Chapter Text
d o g
verb chase after; bother, haunt, hound, plague, shadow, pursue
“I love the marriage of oranges and olive oil. They go so well together. Usually, people prefer to use lemon, but orange has that lovely zest too. Just remember to use freshly pressed oranges, juice from the store won’t do…”
Your stomach growls.
You didn’t even get to eat breakfast before rushing off to work this morning, cooking for the hundredth time for a few dull faces behind the camera and tens of thousands of people behind the TV screen. You are simply too exhausted to even eat, without a reason, it seems: everything tastes like ash even if you’re hungry. It took you at least a year to understand that you were suffering from depression.
“This is depression…? Simply feeling tired all the time?”
That’s what you asked your therapist, who had just said that your depression was chronic and would likely turn severe if left untreated. She always looks at you like you’re a poor little child – you both love and hate that look. It makes you feel weak. In your secret, most base wishes you’d like her to say that everything will be okay. But she never says that. She only asks you boring, neutral questions. You want to shriek and shout and cry on the floor to make her cut the act and become a human being. You want her to hug you and make it stop; this constant feeling of numb pain, this horrid reality your life has turned into, a life where nothing really matters much, least of all you.
You want to feel alive again, but instead, you just feel so goddamn tired. The only times you feel relatively happy are when you lie down to sleep. At least you’ll be knocked out for a few hours and won’t have to witness this uneventful, theatrical, miserable existence.
This slow death started to occur only after you got the diagnosis, of course. Before that, you did everything you were supposed to do without a complaint. You only realized something might be wrong when you started to get up when you were absolutely forced to do so. You brushed your teeth in the shower, dried your hair quickly, threw on some clothes and ran for your make-up where someone far more cheerful dolled you up for TV. You were turned from a semi-zombie to someone with a flirty, sad stare, glossy lips and manicured hands. At least you looked nice and cute and, well... human, even if you felt like there’s rot inside your gut.
That’s what you pretend to be nowadays, too: a human woman who presses some oranges to get that lovely zest for your favourite Mediterranean chicken. You somehow always manage to summon a smile on your lips when you’re cooking: it might reach your eyes as well, you’re not sure, but you hope the heavy make-up and the lash extensions cover whatever sorrow you might’ve carried here to the studio. The lighting and the cameras do the rest: it’s just a little cooking show, you’re just a pretty little TV chef making a delicious meal.
You sometimes wonder who’s even watching your show, aired so early. The elderly, perhaps… Or some stay-at-home mums or a housewife or two. Kids who are sick or skipping school. A few lonely perverts, jerking off to a dumb doll who cooks them a hearty meal, just like a woman should…
Gosh – the intrusive thoughts are another sign of depression, you were told, but you didn’t know they could be so nasty. It’s like all of the colours have been sucked out and replaced by a filter of deranged bleakness. Your cynicism has reached such heights that it’s not even funny anymore, and it always gets worse when you look at the grey, pasty, lifeless co-workers you toil with, drinking their lukewarm takeaway lattes behind the cameras while you try to put on an act that everything’s okay. That you’re normal. That all of this is normal: the slaughtered meat on the table, the oranges carried here from god knows where, the tons of makeup about to melt on your face from the blinding lights, the cold chill that brushes past your ankles because the studio had to be set inside some trendy but freakishly cold loft apartment. You think about the spectators behind the screen, trying to escape their life; the bored faces behind the TV screens, all those people switching channels and not giving a shit about you and your stupid chicken.
You wonder how many of them are suffering from depression. Or anxiety, or a cheating husband or wife, or a drug addiction, or–
God, this needs to stop.
Just get your shit together…
You smile on the outside while dying on the inside; you whip the sauce and try not to think of some lonely bastard jerking off at the rhythm of your hand. You pour it onto the raw chicken breasts, fully aware that your hard nipples can be seen from under the bra and the shirt – it was discreetly encouraged, even advised when you landed this job that you have to keep your outfits family-friendly, but not too much. Accidental cleavage is good for the numbers, as is the occasional red lipstick and a thin shirt combined with the cold chill of the studio. You turn and shove the chicken in the oven – the only moment of respite these days is when you turn your back on the camera and can drop the uneasy smile you’re wearing. That’s only seconds, though, and you straighten your back, fix your posture and return to what feels like your alter ego these days.
“Okay, this is going to cook in the oven for about 45 minutes,” you chirp to the black emptiness of the camera. “Next up is tzatziki and seasoned rice!”
