of his tent.
You finally manage to open your eyes, just barely. Just enough to look at him.
And Gods above, he is not even trying to hide the way his dark gaze eats you alive.
You're soft, he notices—softer than any woman he's ever seen. Plump thighs squeezed together in fear, trembling arms pressed to your sides. Breasts heavy under your torn shift. Cheeks flushed and tear-streaked, all round and supple and so fucking sweet looking.
His cock twitches despite its weight.
You feel and smell the heat of it—his arousal like a second presence in the room, thick and impossible to ignore, even without looking down.
He reeks like blood, cold mountain air, sweat, and something darker. Earthy. Masculine.
"Y'scared?" he asks next, still crouched in front of you, voice dropping to something deeper, almost amused.
You nod—barely—but he hums low in his throat like a wolf who has cornered a rabbit. There's satisfaction in it. Not cruelty—blunt possession.
"You should be."
His massive hand, rough with calluses and healing splits, replaces the blade. He curls two fingers gently under your jaw and forces your face up all the way. You're not sure what you expect—maybe for him to strike you. Bite you. Take you like some savage creature from the fairy stories.
Instead, he observes.
And what he sees makes something shift behind those dark eyes.
His thumb drags across your bottom lip, slow and almost reverent, even as you flinch.
"Pretty," he mutters, low to himself. "Soft as they said. Thought they were exaggeratin'." He grunts in approval. "They weren't."
His voice is thick now, arousal and obsession twining together like roots around your ribs. Still, you flinch away again, trying to scoot back. Your ass barely leaves the fur before a growl rips from his chest.
It's not human. Can't be.
He lunges forward—not to hurt you, but to cage you, his huge arms planted on either side of your body. His face presses close, breath hot and sharp with his snarl.
"No."
You freeze, blinking up at him in shock, fear coiling in your belly like a pit viper.
"You run, I chase," he grits out. "You scream, I cover yer mouth. You fight me, I take anyway."
His cock is obscenely hard now, thick and flushed and resting heavy against your thigh like a threat. Or a promise.
"But..." he says, breathing hard, nostrils flaring as he pants and sniffs like an animal, his nose brushing along your neck, cheek, ear. "...you be good f'me, I'll treat ya nice. Feed ya. Keep y'warm. Give you my bed."
You swallow thickly. He notices. Always notices.
"I'm not like your other women," you whisper, voice cracking with fear. "I'm not... strong. I'm not a fighter."
Ghost stills above you at that. Then, with surprising gentleness, he leans in until his forehead rests against yours. You feel his breath, warm and steady now, ghosting over your skin.
"Don’t want another bloody fighter," he mutters, rough and hoarse. "Want a wife."
You inhale sharply.
"Wanna rut ya full. Fuck you full of my seed. Watch that pretty body get rounder with what I give ya. Carryin’ my pups. Mine."
Your stomach flips. Heat pulses low. Shame bubbles and burns up your spine like a lit torch.
His mouth finds your neck and he noses against it like a beast scenting his mate. His tongue swipes once, hot and wet. You gasp deep in your throat. He growls in return.
And then he pulls back just far enough to look you dead in the eyes and say, more low and sure as ever:
cw: yandere John Price, John is kind of taking advantage of reader's vulnerable emotional state
single dad John Price x reader
You were glad that for the moment your parents were too busy with holiday preparations so you could put off telling them about your layoff and broken engagement for a little longer. They probably suspected the latter given that you arrived alone and your ring finger is now bare, still, you're glad they didn't press for details. All you wanted to do right now was sit into your childhood bedroom and lament about your life. You really thought that you and Nathan were on the same page, you've been very upfront about your desires in a relationship since your first dates and he said he felt the same way. So to hear him say that he wasn't sure if he was ready for marriage and that he needed some time to find himself while you already started booking vendors felt like a bucket of cold water thrown over your head. Five years together, two engaged and wedding planned for next summer and he wasn't sure if married life was for him? So you let him find himself, breaking the engagement, returning the ring, calling off vendors and trying to get back some of the deposits. Getting laid off from work was just the cherry on top.
Unfortunately for your plans of drowning in self-pity while staring at the wall, your dad was bent on getting you out of the house so his best plan was to send you to pick up the Christmas tree. The ice on the road was a little slippery, but nothing too bad, driving by the familiar surroundings felt bittersweet. You didn't want to leave the small town where you grew up, but at that time when your dad was out of a job and the treatment for your mom's health issues were so expensive that the bills started quickly piling up, that job offer was your salvation. It hurt being so far from your family, but the need to help them made you throw yourself even further into your work. At some point you got used to doing all the work, it sucked when your boss or colleagues would slack off or pass their work to you, but your family needed the money so you pushed through. And when you were on the verge of burnout from overwork that's when you met Nathan and for a while things were a little easier. When your boss informed you that you'll be working again on the holidays, something in you snapped, maybe it was the breakup or the years of mistreatment, but that led you to call him an "incompetent asshole" and then getting fired.
Your mom got better and the financial crisis of your family passed, you know your parents would be understanding with what you're going through, but you still can't get rid of this sense of shame and guilt like you're failing them. Perhaps a part of you fears another coming tragedy while being powerless, that and the frustration of losing a good chunk of your savings planning a wedding that won't happen anymore. You quickly wipe off the tears that are threatening to fall down, the last thing you need is show up teary eyed at a Christmas tree farm. You barely get out of the car before a snowball flies towards you, thankfully missing you by an inch. Looking around you see two children running towards you, their faces almost as red as their beanies. They're talking over each other, but you manage to understand that they're trying to apologize.
"Sorry, miss. We didn't mean to hit you." says the little girl while trying to catch her breath.
"But you moved really cool when you dodged it." answers the boy who you assume is her brother given their similar facial features.
"It's alright, don't worry about it."
"Are you here to buy a Christmas tree, miss? "
"I am, but I don't see any workers here."
"Our dad is the owner and his assistant is out for lunch. Dad's probably chopping trees in the back, we can take you there."
You nod a little unsure as each child grabs one of your hands and start running towards where you assume their dad is. Your laughter gets caught in your throat when you are met with the sight of a muscular back flexing as the man lifts the ax and then brings it down with force on the tree trunk. One of the children calls him and as he turns towards the sound, you think you forgot how to breath for a second. His face is a little flushed, some perspiration on his forehead that he wipes off with a rag. The children run happily towards him and you're not gonna lie to yourself, the sight of the shirtless older man balancing a kid in each arm while smiling does something to you. It takes a second to register that he's talking to you, but you manage to make out the "What can I do for you, love?" rolling on his lips. Thankfully you manage to pick up your jaw from the floor to actually mumble an answer:
"A Christmas tree, sir."
"Now, now, just call me John, I'm not that old."
"Daddy is the oldest person we know after grandma!" chimes in the little boy.
"He even has a few white hairs!" adds his sister.
"Why you little rascals! Is that how you talk about your father?" John says with mock annoyance, but he can barely hold himself from grining happily.
The sight makes you smile, but it also weights a little on your chest, a kind of longing presses down on the strings of your heart, this was the kind of future you were hoping with Nathan. Turning away your thoughts from him, you follow John and the kids, whose name you learned were Marcus and Molly, to choose a tree. The twins kept asking questions about how many presents are gonna be under the tree and how are you gonna decorate it. John looks a little apologetic towards you, but you shrug it off answering their questions as best as you could.
John puts the tree in the trunk, the twins already waving goodbye until to your absolute dismay when you turn the key the engine makes a pained sound and then just dies. You want to dig a hole in the ground and hide there from everything, whether is a serious problem or a minor inconvenience, it would be really nice on the universe's part that at least something could go well for you today. Taking a few breaths in an effort to calm down just as John opens the car door:
"It looks like your car won't be moving for a while. How about I drive you with the tree and tow the car to your parents home later?"
"I couldn't impose."
"Nonsense, darling, got a few things to pick up from town anyway."
"Thank you."
If feels a bit weird being in John's pickup truck with the three of them, it almost looks like a family scene when Molly asks for a piece of candy from the glove compartment and John says they can only have one before their meal. It seems oh so easy to fall into the illusion of a happy family of four with the easy banter over Christmas carols on the radio, Marcus's puppy eyes that you can't resist, sneaking him another piece of candy and John pretending not to see it while making yet another dad joke that makes Molly roll her eyes.
When the four of you arrive at your parents' house, your mom insists that John and the children stay for dinner. He is about to refuse when Marcus' stomach makes a grumbling sound and you know your mom isn't about to take "No" for an answer now. It feels so natural the way they seem to fit in your parents living room: John setting out the tree and patiently untangling the lights, Marcus and Molly searching through the box of decorations, asking your mom questions about the handmade ones before getting distracted by the plate of cookies your dad just brought out from the kitchen. And then you catch John's eyes and you recognize the same longing look, gazing almost questioningly towards you, like he's asking permission. You must imagine all this, a desperate and pathetic part of you that still clings to a foolish dream. It's all too much, you know it's rude to just up and leave, but you can't keep looking at this idilic view that doesn't belong to you. The cold air bites at your skin as you get out your pack of cigarettes, so much for quitting before the end of the year. Of course, the damn lighter doesn't want to work now of all times. Just as you're about to give up and go back inside, you hear a clicking sound and there's John holding a light to you. When did he get here? Thanking him you light the cigarette, deeply inhaling the smoke:
"Didn't know you smoke."
"Trying to quit."