You smile and blink until the guys behind the camera shift, and the tension is released.
“And… cut. Thanks everybody. We’ll take our lunch break here. Remember to be back in thirty.”
You let go of your chef persona the instant people start to buzz and move towards the door. No one here gives a single fuck about if you’re faking it or not, as long as there’s an episode for tomorrow. A few more minutes of this torture, a few more smiles when they turn on the cameras again and you have to admire the chicken you just made, taste the tzatziki with a ridiculously tiny spoon and feign interest in your recipes. The show will be aired tomorrow, while you’ve already moved on to making roasted lamb as those housewives bash your show and a few pervs jerk off to your chicken and breasts on display.
God, you hate your job…
After work, you shop for some groceries – funnily enough, you make food every day but don’t get to eat it, and while everyone thinks you’re a small celebrity, you make just enough money to pay rent and put a hundred or two aside for a rainy day. All you ever do is cook, cook, cook: for TV, for family and friends, for yourself, and still, you find yourself hungry and broke all the time…
...But not broke enough not to buy a new nail polish. Cute bubble pink that you show off when you get home, and your story instantly gets about a hundred likes. Your list of followers is not a thing to brag about; there are thousands of people there, but it’s not like you’re a big name or anything. You’re not a singer or a weather cast girl. You’re just a cook.
The validation you get makes you feel better momentarily: you’re a human, not a zombie, a cute woman, not a depressed wreck. You have a life many would kill for. You shouldn’t even be sad: you have a roof over your head, money in your bank account, you have a job and some cute nail polish on your nails. You should be joyous and proud, not paranoid and tired…
The phone buzzes again, this time with a message. It’s from someone you don’t follow, and you have to go check the message from another folder.
It only says:
There’s no emojis, not even a full stop. It’s just some guy, you shrug mentally, and accept the message without even checking his profile. You’re busy saying thanks to your other followers, mainly friends and a few accounts you follow back, tiny celebrities just like you are. It’s stupid how you have to shower them with your attention everytime they say you’re beautiful or send you a flame or a heart emoji. Can’t they just leave you in peace? You know they don’t mean that. They know you don’t mean the kiss emojis you send them back. It’s all just a stupid social game.
On the weekend, you cave in again and put another pic on Instagram. This time of cute little cupcakes you baked just for the occasion of getting more likes. They have a pink frosting – what is it with the colour pink that has you so obsessed these days? – and some mini sugar hearts sprinkled on top. Fuchsia, of course, to go with your nails as you fake another picture of the happy, adorable life of a perfect little single girl who doesn’t need to be saved from herself.
“I know how to bake, too, you know 😘” you write in the text box before hitting Post.
A message drops in your DMs before even half a minute goes by.
It’s the same guy from two days ago. He writes with a series of three dots this time, which makes the line a bit creepy. Your first reaction is unease; actually, it’s pure yuck because the attempt to “talk” to you is just so… old-fashioned and sleazy. You get curious just for the sake of that – like, who is this guy?
You tap his profile picture to open his feed, and manage to scroll to the end after just a few seconds. A relatively new account, then, and he hasn’t posted a single picture of his face. There are just a few gym pics that show lots of plates stacked on the barbell. You barely see his feet in the corner, wearing blue gym shoes, worn and relatively big. There’s one photo where he's scratching a cat’s chin, and to your odd delight, you notice he has big hands, too. God, you are too horny… Depressed people aren’t supposed to be horny. Does this mean you’re getting better?
He also has a picture from the shooting range, taken by someone else, and it shows his back – incredibly wide, or then the person who has taken the picture is very tiny. He’s holding an assault rifle of some sort and has his head covered with a black bag or something because the hood on his hoodie is down. He looks like a terrorist in that picture, and it makes you feel extremely off-put. There are a few photos of nature, from a walk or something, but the forest is far too thick to be a park in the city. The whole profile is just super fishy and makes you uncomfortable, so you get out of there as soon as you can.
It’s just some guy, you decide. Just another lonely simp. You know that you should probably block him, but then again, what crime has been committed? He just dropped you a thirsty line, but it’s nothing too intrusive. It’s not a dick pic or anything. He’s just… lonely, and simping.
Yeah… That’s it. Cons of being a female TV cook.