"Me too. Do you mind if I get a drag of yours? Don't want a whole one."
You wordlessly pass it to him, watching practiced fingers as he takes a long drag before giving it back. Maybe the next words come from some part of you that wants to rip the bandaid in one go and stop all the thoughts and dreams before they could take shape:
"Won't your wife get worried that you and the twins didn't go home for dinner?"
"I am not married, love."
"Oh, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to..."
"It's fine, was a long time ago anyway."
"What happened? If you don't mind me asking?"
"Wanted a quite life after retiring from the military and it turned out I was a better husband while away than at home. She refused any custody of the twins, married someone else and forgot about them."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"What about you?"
At his question you instinctively look towards your bare ring finger, a faint tan line still visible on it. John doesn't miss the motion, but he doesn't comment on it. He lets the silence linger in the air for a few moments before you speak again:
"I thought that I will get married next year, but my ex fiance apparently changed his mind, he said he realise he needed space and time to find himself."
John makes a displeased expression at the last part, clicking his tongue and exhaling loudly.
"Good thing I didn't sent out the invitations." You say in an effort to lighten up the mood a little.
Not long after that you go back inside, the twins already asleep on your couch under a fuzzy blanket in front of the fireplace. When your mom extends the invitation to John to come tomorrow for dinner again you want hide in a hole. You recognize that look in her eyes, she's trying to set you up, still, him accepting the invitation pulls a small smile from you. As you carry a sleeping Molly to the car, John already strapping Marcus to his car seat, she doesn't want to let go of you, small fingers firmly planted in the material of your sweater. You feel John's eyes burning the back of your head, but you ignore it, gently pulling open Molly's fist until she lets go of you and then carefully strapping her in the car seat next to a drooling Marcus. John looks like he wants to say something, but stops himself at the last moment. You're not sure what to make of the way he takes one more look at your freezing form in front of the house before driving away. You're about to go back inside when the car stops and then backs away in the driveway, confused you go towards the driver seat worried that something's wrong. Before you could ask John speaks first:
"Do you think you could help me look for some good presents for your parents as a way to thank them for the dinner invitation? I really insist, it would be the twins' first time celebrating Christmas with other people since their mom left and that means a lot to them."
"Yeah, sure. But don't think of it as a favour, me and my parents are happy to have you with us."
"I'll pick you up tomorrow around 11 and also bring your car, lunch is on me, no questions asked."
You just nod and this time the car drives off.
As soon as your mom hears John's car parking in the driveway the next day, she quickly ushers you outside before he could even knock, bringing the twins inside. The two of you fall into a rhythm as you walk around looking for the right presents, talking about your hobbies and interests as it turns out you actually have a lot in common. You pointedly ignore the way John doesn't correct the "This one suits the missus's eyes" comment from the jeweler pointing at a specific necklace. He choses something for your mom while you look around at a watch for your dad while he pays for his purchase, but you don't miss the fact that there are two packaged boxes in the bag and that said necklace was now missing from the display. And then there are the little things, the way he opens all the doors, his hand on the small of your back while passing through a crowd, the attentive way he looks at you, actually listening to your words and every thing he does makes your resolve a little weaker.
If you'd paid more attention you might have spotted his satisfied smirk at the way you were starting to slowly let him get closer and closer to you. When the two of you arrive back at your parents' house you are greeted by a slightly crooked snowman that wasn't there this morning, inside Molly and Marcus are sitting in the front of the fireplace. Face flushed, each nurses a cup of hot cocoa while your dad tells them some story. You don't even notice John's hand around your waist that stays there as you enter the living room. In the split second while the twins jump to hug you, curious about the new presents, John and your dad exchange a meaningful look, a silent approval from the latter one that John gratefully acknowledges it.
When he spots the unknown car in your parents' driveway, John's instincts start going off. Making sure everyone is still busy opening presents, he makes his way outside. As soon as the man gets out of the car John already guessed who he was, remembering the photo on your phone. He makes a mental note to tell one of the kids to ask that the four of you take a picture in front of the Christmas tree. That would be a nice wallpaper for both your phones, maybe he'll make it a tradition. The bloke stammers your name asking if this was the right address, already starting his pathetic speech when John interupts him quite rudely saying there's no one by this name living there. If he's gonna have his way you'll be changing your last name in a few months so it's not technically a lie. The guy's shoulders drop, thanking John as he starts to tap nervously on his phone while sitting in the car before driving off a few minutes later. John looks at the car getting away before going back inside, it's about time he gives you your present. You thought you were sneaky spotting the necklace, good thing he asked the clerk to pack the ring separately.
See what the rest of the 141 are doing on the holidays here.
@uraeus56 🫡 Part Five in The Civilian’s Field Guide to Task Force 141: The Washing Machine Incident
You were having a peaceful Tuesday afternoon.
Peaceful. Quiet. Normal.
You should’ve known it wouldn’t last.
The knock on your door came at 2:47pm, and something in your lizard brain immediately screamed: danger.
You opened the door to find Soap standing on your porch with a smile so innocent, so wide, so utterly fake that alarm bells started ringing in your head like a fire drill.
“Hey!” he said brightly. Too brightly. Suspiciously brightly. Like a kid who’d just hidden a broken vase behind the couch.
You narrowed your eyes. “What caught fire?”
“Nothing!”
The smile got wider. More strained.
You crossed your arms. “Soap.”
“Really! Nothing’s on fire! I promise!”
“What exploded?”
“Nothing exploded either!”
“Uh-huh. What did you break?”
“See, that’s the thing- ” He was still smiling. Why was he still smiling? “We didn’t technically break anything.”
“Technically.”
“Yeah! Technically. Technically everything is still… intact. Structurally sound. Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“Look, can you just- can you come over for a second?”
You stared at him. He stared back, that manic smile never wavering.
“Soap. What happened.”
“So you know how we have a washing machine- ”
“Oh god.”
“- and we tried to do laundry for the first time- ”
“Oh god.”
“-and there’s maybe a small situation- ”
“Define small.”
His smile somehow got even bigger. More unhinged. “It’s actually quite the opposite of a fire!”
You blinked. “What.”
“Yeah! See, fire is hot and dry, right?”
A cold sense of dread settled in your stomach. “…Right.”
“Well, this is cold! And wet!”
“Soap- ”
“Very wet!”
“Soap, I swear to god- ”
“Like, impressively wet! We didn’t even know a washing machine could hold that much water, let alone distribute it so thoroughly- ”
“Are you telling me you flooded your house.”
“No! No no no.” He paused. “We flooded the kitchen.”
“SOAP!”
“The hallway’s only a little bit flooded- ”
“A little bit!?”
“- and we can’t quite figure out how to make it stop- ”
“Stop what!?”
“The water! There’s just- there’s so much water- ”
“HOW LONG HAS THIS BEEN HAPPENING?!”
“Uh…” He checked his watch. “Thirty minutes?”
“THIRTY-?!” You were already grabbing your keys, shoving your feet into your shoes. “WHY DIDN’T YOU COME GET ME IMMEDIATELY?!”
“We thought we could handle it!”
“Clearly you couldn’t!”
“Well we know that now- ”
You slammed your door and marched across the street. Soap trailed behind you like a guilty golden retriever who’d just eaten an entire birthday cake.
“In our defense- ” he started.
“No! There is no defense! Every time one of you says ‘in our defense,’ I lose a year off my life! I’m going to die young because of you people! My tombstone will say ‘Death by Neighbor Incompetence’!”
“That seems medically unlikely- ”
“SOAP!”
He opened their front door.
The sound hit you first.
A rushing, gushing, aggressive sound of water going places water should absolutely not be going.
Then you saw it.
“Oh my god.”
“I know it looks bad- ”
“OH MY GOD.”
“But we were about to- ”
“THERE’S A RIVER! THERE’S A RIVER IN YOUR HALLWAY!”
Because there was. There was an actual, honest-to-god river cascading from the kitchen down the hallway like they’d installed some kind of deranged decorative water feature.
Price appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding a mop. Just one mop. A single, solitary mop held in the hands of a man who looked like he’d gone to war and lost.
His socks were soaked. His pants were soaked up to the knees. His shirt had water stains. He looked at you with the thousand yard stare of someone who’d seen too much.
“It won’t stop,” he said flatly.
“WHAT WON’T STOP?!”
He stepped aside.
The washing machine looked possessed.
It was shaking. Rattling. Vibrating with an energy that seemed almost vengeful. Like it had gained consciousness and immediately chosen violence. Water poured from the top, the sides, the back. The floor was completely submerged; you could see the water creeping toward the living room like a slow motion tsunami.
Gaz was standing on a chair in the corner, holding an armful of soaked towels, looking like he’d given up on life entirely. His clothes were plastered to his skin. His expression was blank. The lights were on but nobody was home.
Ghost was standing in the opposite corner, arms crossed, staring at the washing machine with the intensity of someone trying to intimidate it into submission through sheer force of will.
It wasn’t working.
“How,” you said slowly, carefully, like you were defusing a bomb made of stupidity, “did you do this?”
“We followed the instructions!” Soap said defensively.
“WHAT INSTRUCTIONS?!”
“On the detergent!”
You closed your eyes. Counted to five. It didn’t help. “Show me. Show me the detergent.”
Gaz, still standing on his chair like the floor was actual lava, held up a bottle.
Not a normal bottle.
An industrial sized bottle. The kind you see at laundromats. The kind that explicitly says “COMMERCIAL USE ONLY” on the side in three languages.