It’s just that you get a “friend” of this simp for the whole week. The next time he sends a message is when he replies to a selfie in your IG story. It’s from a relatively complementary angle; you’ve just risen from the make-up chair, looking like the cute little TV hottie you are supposed to be, with tons of make-up and a hollow smile… And the creepy terrorist dude is in your inbox in seconds.
You look at the screen before going inside the studio, your insides quivering a little. Does he have notifications on when you post? Can you even do that on IG?
The warmth inside your chest quickly makes way for disgust and pity. There’s even a red heart this time, his first emoji to you. It’s tragic to feel so validated by the attention of some lonely lunatic, some horny guy who probably watches your cooking show just to jerk himself off.
You huff: what if you drooled over some man’s pictures and sent them messages with poor grammar, being the first to look at their every story? It’s pathetic. This behavior will soon end if you just keep ignoring him. Which you will, because he’s not only pitiful but potentially dangerous too.
But another message hits your DMs before you have even left the conversation:
Oh. Nice...
Great.
Full stops, ok grammar. But the message is intimidating. You read the lines again and again, they feel like short, sharp punches straight to your stomach. He’s not developing an obsession with you, is he…?
“I know you’re lonely…” Gosh, he acts so entitled. As if he knew what you’re going through. It’s just another sad try to lure you in, but to his loss, you’re not that stupid. His tactic is poor and disturbing; he’s a creep and a pathetic simp.
You ignore the guy, as per usual. But he won’t leave you alone this time.
You get a little rattled by that. There’s a post attached to the message, of you at a house party from a few months ago, smiling and side-hugging a male friend.
Right... He’s going through your friends now and stalking who you spend time with. Amazing.
Your brows furrow: there’s more than a hint of entitlement there, shaming your friend who has never even seen a gym. You almost start to type to get back at him with a cold, dismissive reply, but then you realize it’s probably what he wants. He just wants you to talk to him and open the line of communication he keeps throwing at you.
So you ignore him.
Why would you waste time on a miserable wanker?
The harassment continues, though. He won’t stop bombarding you with messages, reactions and likes. You go through your week with notifications from him piling up on your inbox. He likes all your stories and comments on your every selfie. It’s usually something along the lines of:
He’s such a sad figure that you start to wait for his reactions and texts. It’s stupid, but this guy has become somewhat of a parasocial friend to you, or at least your number one entertainment. You would never admit it to yourself, but he keeps you going through the day. You never reply, and some of his messages are deeply unsettling, like the one where he implied he owns a gun (“I know how to skydive with a gun?” What the hell does that even mean?) and that he uses German pet names for you.
The term of endearment is actually what disturbs you the most. Not even the fact that the guy has been drooling over your story from the bouldering centre in a sports bra and a pair of tiny, ass-hugging shorts is as icky as him calling you his Liebling. It’s just… distasteful to try to seduce someone by using a foreign pet name. You don’t know if he’s pretending or if he’s actually Austrian or German or something, but it’s solely repugnant to get called ‘Liebling’ by someone you don’t even know. And trying to own a historical museum worker by saying he knows more about the display than they do... Jesus, he must be one of those guys who will learn everything there is to know about the Roman Empire before going to therapy.
But you were wrong about him being just a simp.
One night, after a text that asks how your day has been, after yet another seen and ignored, you almost get a heart attack from what he sends next.
Your blood turns cold so fast you can feel your breath leave you with a punched out shiver. You squeeze your phone, stare at the horrible text on the screen, and try to think. Then you unlock the screen and type your first message to him.
He replies immediately.
You try to remember how to breathe as you start typing again. Then leave me and my–
You blink and stare at the screen, then wipe the first message and type a new one.
Oh fuck… Not a simp or a regular creep.
He’s just crazy. You’re texting with a crazy, obsessed madman.
Oh god… If you ignore him now, will he come to your workplace tomorrow and kill everyone? Or is he just having some sick fun with you? Is he one of those incel dudes who just want to intimidate women and make them suffer?
You scroll up and take hurried screenshots of your conversation. Fuck that you’re stupid… You snap a shot twice, thrice of the part where he threatens to kill your co-workers. Not that it does any good, but your brain is telling you it’s a good idea as you try to grasp for control with shaking hands. When a new message arrives, you quickly scroll to the end of the screen.
You freeze in the middle of taking more screenshots.
Oh god. Please, god, no…
The horrid image of Typing… bumps on the screen for the third time.
Scared of him... Military. Your brain is completely blank as you’re trying to think.
What should you do? What can you do? You have never received any training for these types of situations. You’ve never had to deal with a crazy stalker before.
He says he knows where you work, which means he probably knows where you live, too. If he isn’t joking and if he’s just trying to spook you. But can you take the risk? What if you arrive at the studio tomorrow and everyone’s dead? What if he plants a bomb somewhere and kills you while the cameras are rolling? What if he’s one of those fans who want to kill their idol and after that, themselves?
You try to think about his profile, his pictures, his texts. The I know how to skydive with a gun now has context. And the picture where he’s shooting with an assault rifle… You guess he’s not joking, then: at the very least this guy has access to firearms.
What kind of military, you type and hit send.
It’s a horrible conversation, and you just want to call the police, right now. But you fear this man will go nuts if you refuse to entertain him, so the best you can do is fish for clues on this guy while you’re at it. Your brain is telling you to gather info about what kind of guns this guy might have, where he lives, what he wants, something, anything. What he is capable of, and how soon. There’s a significant pause before he answers, and you don’t know what to make of it. What if his whole profile is fake…? What if he’s just making shit up?
More threats. Great. Great…
His humour is awful, and you’re still trying to think how to respond to this crazy conversation. He’s even more impatient now that you’ve started to talk to him, and a third message hits the screen, squeezing your heart into a cold, tight fist.
He puts three red hearts after that.
You huff out loud, on the brink of tears. Typing… appears on the screen once again. Your face must resemble a mask of pure helplessness right now.
Your anger flares from somewhere underneath the quivering breaths and shaky hands. This guy has some fucking nerve.
You can only stare at the screen and shake your head slowly, horrified and utterly confused. The Typing… makes you almost squeeze the phone to bits.
You breathe a shaky sigh again, this time with tears clouding your vision. Your mouth is dry and your hands are cold; your fingers won’t move to type because you sense you’re going into a shock soon. Has he been talking to your therapist? No, even worse–
Has he broken into your medical files?
The Typing… bouncing on the screen has you choking on your heart, trying to climb out of your chest. This guy has a lot to say…
A pause, then more typing…
Jesus fucking Christ.
Breathe, just breathe, your brain says. Breathe. One, two, three…
You stop responding after that, coworkers be damned. The man seems to have gotten whatever sick joy he wanted out of you because the last thing he sends is:
Notes:
Seriously hope that the emojis & CSS for DMs show as they should... Don't hesitate to throw me a comment if the code doesn't work or if something looks odd & I'll try to fix it! Comments overall are very much appreciated! <3
Chapter 2
Notes:
Eyyy! What a roaring amount of love the first chapter got, I’m so excited! Thank you to everyone who left a comment, they brought me so much joy <3
I’m glad the CSS worked, for those of you interested, I used this amazing template here with one minor change.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
You block his profile after a few hours.
Fear and shock can do things to people, and it makes you dally for a while. But your wits return along with your resolve, and you finally decide it’s better to just block him, no matter what. You take screenshots of his profile, especially of the picture with the gun before doing that. There’s no face, of course, but it has to provide something along with screenshots of his threats. This has to be enough evidence for the police.
You think about downloading a dating app just to have someone sleep here in the house with you. If you’re murdered in your sleep, then at least someone will notice.
Next morning, you call to work that you’re sick, then after ten minutes, call back to say you’re ok, that it was just something with your mother actually and everything’s fine. There’s a confused silence on the other end of the phone, and you curse silently: you’ve already acted a bit odd lately with your sadness and dry jokes, and now you’re being even more weird. But you can’t stay inside this house and just wait if something happens to them there, or to you here. And you replied to the crazy creep last night: that means he’s not going to fulfil his threat, right?
And you’re not going to let him stop you from living your life or going to work. You need that money, and you… Just… Everything will be okay. It will.
You arrive at the studio, get your makeup done, prep the ingredients with weak legs and a heavy heart. You haven’t been so present in months, usually you just dissociate to someplace else when you’re here. Now you're able to feel the squishy texture of every olive, the soft aching in your chest. You can see the sunlight coming in through an uncovered window, and smell people’s perfumes and deodorants in the air.
You’re alive and jumpy all day, but nothing happens. No one gets murdered, and you make a wonderful seafood paella.
After work, you go to after-work, meaning, you go to a small pub and have a shot of vodka on the counter. Then you ask for a glass of red wine.