“Where did you even GET that?!”
“Costco!” Soap said proudly.
“Why?!”
“Bulk savings!”
“You- ” You pinched the bridge of your nose. Took a breath. “How much did you use?”
“Well, the cup was broken- ” Gaz started.
“So we eyeballed it!” Soap finished cheerfully.
“You eyeballed industrial detergent.”
“Yeah! We just poured it in until it looked right!”
“What does ‘looked right’ mean?!”
“Like… enough? Maybe a little extra to make sure the clothes got really clean?”
You walked toward the washing machine. Your shoes squelched. The water was ankle deep. You were standing in ankle deep water in someone’s kitchen. Your socks were wet now, you’d never forgive them for this.
You looked inside the washing machine.
It was just… bubbles.
So many bubbles.
A sea of bubbles. An ocean of bubbles. They were spilling over the top, multiplying like something out of a horror movie, plotting world domination.
“You didn’t eyeball it,” you said, your voice barely controlled. “You dumped half the bottle in there, didn’t you.”
“More like a third- ” Soap started.
“A third?! A third of an industrial bottle?!”
“We wanted the clothes to be really clean!” Gaz said desperately from his chair.
“That’s not how detergent works! More isn’t better! More is just more!”
“That’s not true for protein powder,” Ghost said from his corner.
“This isn’t protein powder!”
“Similar consistency though- ”
“GHOST!”
Price stepped forward, mop in hand like a white flag. “Look, we know we made a mistake- ”
“A mistake!? This is a disaster! This is a catastrophe! This is- ” You gestured wildly at the kitchen. “- a Biblical flood! God is judging you! You’re going to have to build the second ark!”
“It’s not that bad- ” Soap tried.
“THERE ARE BUBBLES ON THE CEILING! HOW DID YOU GET BUBBLES ON THE CEILING?!”
All four of them looked up at the ceiling covered in bubbles. Just plastered with them. Like someone had thrown a foam party and forgotten to invite common sense.
They looked at each other.
“We don’t know,” they admitted in unison, with the harmony of a barbershop quartet of disaster.
You took a deep breath. You were not going to scream. You were not going to cry. You were a responsible adult who was going to fix this situation because if you didn’t, these four men would simply stand here until the water reached the second floor.
“Okay. Okay. Never mind that. Why still running?”
“We don’t know how to turn it off!”
“THE BUTTON! PRESS THE BUTTON!”
“We did! It just beeped at us and kept going!”
You lowered the lid and looked at the control panel.
Which was entirely in Korean.
You stopped. Stared. “Why is your washing machine in Korean.”
“Is that Korean?” Gaz asked. “We thought it was Japanese.”
“WHERE DID YOU GET THIS?!”
“It was here when we moved in!” Soap said.
“YOU’VE BEEN HERE A MONTH! YOU’RE ONLY NOW DOING LAUNDRY?!”
There was an extremely long silence.
“We ran out of clothes,” Price finally admitted.
“What have you been wearing?!”
“We have a rotation system,” Ghost said. “Three day cycles.”
“You’ve been wearing the same- ” You stopped. Held up a hand. “I don’t care. I can’t care about that right now. I don’t have the emotional capacity to care about that right now.”
You squinted at the buttons. There were… so many buttons. Why were there so many buttons?
“Okay. I think this one means stop- ”
You pressed it.
The washing machine made a sound like a dying whale and started spinning faster.
More water erupted from the top like a geyser.
“THAT’S NOT STOP! THAT’S THE OPPOSITE OF STOP!”
You jabbed another button.
The machine beeped indignantly and switched cycles. Even more water started pouring out.
“YOU’RE MAKING IT WORSE!” Soap yelled.
“Well, maybe if it was in English!”
You pressed three more buttons in rapid succession. The machine cycled through what you could only assume were increasingly aggressive wash settings, each one producing more water than the last.
Ghost waded over, bubbles up to his knees, and physically moved you aside. “Let me- ”
He pressed one button with confidence.
The machine made a noise like a screaming cat being launched from a cannon and started vibrating so hard it moved three inches across the floor.
The entire floor shook.
“NOT HELPFUL!” you screamed.
“I’M TRYING!”
“TRY DIFFERENTLY!”
Price stepped forward to help, took one step on the soap-bubble-covered floor, and-
His feet went out from under him.
Completely. Cartoon style. His legs went straight up in the air.
He grabbed for Ghost to steady himself.
Ghost, not expecting this, also slipped.
They both grabbed for Soap.
Soap, turning around to help, stepped directly into the bubble zone and-
“Oh sh- ”
All three of them went down like dominoes.
SPLASH.
Just…straight into the water. Full body. Complete and total wipeout.
You watched in horror as three grown men flailed in ankle deep water and bubbles like they’d been thrown into the ocean.
Price sputtered, trying to get up and immediately slipping again. “Help-”
He grabbed for the counter.
Missed.
Grabbed for Soap instead.
Pulled him down again.
Soap grabbed Ghost’s leg.
Ghost, trying to stand, went down for a second time with a muffled curse.
They were just- they were just slipping. Over and over. Every time one of them tried to get up, they’d slip on the bubbles and take the others down with them. It was like watching natural selection in real time.
“STOP MOVING!” you yelled. “YOU’RE MAKING IT WORSE!”
“WE’RE TRYING!” Soap wailed, on his hands and knees, covered head to toe in bubbles and shame.
Price tried to stand, got one foot under him, and immediately slipped backwards into a sitting position. “The floor’s a death trap!”
“THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU USE A THIRD OF A BOTTLE!” You screamed.
Ghost managed to get to his knees, started to stand, and- nope. Down again. He just laid there for a moment, flat on his back in the water, staring at the ceiling.
“I’m staying here,” he said.
“Ghost, get up!” Price ordered.
“No. I’ve accepted my fate. This is my life now. I live in the bubble zone.”
“GHOST!”
Gaz, still on his chair, watching all of this, said: “Should I help?”
“NO!” all four of you yelled at once.
“Stay on the chair!” you added. “The chair is safe!”
“Right. Staying on the chair.” He clutched his towels tighter.
You looked at the three men currently sprawled across their kitchen floor like they’d lost a fight with a slip-n-slide.
Price was sitting, legs splayed out, covered in bubbles, looking like he was reconsidering every life choice.
Soap was on his stomach, arms spread out like a starfish, having apparently given up on dignity entirely.
Ghost was still on his back, staring at the ceiling, probably contemplating the meaninglessness of existence.
“I can’t believe this,” you said. “I can’t believe I’m watching this with my own eyes.”
“Little help?!” Soap called out.
“HOW?! IF I STEP ON THAT FLOOR, I’LL GO DOWN TOO!”
“So we’re just… stuck here?” Price asked.
“Until the bubbles dissolve or you learn to ice skate, YES!”
You looked at the washing machine. At the water. At the bubbles. At three grown men lying on the floor like beached whales. “How is it still doing this without being plugged in!?”
Everyone stopped.
Stared at you.
“Plugged in,” Gaz repeated slowly.
“Yeah. Like… remove the power? You did unplug it, right?”
Four adult men suddenly lost the ability look you in the eye.
You closed your eyes, counted to ten, and looked at the wall. At the outlet. At the plug that was sitting right there, easily accessible, not even behind the machine. “This entire time- thirty-seven minutes of flooding- and you could have just unplugged it!”
“To be fair,” Price said from the floor, “we were panicking.”
“That’s not an excuse!”
“It feels like an excuse- ”
“IT’S NOT!”
You waded over to the wall carefully- so, so carefully, because you were NOT ending up on that floor- and yanked the plug out.
The washing machine died immediately.
The sudden silence was deafening.
Nobody moved.
Nobody spoke.
The only sound was the gentle dripping of water and the quiet sobbing of Price’s dignity.
“I’ll kill you,” you said calmly. “I’m going to kill all of you. They’ll find your bodies in the bubble graveyard and nobody will convict me because this- ” you gestured at everything, “- is justifiable homicide.”
“That seems harsh,” Soap said.
“You’ve been lying in dirty washing machine water for five minutes.”
He paused. “That’s a good point, actually.”
“Can we get up now?” Price asked.
“Can you get up without slipping?”
“…No.”
“Then no. You’re staying there. This is your life now. You live here. This is your home. You can lay there and think about what you’ve done.”
“That’s not fair!” Soap protested.
“NONE OF THIS IS FAIR! I WAS HAVING A PEACEFUL AFTERNOON! I WAS READING! I WAS HAVING TEA! AND THEN YOU-” You had to stop and take a breath before you completely crashed out. “I need a minute. I need several minutes. I need a vacation.”
“We could help you book- ” Gaz started from his chair.
“NO! No more help! Your help is what caused this!”
From the floor, Ghost said: “In our defense- ”
“BANNED! THAT PHRASE IS BANNED! STRIKE IT FROM YOUR VOCABULARY! IF I HEAR IT AGAIN, I’M LEAVING AND NEVER COMING BACK!”
“Please don’t leave,” Price said quietly, still sitting in the water like a very sad, very wet statue. “We’ll drown.”
“In three inches of water?”
“We’ll find a way.”
You stared at him. At his completely serious expression. At his beard dripping with soap bubbles.
“You’re all insane,” you said.
“Little bit,” he agreed.
“Okay.” You took a breath. “New plan. Gaz- ”
“Yes?” He sat up straighter on his chair.