Everyone else is drinking beer, and the pub is relatively quiet because it’s a lazy Thursday evening. There’s mainly old gentlemen here: married men and tired construction workers, a few young blokes playing darts. You’re the only woman in addition to the bartender, but you feel safe. Nothing can happen to you if you’re here: in public, among the soft chatter and hearty laughter of worn-out men.
The wine soothes your nerves a bit, and you start to feel like you’ve exaggerated the whole thing.
He was just some wacko, a lonely guy on the internet who had nothing else to do but see if he could get a TV cutie a little spooked. And he didn’t succeed. You went to work, his profile is blocked: everything’s back to normal. He hasn’t created a new account or tried to reach you in any way, and you’re too tired to go to the police today. Maybe tomorrow, when you’re not so done and tired and tipsy...
Being under a theoretical death threat really takes a toll on your already poor, tired, depressed nerves. But inside this pub, everything feels relatively nice. Perhaps there’s a silver lining in everything: perhaps this incident scared you back to life again. The wine tastes good, the men look kinda nice and the bartender is smiling even if she’s at work, which means you’ll be able to smile too, someday. You’ll be lively and bubbly again, and this whole episode will only feel like a distant nightmare.
And god, what a laugh you’ll have when the therapist hears of this. Perhaps she’ll applaud you for being so brave, handling a tough situation like a big girl should. The more you sip the wine, the more you feel like laughing at this whole situation. This whole dude.
The memory of his texts is not scary anymore, it just makes you laugh somewhere deep inside. The line “I can be your daddy” has you giggling in your scarf, and you know your eyes are shining, finally. It’s just so funny. What was he thinking? That you’d call him daddy after he just threatened you? That you’d swoon in his arms after he stalked and harassed you for almost two weeks? The guy is so cringe that he probably doesn’t even know how stupid he made himself look with you. He must lead an unhappy life, with some lousy army desk job, with cum-stained sheets and nothing but a shooting range and gym to go to. Nothing to do except creep on women on the internet because no girl would ever go to bed with him because he's so ugly and mean. How pathetic…
“Hello, beautiful. Can I take a seat?”
You raise your eyes to the only man who has chosen to approach you this evening – and god, does he look pathetic too. Frail wrists and a bad posture, he looks like the last time he showered was days ago. You could butter a bread with the oil on that hair. Ugh… What is it with you that seems to be an asshole-magnet these days? Is it the depression?
“I… I’d rather have a moment to myself, thanks,” you say as politely as you can.
Just go away, please…
“A moment to yourself? In a pub?”
You open your mouth to argue back but don’t get to say anything before the guy starts to level some serious nonsense at you. How you should go home if you want to be by yourself. You start an argument because your nerves are really, really tight right now – this idiot doesn’t know anything about what you’ve just gone through. Can’t a woman drink a glass of wine in peace, can’t you come to a pub to feel some sense of safety without someone wanting to be an asshole about it?
You rise and decide you’ve had enough after he calls you a snobby little bitch. You’re nearly laughing again, but the only sound that comes out of your mouth is a bitter, tight scoff. This day, this whole week has been simply unbelievable. But you’re not wasting any more breath on this man, he’s not getting another look from you.
He grabs your coat when you try to walk past him and get out of the pub. Feeling miffed that you gave him the pleasure of winning the argument because he got what he wanted by driving you out of this place, you wrench yourself out of his grasp. Just what the hell is wrong with these men?
You look at his filthy, nasty smile and the drunken, dull stare behind perverse eyes.
It can’t be…
But what if… What if this is your crazy stalker?
But he can’t be, he’s too small. He doesn’t have muscles to speak of, he doesn’t have a back that wouldn’t fit through a door. Then again, if he scavenged some fake pics for his fake profile, the person messaging you the whole of last week could be practically anyone…
“Please just leave me be,” you say, voice weak and breathless as you try to decipher if this is the man who has been harassing you. He slowly lets go of your coat, but his stare lingers, and you want to hit him for that hungry, nasty gaze alone.
“I just wanted to talk to you–”
“Fuck off before I punch your teeth down your throat.”
You turn your head to look at the tall shadow before you: the huge, imposing man who has somehow crept by your side without either of you hearing or seeing he’s there. The dark voice is enough to scare your harasser shitless, and he leaves without uttering another word. Probably thinks your boyfriend just arrived, a boyfriend who definitely goes to the gym.