“Stay there. Don’t move. You’re the only one who made good choices today.”
“Should I be offended?” Soap asked from the floor.
“Yes!”
“Okay, just checking.”
“Everyone else… stay on the floor. Don’t try to get up. I’m going to get towels from my house, and we’re going to throw them on the floor to create a path so you can crawl out of the bubble zone without breaking your necks.”
“That’s actually a good plan,” Ghost said.
“I’m full of good plans! Unlike some people”
You made your way carefully to the door, each step calculated, not wanting to end up as the fourth casualty of the Great Laundry Disaster.
As you reached the doorway, you heard:
“She’s really mad,” Soap whispered.
“Yeah,” Price agreed.
“Think she’ll forgive us?” Gaz asked.
“Eventually,” Ghost said.
“How long is eventually?” Soap asked.
“However long it takes for her to forget we flooded the house and she watched us slip around like cartoon characters,” Ghost said.
“So… never?” Price said.
“Probably never,” Ghost agreed.
“I CAN STILL HEAR YOU!” you shouted from outside.
“SORRY!” they all yelled back.
You stood on their front porch, looked at the water still trickling out the door, looked at your peaceful house across the street, and seriously contemplated just… walking away.
But you didn’t.
Because despite everything- the flooding, the bubbles, the idiocy, the watching three grown men slip around like penguins on ice- they were your neighbors.
Your stupid, disaster-prone, somehow-still-alive-despite-themselves neighbors and fuck if they weren’t starting to grow on you.
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Summary: The university is too far away from your house, so your parents decided to rent a boarding house. You're about to meet König, your big soldier roommate.
Warnings: 18+, MDNI, NSFW, AGE-GAP, AU, HEAVY SMUT, suggestive tone, explicit content, mature language, sexual innuendo, erotic, possessive, obsession, jealousy, stealing panties, mention of jerking off, cum eating, mutual pining, erotic, heavy tension, ownership, lots of teasing, manhandling, petname, dirty talk, degradation, oral activities, unprotected, PiV, squirting, spanking, fingering, blowjob, overstimulation, breeding, markings, rough sex, older man x younger woman
The place is small like two narrow beds pushed against opposite walls, a shared desk cluttered with textbooks and protein shakes, and a single window overlooking the campus quad.
You drag the last suitcase over the threshold of the dormitory room, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that makes your stomach twist.
Your parents’ warnings echo in your head: Lock the door. Text us when you’re settled. Be careful. Always, always be careful.
You’re an only child. They’ve spent twenty-three years treating you like glass. When the landlord mentioned the only available room came with a roommate, they’d balked.
But the second he added, “He’s one of the task force boys. Big Austrian fellow and keeps to himself,” their tune changed instantly.
A soldier. Disciplined. Safe.
They’d practically shoved the deposit at him, convinced no man in uniform would ever lay a finger on their precious daughter.
You drop your bags with a thud and roll your shoulders, scanning the space. One side is bare which is yours, apparently.
The other is military-neat: bed made with hospital corners, boots lined up like soldiers on parade.
No sign of life.
You were hoping he’d be here so you could get the awkward introduction over with instead of accidentally terrifying him later when he came home to a stranger.
A door on the far side of the room, his bedroom and you guess then creaks open.
You freeze.
He has to duck to clear the frame. Six-foot-something, maybe more, built like someone carved him out of granite and then added extra for fun.
Broad shoulders stretch a black compression shirt until the seams look personally offended. Tactical pants, heavy boots. And a mask that a faded sniper hood that covers everything but his eyes.
Those eyes are pale blue, sharp as winter glass, and they rake over you from head to toe in one slow, assessing sweep. Not leering. Just…cataloguing. Like he’s deciding if you’re a threat or furniture.
You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how small the room feels. “ Hi. I’m, uh…the new roommate.”
His head tilts. When he speaks, the voice that comes out is low enough to vibrate in your ribs. Deep, clipped, unmistakably German-accented.
“ Glad to meet you.”
You offer a tentative smile. “ Same. I’m guessing you’re König?"
He nods once. “ Ja. Been alone for a few months. My last roommate moved out.”
A pause.
“ Said I frightened him.”
You arch a brow, folding your arms. “ Depends how creepy you plan to be, I guess.”
The corner of his eye crinkles like he’s smiling under the mask. “ Not creepy at all. As long as you don’t piss me off.”
The dry delivery catches you off guard. You snort before you can stop yourself. “ Noted. I’ll try to keep my pissing-off levels to a minimum.”
He huffs something that might be a laugh. Then he lifts one massive arm and points with a gloved finger toward the empty side of the room.
“ That’s yours. Bathroom’s through there.”
He nods toward a connecting door. “ Kitchenette down the hall. Quiet hours after twenty-two hundred if I’m on early shift.”
You drag your suitcase toward the empty bed. “ I’m usually buried in textbooks until midnight anyway. Med school doesn’t sleep.”
“ Med school.” He repeats, like he’s filing it away.
“ Good. You’ll be busy. I like quiet.”
You unzip the bag and start unpacking, hyper-aware of him still standing there, watching. Not in a creepy way the more like he’s waiting to see which way you’ll jump.
You pull out a stack of anatomy flashcards and set them on the desk. He shifts his weight, arms crossing over that ridiculous chest.
“ I keep things clean.” He says eventually.
“ Expect the same.”
“ Yes, sir.” You mutter under your breath, sarcastic.
His eyes narrow. “ Sir works.”
Heat flashes up your neck. You busy yourself arranging your laptop, refusing to look at him. The silence stretches, thick enough to chew. You can feel him still watching, and it’s doing annoying things to your pulse.
You risk a glance. He hasn’t moved. “ Something else?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “ Just deciding if you’ll last longer than the last one.”
“ I’m not scared of you.” You say, maybe too quickly.
One brow lifts above the mask. “ You should be a little scared. Healthy respect.”
You roll your eyes. “ I’ve dissected cadavers. You’re tall, not dead.”
That gets you another soft huff, definitely amusement this time. “ We’ll see.”
He turns to go back into his room, pausing at the door. “ If you need anything…quiet, space, someone to reach the top shelf just ask.”
The door closes softly behind him.
You exhale, only then realizing you’d been holding your breath. Your heart is beating too fast for no good reason.
He’s intimidating, sure.
Abrasive in that blunt, foreign way. But there’s something under it is the dry humor, maybe even consideration. And those eyes…
You shake your head. Focus. You’re here for school, not to develop a stupid crush on your giant masked roommate who could probably bench-press you without breaking a sweat.
Still, when you lie in bed that night staring at the ceiling, you hear him moving around in his room in quiet, deliberate footsteps, the occasional low mutter in German.
The wall between you feels paper-thin. You pull the blanket higher. This year is going to be interesting.
And long.
Very, very long.
…
You finally click the last drawer shut and survey your side of the room with exhausted satisfaction. Everything’s in its place. Textbooks stacked by size, notes color-coded, laptop charger coiled like a sleeping snake.
Your phone screen lights up: 00:47. Shit. No wonder your stomach is staging a full rebellion. You haven’t eaten since that sad airport sandwich at lunch.
The common area is dark and silent when you tiptoe out. Most of the task force guys are probably already rack-out, dreaming of push-ups and gunfire.
You’re halfway to the fridge when a low, rumbling voice slices through the quiet.
“ Still awake, Maus?"
You yelp and spin around, clutching your chest. König is sprawled across the couch like a panther on a branch that’s far too small for him.
One long leg draped over the armrest, the other planted on the floor. He’s reading a comic book that looks comically tiny in his huge hands, the pages almost delicate between gloved fingers.
The only light comes from a small lamp behind him, throwing his masked face into shadow and making those pale eyes glow.
“ Dammit, warn a girl.” You hiss, trying to slow your racing heart.
He tilts his head, amused. “ Didn’t want to interrupt your…midnight raiding.”
You narrow your eyes and march to the fridge, yanking it open. Leftover containers, protein shakes, something labeled in German that you’re not brave enough to touch.
Your stomach growls again and loud enough to echo.
From the couch comes a soft, deep chuckle that does unfair things to your spine.
“ I left food on the table.” He says.
“ Knew you’d be hungry. Students always forget to eat.”
You glance over. There’s a foil-wrapped bundle with a sticky note: For the new one.
Your cheeks heat. “ You didn’t have to—”
“ Eat.” He orders mildly, turning a page.
You shuffle to the table and unwrap it. A burger is thick, juicy-looking with sesame bun. Smells incredible. You take a cautious bite.
König’s watching now, the comic forgotten in his lap. He’s still sitting, but even seated he’s enormous. The couch groans every time he shifts.
“ It’s plant-based.” He says before you can ask.
You pause mid-chew. “ I’m not vegetarian.”
“ Part of my diet.” He shrugs. Those massive shoulders roll like tectonic plates.
“ The taste is the same. Better, even. Try it before you complain.”
You roll your eyes but take another bite. And…damn it. He’s right. It’s rich, smoky, and perfectly seasoned. You can’t tell the difference. You make an involuntary little hum of approval and nod.
He gives a satisfied nod. “ Good. You’ll get addicted.”
“ Don’t get cocky.” You mutter around a mouthful.
He stands.
The room seems to shrink. He unfolds himself slowly, first the legs, then the torso until he’s towering again.
You’re eye-level with his stomach, the black fabric of his shirt stretched tight over abs you’re trying very hard not to notice. He steps forward, and you instinctively back up until your hips hit the counter.
“ Thirsty.” He says simply, voice low.
“ I need water.”
You’re blocking the sink. You scramble sideways, muttering, “ Sorry, sorry—”
He brushes past you, barely. His arm grazes yours, solid and warm even through fabric. You catch a faint scent of clean soap and something sharper, like gun oil. He fills a glass, drinks half in one go, throat working under the edge of the mask.
You focus very hard on your burger.
Sauce dribbles onto your chin. You reach for a napkin, too late.
A big thumb swipes across your lower lip, slow and deliberate, wiping the smear away.
Your breath stops.
“ You eat like a child.” He murmurs, voice rougher than before.
His thumb lingers half a second longer than necessary before he pulls away, sucking the sauce off casually like it’s nothing.
Your face is on fire. Your heart is trying to escape your ribcage. You can’t even form words just a strangled squeak.
“ I…uh…early lecture tomorrow…gotta—” You gesture vaguely toward your room, burger clutched like a shield.
He watches you, eyes crinkling at the corners. “ Gute Nacht, messy eater.”
You bolt.
The door to your room slams harder than intended. You lean against it, panting, burger still in hand, sauce probably smeared somewhere else now.
Your lip tingles where he touched it. You press your fingers there like you can trap the feeling.
Less than twenty-four hours.
You’ve been here less than a full day, and your scary-hot giant roommate has already fed you, laughed at you, and wiped your mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You slide down the door until you’re sitting on the floor, and the burger is forgotten.
This slow torture is going to kill you. And the worst part? Some traitorous part of you is already looking forward to tomorrow’s breakfast.
…
You sit in the lecture hall trying to look like a functioning human being, pen poised over your notebook, nodding along as the professor drones about cranial nerves.
Your friends flank you, whispering snide remarks about how Dr. Kessler gave a 62 to the kid who literally wrote the textbook’s twin.
You laugh in all the right places, toss in a sarcastic “He probably grades on font choice,” and hope it sounds normal.
But your brain is a traitor.
Every time you blink, you see that massive thumb brushing sauce off your lip. Feel the faint pressure, the warmth. Hear that low, amused “You eat like a child.”
You’ve tried everything: reciting the brachial plexus, counting ceiling tiles, mentally conjugating Latin roots.
Nothing works.
Those stupid piercing blue eyes keep sliding into frame like an uninvited guest star.
“ Hey, you okay?” Maya nudges you.
“ You zoned out hard.”
You force a smile. “ Totally fine. Just remembered that the histology paper’s due Friday.”
They buy it, thank God, and launch back into roasting professors. You nod mechanically, pretending to listen while your pulse does an annoying little flutter at the memory of König’s chuckle.
By the time class ends, you’re exhausted from the mental gymnastics. You shove your earbuds in, crank your playlist, something loud and distracting and join the river of students pouring down the main sidewalk toward the dorms.
The late-afternoon sun is low, campus buzzing with the usual post-class chaos.
Then you spot the patrol.
Black SUVs, uniformed officers, a loose perimeter of soldiers in full kit. Rifles slung, vests bulky, moving with practiced efficiency.
A bright orange poster on a lamppost reads SURPRISE SECURITY INSPECTION in bold letters. Students slow to gawk while their phones come out.
You slow too, craning your neck as you walk, trying to figure out what’s happening.
It’s rare to see this kind of presence on campus.
You don’t see the obstacle until you slam into it.
Your face meets something solid and unyielding. Not a wall, walls don’t radiate heat or smell faintly of pine soap and gun oil.
You stumble back, earbuds tugging, and look up…way up.
König.
In full tactical gear, helmet tucked under one arm, mask in place, he looms like a damn eclipse. The uniform makes him look even bigger, if that’s possible, plates and pouches adding bulk to an already ridiculous frame.
Those pale eyes pin you in place.
“ Watch the road, not my colleagues.” He says, voice low but firm.
“ You put yourself in danger.”
You blink, music still blasting in one ear. “ What?”
He sighs and reaches down. Gloved fingers gently pluck both earbuds free. The sudden quiet is jarring. You hear your own heartbeat instead.
His face is closer now, head ducked to bring him level with you. You can see faint stubble shadowing the edge of the mask, the way his lashes catch the light. Dangerously close.
“ I said…” He repeats, slower.
“ Stop staring at distractions. Be attentive on the road.”
Heat floods your cheeks. “ I—I was just curious. It’s not every day the campus looks like a war zone.”
His gaze flicks over your shoulder to the perimeter. You follow it and notice several soldiers watching, smirking, whispering to each other.
One makes an exaggerated heart shape with his hands. Another elbows his buddy, grinning.
König groans, a deep, suffering sound. “ Idioten.”
He turns back to you, expression unreadable behind the mask but eyes softer. “ Surprise inspection. Report came in…possibly the suspect with explosives on campus.”
A cold shiver races down your spine. “ Seriously?”
“ Ja.” His voice drops even lower.
“ Do not spread it. No panic.”
You nod quickly, throat tight.
His massive hand settles on your shoulder in careful, but the weight of it still makes you feel tiny. Warmth seeps through your jacket.
“ Go back to the dorm. Rest. I’ll follow when the shift ends.”
The touch lingers a second longer than strictly necessary before he lifts it away. You swallow hard.
“ Okay.” You manage.
“ Be careful.”
One corner of his eye crinkles, almost a smile. “ Always am.”
You turn to go, shoving your earbuds in your pocket this time.
Every step feels hyper-aware.
You can feel his stare on your back like a physical thing, intense and unwavering. You don’t dare look behind you, but you know he’s still watching until you round the corner.
By the time you reach the dorm, your heart is racing again for entirely different reasons than fear of bombs.
You flop face-first onto your bed and groan into the pillow.
This man is going to be the death of you. And the slowest, most infuriatingly delicious death it’s ever been.
…
You’ve been here six weeks now, and somehow you’ve survived living with a human mountain who wears a mask to bed and could probably deadlift the entire dorm building.
Six weeks of slow, maddening adjustment.
You and König have settled into a rhythm that feels almost…domestic. He grunts a greeting when he gets back from whatever classified hell his task force drags him through.
You tease him about leaving his giant boots in the walkway like landmines. He deadpans back that if you trip then he’ll catch you then watches with thinly veiled amusement as you turn red and mutter something about not needing rescuing.
He feeds you. Constantly.
Every few days there’s a foil-wrapped parcel on the table with a sticky note in sharp block letters: Eat. You skipped lunch again.
Sometimes it’s grilled chicken and vegetables portioned like he’s prepping for deployment.
Sometimes it’s those ridiculous plant-based burgers you’re secretly addicted to now.
Once it was a whole box of those fancy chocolate truffles you mentioned liking in passing.
You still don’t know how he remembered.
Your parents call every Sunday like clockwork.
“ Is everything okay, sweetheart? Is your roommate treating you well?”
You roll your eyes and assure them, again, that König isn’t some creep. He’s quiet, tidy, terrifying to everyone else but oddly respectful to you.
They sound relieved every time, as if the word “soldier” is a magical shield against all bad things.
If only they knew how often you lie awake wondering why your stomach flips whenever he brushes past you in the narrow kitchenette.
The tension is unbearable and delicious. You’re twenty-three. He’s…older. Noticeably. You try not to think about the exact math, because it feels forbidden in a way that makes your skin too tight.
He’s your roommate. Your friend, maybe. Nothing more.
Except for that one evening last week.
You’re sprawled on the couch in oversized sweats, picking at the takeout Thai he brought home “because women always want to eat.”
His words. Delivered with that dry, accented certainty that makes you want to both laugh and climb him like a tree.
“ Thanks for dinner again.” You say, mouth full of pad thai.
“ Seriously, I’m gonna start thinking I’m your girlfriend or something with all this spoiling.”
The words tumble out before your brain catches up.
You freeze.
He freezes in mid-reach for his water bottle and his massive frame suddenly statue-still. Even behind the mask you can feel the shift in the air, thick and electric.
Silence stretches like a rubber band pulled too tight.
Your laugh comes out high and panicked. “ Kidding! Obviously. I mean, you’d have to actually take me on a date first, old man. Buy me flowers or whatever ancient ritual you Austrians do.”
His eyes narrow, but the crinkle at the corners gives him away. “ Old man?”
“ Yeah. You probably listened to vinyl records in your crib.”
He huffs in half laugh, half warning. “ Careful, Maus. Keep teasing and I will stop bringing food.”
“ You wouldn’t dare.”
He leans forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping dangerously low. “ Try me.”
You swallow hard, heat pooling low in your belly. The moment hangs, heavy and sweet, until you both look away at the exact same second like cowards.
There are other moments you pretend don’t happen.
Like the nights you jolt awake to low, ragged sounds from his room. The panting and muffled groans that make your imagination run filthy laps.
You press a pillow over your head and curse him for not using headphones, whatever porn he’s watching. You refuse to acknowledge the ache between your thighs or the way you have to change your own sheets the next morning.
Worse: your favorite black lace panties have vanished.
Then the red ones. You’ve torn apart your laundry basket twice. You’re convinced they’ve fallen behind the dryer or something equally mortifying.
The idea that König might have found them or seen them, touched them makes you want to die on the spot. You’ve rehearsed asking him a dozen times “Hey, random question, have you seen any…women’s underwear lying around?” and every version ends with you spontaneously combusting.
So you say nothing. You buy new ones and pray.