He’s the tallest human you’ve ever seen, with shoulders wider than the fucking doorframe, probably. He’s packing some serious muscle in there, and you’ve never been one to swoon over a pair of big biceps – like come on, they’re just biceps – but the ones you’re looking at now are the most perfect, naturally sculpted biceps you’ve ever seen… His forearms are even better than that, ending in big palms, like shovels, almost – God, you’re not a biceps girl, but you are a big hands girl, that’s for sure.
He’s leanish but not drained like some of those fitness bodies that look like they’re sucked out of fat: he has a squishable amount right there over his tummy, just the right biteable amount. And his chest… God, you’re eye level with it, and he’s wearing a rather tight tee. You can see the prominent, wide pecs under that black t-shirt. Fuck, if you’d look up in the dictionary what the idiom Strong as a bull means, his picture would probably be attached there… You’re basically drooling with a parched throat by the time you meet his eyes.
And his eyes, piercing and cold blue, are simply captivating. He’s watching you with keen interest and… oh god, playfulness?
Fuck, could he get any more charming and hot?
You know you need help, but your brain is looking at this man like the only thing that matters in this world is to find a big, large, able man to protect you from danger. You don’t know how, but you will ensnare this man, you will kidnap him if need be, to come and play your boyfriend to make the crazy stalker go away. If you need to jump his bones and suck his cock to get him to do it, then so much the better.
He smiles: a cute, a bit crooked smile. Not the most warm or lovely smile but hey, beggars can’t be choosers. It makes him look a bit ominous, that smile, but you don’t mind; it actually adds to his sexiness that something’s a bit off. He’s mysterious and a bit crazy, just like you, just the right amount…
You open your mouth to blather a cute set of thank yous, maybe tuck an imaginary lock behind your ear, but you never get to say a thing because he speaks first.
“Hallo, Liebling.”
Your seductive smile dies on your lips.
No.
No, no, no…
What the hell have you done to deserve this?
Of course you should’ve known who he is. A tall, big man dressed in black, looking like a criminal with that broken nose and a split lip… And those eyes are not attractive: they look like they’ve seen things and learned to like what they see. The man looks like he has seen hell and only shrugged at it. He looks like he grew up in the Balkans in the ‘90s…
“Tell me. Who gave you the permission to be so pretty?”
Long, pale lashes bat only once as he speaks, and your insides quiver. A distinct accent, a dark voice that’s a bit broken… His eyes only look more and more like there’s nobody home there.
“I’m gonna call the cops,” you threaten with a pounding heart.
“What for? I drove that shithead away. You should be thanking me...”
He talks like it’s the most natural thing in the world to harass a woman to get their attention, then play the knight in shining armor by bullying the competition away. He looks you up and down like you’re a fine piece of meat, not the way the other man stared at you from under a drunken haze, but greedily and acutely, like he has been at an auction and has now come to claim the main prize.
“I’m calling the cops because you've been harassing me. I’ll show them your messages,” you breathe more threats up towards him, but it’s no use at all. You feel and sound like a child trying to intimidate an amused adult. You should’ve gone to the station as soon as he started getting difficult... There would have been a mention in their records by now, but you skipped all that because you were lazy. And depressed. And anxious.
He leans forward, and your stomach turns to lead. You can smell his deodorant and sweat as he bends to whisper something in your ear.
“No you won’t.”
The scent of him hits you like a drug; it drowns you, but it’s not as disgusting as you would’ve thought. He’s not one of those filthy cellar dwellers from horror films, he just smells like an active man who showered this morning and then put on some standard, cheap men’s deodorant and started his day with a fresh shirt. His lips are only an inch away from your earlobe, and when he turns his head to the side, they brush your skin and you can’t help but jerk away.
“Silly little thing,” he rasps. “I’ll tell them who I work for. We’ll see how long they’ll stay after that.”
His voice makes you want to both grab support from his shirt and wrench and shove him away. His scent, his shoulders blocking even the lamps above you shrink you to an animal, wanting to play dead or simply surrender. Just shut down your system and flop, lose consciousness and wake up after this man has had his fun with you.
“You’re sick,” you whisper towards his shirt and all the muscle towering over you.
Your voice is on the brink of shattering into a teary, whimpering mess. He hears it and withdraws out of mercy – or to see how cute you look when you’re afraid. His eyes are warmer now as he looks down at your pathetic, mousy form. He looks down on you like a king looks down on an obedient and dumb peasant.
“Sick from love, ja,” he says. "You look even more beautiful in person…"
God, he’s huge… He has a voice, he has a body: a strong, male body, and he’s real. So terribly real.