Tonight you’re at the kitchen counter, stress-eating cereal straight from the box because exams are trying to murder you.
The door clicks open at 23:40, later than usual. König ducks inside, gear bag slung over one shoulder, moving quiet despite his size.
He pauses when he sees you. “ Still up?”
“ The brain won’t shut off.” You mumble around a mouthful of frosted flakes.
He drops the bag, pulls two protein bars from his pocket, and slides one across the counter to you without a word. You stare at it, then at him.
“ I’m already eating cereal at midnight. This is not a protein emergency.”
“ Eat anyway.” He says.
“ You’re cranky when you’re hungry.”
“ I am not cranky.”
He arches a brow.
You tear open the bar and take an aggressive bite. “ Happy, dad?”
The eye crinkle again. “ Very.”
He moves to the fridge, back to you, and you allow yourself one quick glance at the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders.
Six weeks in and the tension hasn’t eased, it’s worse. Thicker. Like the air before a storm.
You wonder if he feels it too.
You wonder if he hears you some nights, the same way you hear him.
You wonder how long you can both keep pretending this is just friendly roommate banter.
Because it’s not.
And you’re running out of excuses to ignore it.
…
You’re crammed into your favorite cheap eatery just off campus, the one with the greasy tables and the best bulgogi bowls in a ten-mile radius.
It’s lunch break, and your friends are in full post-quiz autopsy mode, arguing over whether the professor wanted “afferent” or “efferent” for question twelve.
You’re half-listening, half-daydreaming about a nap, chopsticks hovering over your rice.
The sliding door whooshes open.
Conversation dies instantly.
Four pairs of eyes swing to you like you’re the main character in a K-drama.
You feel it before you see him: Brent Kim, club president, 4.0 GPA, literal walking Pinterest board, strolling up to the counter in a cream sweater that probably costs more than your tuition. Dark hair perfectly tousled, and a smile bright enough to power the city grid.
Your mouth drops open. A fly could homestead in there.
“ Close it.” Maya hisses, kicking you under the table.
“Before something nests.”
You snap your jaw shut, but your stare stays glued. Brent orders in a smooth, polite voice and then turns. His gaze sweeps the room, lands on you, and that smile widens.
Oh God.
He walks straight to your table.
Your friends turn into vibrating chihuahuas trying not to squeal. Someone’s foot is rapidly tapping Morse code into your shin: SAY YES TO WHATEVER HE ASKS.
“ Hey…” Brent says, stopping beside your chair. Up close he smells like cedar and winter air.
“ Didn’t expect to see you here.”
You manage a brilliant “Hi” that comes out more like a squeak.
He chuckles in low and warm.
“ Quick question…are you free this Sunday? It’s the club’s founding anniversary. All members are supposed to show, but I figured I’d personally remind my favorite bio major.”
Your brain short-circuits. Favorite?
Your friends are making frantic hand gestures: nodding heads, thumbs up, one of them literally mouthing GO.
You clear your throat. “ I…yeah. I’ll be there.”
“ Perfect.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, embossed card, a thick cream stock with gold lettering.
A ticket.
“ You’ll need this at the door. Security’s tight this year.”
He holds it out. You reach and your fingers brush his.
Electricity shoots straight up your arm, down your spine, pools hot in your stomach. It’s barely a second of contact, but your entire nervous system files a dramatic incident report.
Your friends lose the battle. A chorus of stifled squeaks erupts.
Brent’s smile turns knowing. “ Looking forward to seeing you there.”
He nods to your friends, grabs his takeout from the counter, and leaves while the door sliding shut behind him like the end of a movie scene.
The second he’s gone, chaos.
“ OH MY GOD YOU TOUCHED HIM.”
“ HE SAID FAVORITE.”
“ YOU’RE GOING ON A DATE.”
“ It’s not a date!” You protest, face nuclear.
“ It’s a club thing!”
“ With a personal invitation and actual finger contact.” Maya counters.
“ That’s a date, babe.”
You hide behind your bulgogi, grinning like an idiot despite yourself.
Forty feet away, at a corner booth half-hidden by a fake ficus, four very large men in civilian clothes sit in tense silence.
König’s metal spoon is bent at a forty-five-degree angle in his fist.
Soap is biting his lip so hard to keep from laughing that it’s turning white. Ghost watches the scene like he’s observing wildlife. Price just looks tired.
“ Aw, look at that…” Soap whispers, voice syrupy.
“ Proper college romance. Finger brushin’, blushin’, the works. Makes ye miss uni, doesn’t it?”
Ghost grunts. “ Nobody would’ve dated your weird ass in uni.”
Soap gasps, hand to chest. “ Excuse me, Lt. Spooky is calling me weird? You wear a skull mask to Tesco.”
“ Both of you shut it.” Price mutters, rubbing his temple.
Then, quieter. “ Didn’t think König’s type was…college girl.”
Ghost snorts. “ Don’t know what the fuck he ate to start fancying a student. They’re all headaches and drama.”
Soap leans in, eyes dancing. “ Maybe she makes his soldier stand at ease, if you catch my—”
Ghost kicks him under the table. Soap wheezes.
König’s voice is low, dangerously even. “ I don’t like her. She can flirt with whoever. I don’t give a fuck.”
Soap finally loses it then a choked giggle escapes.
“ Right. That’s why you’ve been nicking her knickers like a bloody magpie. Wanking into them every morning, sniffing them like they’re laced with coke—”
“ Shut. Up.” König’s growl could peel paint.
Soap raises both hands, still grinning. “ Just sayin’. And remember that time you made her a protein shake with your own special—”
Ghost mutters. “ It gave me nightmares for weeks.”
“ Milk mixture for breakfast?” Soap finishes cheerfully.
“ Real romantic, big guy.”
König’s jaw flexes under the mask. The spoon is now a pretzel.
Price sighs heavily. “ Let the man sort his own mess. She’s an adult. He wants to court her properly, fine.”
He fixes König with a hard stare. “ But if you do something stupid like more bodily fluid cuisine…I’ll smash your skull myself.”
Soap leans back, folding his arms. “ My professional advice? Make a move before the pretty boy snatches her. College lads move fast.”
Ghost kicks him again. “ Don’t listen to this idiot. Whatever you do next will already be creepy as fuck after the panty theft and the…milk incident.”
König stares at the bent spoon like it personally betrayed him. His food is untouched.
Across the restaurant, you’re still being grilled by your friends, laughing and blushing and replaying that finger brush in your head on loop.
You have no idea that six weeks of stolen glances, late-night groceries, and carefully portioned meals have built something far more complicated than friendship on the other side of the room.
Or that the man currently mutilating cutlery has memorized the way you blush, the sound of your laugh, the exact shade of every missing pair of underwear now hidden in his locker.
Sunday is four days away, and König’s grip on the ruined spoon finally snaps it clean in half.
…
You float back to the dorm on a cloud of giddy stupidity, the gold-embossed ticket clutched between your fingers like it’s made of glass.
Brent’s cologne still clings faintly to the card in clean, expensive and perfect. You press it to your nose once in the elevator, then feel like an idiot and shove it into your pocket before anyone sees.
The dorm is quiet when you push the door open. No towering shadow, no low Austrian greeting. König must still be on shift.
You kick off your shoes, drop your bag on the couch, and collapse backward with a happy sigh, replaying the finger-brush moment for the hundredth time.
Your gaze lands on the coffee table.
His comic book. The one he’s been nursing for weeks that sits there and spine cracked open like he just set it down.
Curiosity wins. You reach for it.
The cover looks innocent enough: stylized art, bold colors. You flip to the dog-eared page.
Your brain blue-screens.
A woman bent over a desk, skirt flipped up.
A man behind her, a massive, hooded, unmistakably dominant, is thrusting so hard the speech bubbles are just a string of filthy German curses and broken English pleas.
Explicit doesn’t cover it.
You see everything: thick cock stretching her open, her mouth wide in a scream, sweat flying off both of them.
You yelp, hurl the book across the room like it’s radioactive, then frantically cross yourself even though you haven’t been to church since high school.
“ Sorry, sorry, sorry—”
The bedroom door creaks open.
König fills the frame, arms crossed, mask in place, those icy eyes locked on you. He’s in a black t-shirt and tactical pants, sleeves stretched around biceps that look illegally large.
Day off, apparently and he’s barefoot, silent as a ghost.
You swallow. “ When…when did you get back?”
“ Day off.” He says simply, voice gravel-rough.
You stand too fast, nearly tripping. “ Cool, cool. I’m just…gonna head to my room—”
You don’t make it two steps.
“ Enjoy your little lunch date with the college boy?” He asks, tone dripping sarcasm.
You freeze. Turn slowly. “ How did you—”
“ I saw you.” He cuts in, starting toward you with deliberate steps.
“ At the restaurant. You and your giggling friends. Him handing you that pretty ticket like a good little prince.”
You back up instinctively. “ I didn’t see you.”
He chuckles, dark and humorless. “ No. You were too busy blushing at that pathetic boy.”
Your spine hits the sink counter. Trapped. He keeps coming until he’s looming, one hand planting on the cabinet beside your head, caging you in. He has to bend to bring his face close then the heat radiates off him.
“ What’s your problem?” You demand, voice shakier than you want.
“ Why are you insulting Brent?”
König mutters something harsh in German like Scheiße, probably then switches back.
“ Don’t like what I saw. Wanted to walk over, grab him by the neck, throw him across the room.”
His mask brushes your temple as he leans closer. You feel his breath through the fabric, warm and unsteady.
“ I’m jealous.” He growls.
“ I'm possessive. Don’t like sharing what’s mine.”
“ I’m not yours.” You shoot back, but it sounds weak even to you.
He laughs, low and dangerous. “ The moment you walked into this dorm, Maus? You were mine.”
The words hit like a punch to the gut in a hot, coiling need twisting low in your belly. You shove at his chest, but it’s like pushing a brick wall.
He doesn’t budge. Instead he presses forward, pinning you harder against the sink.
You gasp.
Something huge and impossibly hard grinds against your stomach, long, thick and throbbing through his pants.
Your thighs clench involuntarily.
“ I've been trying to control it.” He whispers, voice ragged now.
“ Every night I hear you through the wall. Every time you bend over in those little shorts. Every time you laugh at my notes. I stroke myself raw thinking about you…how tight you’d be, how you’d cry my name while I split you open.”
Your breath hitches. A soft, embarrassing sound escapes your throat.
He hears it. His gloved hand catches your chin, thumb pressing into your lower lip.
“ I want to fuck you so deep you forget that boy’s name exists.” He murmurs against your ear.
“ I want to bend you over this counter right now, shove your panties aside, and bury every inch inside you until you’re dripping down my balls.”
“ I want to feel you clench around me while you beg…louder than you do in your sleep when you touch yourself thinking no one hears.”
You’re soaking through your underwear. Your hips twitch forward without permission, seeking friction against that massive bulge.
“ I want to ruin you for anyone else.” He continues, filthy and relentless.
“ Fill you up again and again until the only thing you remember is how good my cock stretches you. Until you’re addicted to the way I wreck this pretty little pussy.”
His thumb slips into your mouth, just the tip, and you suck on it helplessly while your eyes flutter.
He groans, the sound tortured.
“ Say you’re mine…” He demands, voice cracking with restraint.
“ Say it, and I’ll give you everything you’ve been dreaming about.”
You’re trembling, heart hammering, body on fire. The comic book lies forgotten on the floor, and you’ve never wanted anything more in your life.
…
You stare up into those piercing blue eyes, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. The air between you crackles, thick with everything you’ve both been pretending wasn’t there for weeks.
His thumb is still pressed against your lower lip, waiting.
You make the mistake.
A tiny, breathless “Yes” slips out.
The second it leaves your mouth, his eyes darken, pupils blown wide. A low, animal growl rumbles from his chest.
Then you’re airborne.
One massive arm hooks under your thighs, the other across your back, and he hoists you onto his shoulder like you weigh nothing.
You squeak in half protest and half thrill as blood rushes to your head. His stride eats the distance to his bedroom in three steps.
The door bangs open as he tosses you onto the mattress. You bounce once, twice, hair fanning across his dark sheets.
The room smells like him, gun oil, pine soap, and something darker. Your eyes dart around. The tactical gear neatly stacked, protein powder on the dresser, and—
You gasp.
One of your missing black lace panties is draped over the back of his desk chair like a trophy, the crotch darkened with dried stains.
König follows your gaze.
“ I haven’t washed that one.” He says, voice rough with satisfaction.
He plucks the fabric from the chair, holding it up between two thick fingers. The evidence is unmistakable, crusted and almost dry cum streaking the center.
“ It still smells like you. And me.”
“ You…you stole my panties?” Your voice cracks, equal parts horror and filthy arousal.
He chuckles, deep and unapologetic, tossing the ruined lace aside.
“ Not sorry, Maus. I need your scent. It gets hard just walking past the laundry room.”
He crawls onto the bed, a massive frame caging you in. “ Addicted.”
Your brain flashes to the comic book on the living room floor. “ That…that comic—”
“ I needed something to look at while I pictured you.” He admits without shame, lowering himself until his weight pins you deliciously.
“ Better visuals when I fuck my fist thinking of this tight little body.”
Before you can form a reply, his hands fist the front of your uniform blouse. Fabric rips like paper. Buttons ping across the room. Cool air hits your skin and you gasp as your bra is exposed.
“ Scheiße.” He groans, eyes devouring you.
“ Perfect.”
His huge palms cover your breasts completely and your chest looks tiny in his grip. He squeezes, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak hard and aching.
Then his mouth descends. Hot, wet suction on one nipple, teeth grazing just enough to sting. You arch with a sharp moan, fingers tangling in the fabric of his mask.
He switches sides, biting down harder, marking you. By the time he pulls away, both nipples are swollen, shining with his saliva, throbbing in time with your pulse.
He doesn’t stop there.
König moves down your body like a predator, shoving your skirt up to your waist. Your panties are soaked as he rips those too, the sound obscene.
You’re bare to him now, trembling.
He spreads your thighs wide, settling between them like he belongs there. A deep, guttural groan vibrates against your skin as he buries his face against your slick folds.
“ Fuck, you smell better than the panties.” He rasps.
He inhales deeply, nose dragging through your slit. The vibration of his groan shoots straight to your clit. You jerk, hips bucking, but his hands pin you flat.
“ Stay still.” He orders, voice muffled against you.
One thick finger traces your entrance, gathering wetness. You whimper when he pushes inside slowly at first, letting you feel the stretch.
He pulls out, stares at the faint red streak on his finger.
“ Blood?” His tone is reverent, almost awed.
“ You’re a virgin?”
You nod, biting your lip.
A dark, possessive sound tears from his throat. “ Mine. Only mine.”
He thrusts the finger back in but this time hard. No gentleness. His digit is huge, stretching you open with brutal rhythm.
You cry out, back bowing. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles that make stars burst behind your eyes.
“ Taking my finger so well.” He growls.
“ I can’t wait to feel this cunt choke my cock.”
The heat coils tighter, unbearable. “ König…I’m—”
“ Cum.” He commands.
“ Explode on my hand. Show me how you fall apart.”
You do.
The orgasm slams through you, thighs shaking violently as you clench around his finger. He keeps thrusting through it, drawing it out until you’re sobbing his name.
When you finally sag, boneless, he withdraws slowly. His finger glistens with your release and that trace of blood. He brings it to his mask, slipping it underneath.
You hear the wet sound of him sucking it clean, eyes rolling back in pleasure. Then he pulls it out, shiny with his saliva, and presses it to your lips.
“ Suck.”
You obey without thinking, tongue swirling around the thick digit, tasting yourself in tangy, musky, mixed with him. His gaze is molten, fixed on your mouth as you hollow your cheeks and suck obediently.
“ Good girl.” He praises, voice hoarse.
“ Clean every drop.”
You do, until his finger is spotless. He withdraws it with a wet pop, eyes never leaving yours.
“ This is just the start, Maus.” He murmurs, settling his hips between your thighs so you feel exactly how hard he is massive, burning against your sensitive skin.
“ By the time I’m done, you’ll never think of that boy again.”
…
König drops his massive body beside you on the mattress, the frame groaning under his weight. He’s still fully clothed except for the gloves tossed aside, mask in place, chest heaving from the restraint he’s barely holding onto.
Those piercing blue eyes lock onto yours, dark with hunger.
“ Straddle me.” He orders, voice low and rough.
“ Take me out.”
You huff, half-hearted protest bubbling up. “ You’re so bossy—”
His glare sharpens, one brow arching above the mask. The look says try me.
You swallow the rest of your complaint and climb over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. He spreads his thick thighs wider, giving you room, watching like a predator as your trembling fingers fumble with his zipper.
The second you reach inside, your hand closes around heat and steel. You pull him free and nearly whimper.
He’s enormous. It's angry red, veiny, easily ten inches and thicker than your wrist.
Your fingers don’t even meet around the shaft. Pre-cum beads at the slit, slick and glistening.
König groans, hips twitching. “ Lube it, Maus. Use that pretty mouth.”
You stare at the monster in your hand. “ I can’t…it’s too big. I’ll choke.”
He chuckles, dark and filthy. “ Don’t deepthroat, Liebling. Just the tip. Suck like you mean it. Use your hands for the rest.”
You gulp, leaning down. Even the head stretches your lips wide, salty and hot against your tongue. You swirl around the crown, slurping messily, cheeks hollowing. Both hands pump what you can’t fit in which is most of him.
König’s head falls back, throat working on a growl. “ Fuck…genau so. Good girl.”
You lose yourself in the rhythm. The sucking, stroking and spit dripping down his length until huge hands suddenly grip your ass, lifting you like you’re weightless.
You squeak around his cock as he positions you higher, tip nudging insistently at your soaked entrance.
“ W-wait—” You gasp, pulling off with a wet pop.
“ It won’t fit!”
“ It will.” He rasps, holding the base steady.
“ Your greedy little cunt will take every inch. Sink down. Now.”
You bite your lip hard enough to sting, hands braced on his chest. Slowly and agonizingly, you lower yourself.
The stretch burns. Your walls flutter and resist, then yield in tiny increments. You hiss, eyes watering as the broad head breaches you. König curses in German, fingers digging into your hips.
“ Scheiße, so tight…mein Gott.”
He slaps your ass sharply. The sting makes you clench, and another inch slides in. You moan despite the ache.
Deeper and deeper. Until your ass meets his thighs and you’re impossibly full, his cock seated so deep you feel it in your throat.
Both of you moan in raw, broken sounds.
“ Look…” He laughs breathlessly, pressing a palm to your lower belly. A visible bulge distends your skin where he’s buried.
“ Taking me like a perfect little slut. My cock’s rearranging your insides.”
The degradation sends heat spiraling through you. You lift experimentally, whimpering at the drag on how your walls cling to every vein. Then sink again. Pain melts into dizzying pleasure.
Soon you’re riding him in earnest, slow rolls turning to desperate bounces. His hands guide your hips, but he lets you set the pace, eyes glued to where you’re joined.
“ Faster…” He growls.
“ Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me how much you need it.”
You do. You are chasing the friction, breasts bouncing, and moans spilling freely. The bulge appears and disappears with every thrust.
Suddenly he surges up, flipping you beneath him in one fluid move. Your legs are hooked over his broad shoulders, folding you nearly in half.
He looms above, massive and overwhelming.
“ Zu klein für mich.” He murmurs, voice thick with awe and possession. (Too small for me)
“ Seht nur, wie ich diese winzige Muschi dehne.” (Just look how I'm stretching this tiny pussy)
He starts moving in deep, punishing strokes that punch the air from your lungs. The bulge drives deeper; you feel him everywhere.
König buries his masked face in your neck, lips brushing your skin as he switches to German, words hot and filthy against your ear.
“ Du gehörst mir…so nass für mich…werde dich füllen bis es überläuft…kleine Schlampe nimmt jeden Zentimeter…” (You belong to me...so wet for me...I'll fill you until it overflows...little slut takes every inch.)
You don’t understand most of it, but the tone, it's possessive, degrading, adoring and pushes you higher. Your nails rake down his back through the shirt.
Another orgasm builds fast and brutal. “ König…please—”
“ Cum.” He snarls.
" Spritz in meinen ganze Schwanz, du verzweifeltes Mädchen!" (Cum all over my cock, you desperate girl)
You shatter.
Pleasure crashes through you in waves. You squirt hard, soaking his hips, the sheets. Your walls milk him relentlessly.
He roars your name muffled behind the mask and slams deep one last time. Heat floods you in thick, endless pulses.
There’s so much it overflows immediately, creamy white leaking around his buried length, dripping down your ass.
He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead he collapses carefully, rolling so you’re tucked against his hard chest, still impaled and full.
His hand strokes your hair, voice softening to a rumble.
“ Gut gemacht, Liebling…so perfect for me…took everything I gave you.”
Only then does he ease out in slow and gentle until both of you moaning at the lewd, wet sound. Cum gushes out after him.
His cock that is still half-hard, shiny with your mixed release rests heavy and twitching against your stomach.
He strokes your hair, blue eyes searching yours.
“ No event on Sunday.” He says quietly.
“ It's useless. You stay here.”
“ But I—”
He cuts you off with a low growl. “ I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk. Until that boy’s name is erased from your pretty head. Then I’ll spend all day making you come again and again. That’s your Sunday.”
You open your mouth to argue, out of habit, mostly but his stare pins you.
Intense. Possessive. Promising.
You swallow. Nod.
A slow, satisfied smile crinkles his eyes.
“ Braves Mädchen.” He presses a masked kiss to your forehead. (Good girl.)
“ I’ll make it memorable. Better than any pathetic invitation.”
You melt against him, sore and spent and secretly thrilled.
Sunday was never going to that club anyway.
…
Everything has flipped upside down in the best, most filthy way possible. Since that first night, the dorm has become a non-stop haze of sex.
You barely make it out the door for class without König pinning you against the wall, fingers or tongue or cock inside you until you’re late and wobbly-kneed.
You try to study at the desk when he crawls under it then spreads your thighs, and eats you out until your notes are smeared with desperate handprints.
He comes back from shift smelling like sweat and gunpowder, and you’re on him before he can drop his gear bag while riding him on the couch, the floor or in the shower wall.
Sunday arrives exactly as he promised: unforgettable.
You wake up naked where clothes are pointless when König is in the same postcode. He’s sprawled beside you, equally bare, that huge scarred body on full display.
The first time you really see all of him in daylight, you nearly drop the orange juice. His body is a map of violence and power while broad chest dusted with dark hair, abs carved deep, a thick happy trail leading straight to that monstrous cock that never seems to go fully soft around you.
Scars crisscross his skin: jagged ones across his ribs, a burn on his shoulder, a long surgical line down his thigh.
He catches you staring and shifts, suddenly awkward for a man who just fucked you senseless.
“ Not pretty.” He mutters, reaching for a shirt.
You stop him, fingers tracing a raised scar on his chest. “ Are you kidding? You look fucking hot. Like a war god or something.”
You press a kiss to one mark, then another. “ Never cover up around me again.”
Breakfast prep starts innocently enough. You’re on the kitchen counter in one of his oversized shirts where the only thing you’re allowed to wear while your legs spread while he stands between them slicing strawberries.
Then two thick fingers slide into your bare pussy without warning.
“ Guten Morgen, Liebling.” He murmurs against your neck, pumping lazily.
“ Already soaked for me.”
You whimper, gripping his shoulders as he works you open, thumb circling your clit until you’re shaking. By the time you come, clutching his wrist, breakfast is forgotten.
He lifts you effortlessly, sets you on his cock, and goes back to chopping vegetables while you ride him slow and greedy. You roll your hips, chasing friction, while he calmly slices bell peppers one-handed.
The sizzle of eggs, bacon, and hotdogs fills the air. When the scent of frying fat hits, you both lose patience then you slam down hard as he thrusts up brutally, and you come together with muffled groans against each other’s skin.
His release painting your insides as the bacon pops in the pan.
The rest of the day is pure debauchery.
Clothes never make a reappearance. You drift around the dorm naked, his cum drying on your thighs, breasts marked with fresh bites.
Every time you pass him. When he's reading reports on the couch or cleaning his gear at the table while his cock is hard and swinging heavy between his legs like a permanent invitation.
You take it often.
You drop to your knees while he’s reviewing mission briefs, deepthroating as much of that monster as you can in which is still only half.
He threads fingers through your hair, abs flexing, voice calm as he turns pages and praises you in German.
“ So ein braves kleines Ding…nimmst meinen Schwanz so tief…” (Such a good little thing...you take my cock so deep...)
Sunday afternoon, your phone rings.
You’re bouncing on his lap again, facing him, his mouth latched to one nipple.
The screen flashes MOM.
You freeze.
König reaches around you, grabs the phone, and holds it out. “ Answer.”
“ Are you insane?” You hiss.
“ They’ll hear—”
He thrusts up hard once, making you gasp. “ You’re too good at ignoring calls. Answer or I stop moving.”
You glare, but your hips are already rolling again.
You swipe accept.
“ Hi, Mom! Dad!”
Your mother’s voice is warm. “ Sweetheart! How’s school? Is everything okay with your roommate?”
You try to sound normal.
König chooses that moment to slam up particularly deep, the fat head of his cock knocking your cervix.
Your voice cracks on a moan. “ Everything’s g-great…oh!”
“ Baby? Are you okay?”
“ Y-yeah!” You squeak, clawing at König’s chest.
“ Just…stubbed my toe!”
König’s eyes glint with evil amusement. He flips you suddenly, pinning you face-down on the couch, one leg hooked over his forearm. He slides back in with one brutal thrust.
You whine involuntarily.
“ What was that?” Dad’s voice sharpens.
“ N-Nothing! Dropped my pen…keep going, Dad. It's the monthly allowance, right?”
Your parents keep talking about grades, allowance and reminders to eat vegetables. König leans over you, chest to your back, and starts a slow, grinding rhythm.
His masked mouth finds your ear.
“ Quiet, Schlampe.” He whispers in German.
“ Don’t want them knowing their precious daughter is getting fucked raw by her big bad roommate, hm?”
You bite the cushion to stifle another moan.
Your father launches into a lecture about budgeting your monthly allowance. König speeds up, pounding deeper, the wet slap of skin barely muffled.
He degrades you softly the whole time. König leans down, mouth at your ear, whispering pure filth in German while your parents talk about finances.
“ Du kleine Schlampe…nimmst meinen Schwanz so gut während du mit Daddy redest…so verdorben…” (You little slut...taking my cock so good while you talk to Daddy...so depraved...)
The coil snaps. You come hard, silent except for a choked whimper, walls fluttering around him. König pulls out just in time, hot stripes paint your lower back and ass then shoves back in to finish deep and flooding you again.
His huge hand clamps over your mouth, catching your muffled cry.
“ Braves Mädchen.” He breathes against your neck.
“ So gehorsam.” (So obedient.)
Your father is still mid-sentence about direct deposits when the aftershocks fade.
“ I…I have to go,” you manage, voice shaky.
“ Assignment due—”
“ Of course, honey.” Your mom says.
“ Just remember…stay safe. Keep your distance from that male roommate, okay? You’re too trusting sometimes.”
König outright laughs in a low, wicked rumble against your spine.
You end the call with trembling fingers. He plucks the phone away, tosses it onto the coffee table, and gives a lazy thrust that makes you gasp.
“ They have no idea…” He says, voice low and rough.
“ That their precious girl is getting fucked raw by her big bad roommate every day. Stuffed full of my cum while she lies to them.”
You swat his chest weakly. “ You’re evil.”
He chuckles, the sound rumbling through both of you as he starts a slow, lazy rhythm again.
“ Evil?” He leans down, mask brushing your lips.
“ No, Maus. Just keep what’s mine.”
You roll your eyes, but your legs wrap tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper.
Sunday isn’t even over yet, and you wouldn’t trade it for any club invitation in the world.