You have no chance, you never had a chance to escape someone like him. He’s not only two steps ahead of you at all times, but he's also so freakishly big that he could manhandle you into submission on this bar counter or anywhere he wants. He could bend and snap you in half like a toothpick. He could pick you up with one hand or smother you with those arms until your ribs give in.
You blink the intrusive thoughts away – you’re not doing any favors to yourself by thinking about all the ways he could kill or fuck you. He raises a hand to brush your cheek, and you notice that he’s wearing gloves. Some standard tactical ones, black and a little dirty, but surprisingly soft. He probably has them on to avoid leaving fingerprints or something…
“You shouldn’t be out here alone, Liebling,” he scolds you softly while caressing your face. “It’s dangerous. Someone might take advantage of you.”
“Don’t touch me," you cower away from his hand, a little too late to fake any kind of yuck. "And don't call me that.”
“I can call you Maus if you like. Or Schatzi.”
He’s older than you, that much you can tell. How much, it’s hard to say: it could be a few years, it could be a decade. He’s a grown man but the glint in his eyes is a bit impish, there’s something immature about him, or then he’s just crazy, completely mentally ill.
His hand travels down to your neck, clearly examining how delicate your throat feels under his palm. The padding of the gloves makes you hope he was caressing you with his actual hand, but such a thought is unacceptable. You accept it anyway, along with his caress, the wide thumb arriving over your windpipe like it’s the place he loves most in this world.
Everyone here must think he’s your boyfriend by now, a boyfriend who just saved your ass from getting harassed by a drunken fool. This must look like a scene of two lovers meeting each other after weeks of being apart: him fondling you softly, you watching him helplessly and with slightly wet eyes, looking like a dumb doll who wants to be kissed and fucked.
“How about Liebchen?” He tries next, knowing fully well that your anger and disgust only grow when he keeps listing stupid endearment terms for you. “…Spatzi?”
“No,” you look up at him with meek fury. How can a man be both intimidating and beautiful, both disgusting and hot? There’s something terribly wrong with you for thinking about letting this guy fuck you. Not to speak of weighing his offer to be your daddy, with or without sugar.
“I’m not calling you Schnucki,” he cranes his head in a matter-of-fact fashion.
“I don’t want you to call me anything.”
You breathe in waves, the staring competition stretches on forever until he breaks it by drawing his shoulders back. The gloved hand leaves you as he corrects his posture, now with a filthy grin rising to his face.
“How about a simple ‘Muschi’?”
It sounds cute, but you wrinkle your nose from how smug he looks.
“It means pussy,” his eyes flash with full-blown glee as he tells you what he just called you.
“Fuck you.”
His dark laugh follows you as you storm out of the pub.
Notes:
There is a reason why reader met König so soon (or why König wanted to meet her…), but there will be more horrible DMs in the next few chapters before these two cross paths again. Hope you’re enjoying the story!
Chapter Text
You wake up to see that there's messages on your phone. From him, of course. He’s created another account on Instagram.
You ignore your phone altogether, even if there are notifications and emails from other people too. You simply go to brush your teeth and can hear how the phone buzzes on your desk. Combatting the urge to rush to it and see what this fucker has decided to text you next, you take a few calming breaths.
The walk back home last night was filled with terror and excitement, and you made sure that there were witnesses all along the way in case he decided to follow you. Glancing back at every few steps, your neck now hurts from being forced to be so paranoid, but when you arrived at your door with no one tailing you, your disappointment overrode your disgust.
You never imagined your harasser would want to play cat and mouse with you, that he'd turn out to be so calculated and patient.
Neither did you imagine him to be so… hot.
You had braced yourself for something big, something menacing, if and when he was the man from those pictures. But those eyes, that smile… You wouldn’t say the guy was handsome in the classic meaning of the word, but he certainly wasn’t absolutely horrid and off-putting either. The more you think about that split lip and that crooked smile, the broken nose that looked like he had tried to put it back himself, those cold, distant eyes that seemed to lit up with interest only when he was looking down at you, the more you feel sucked into a spiral of hopeless, intense lust.
You could never love this man, that much is certain, but you could definitely see yourself spreading your legs for him. Your therapist would say it’s time for an intervention, and you squash your trail of thoughts before they even fly to the size of his dick or how fierce and intense he would be in bed.
Seeing him and talking to him has given you some knowledge of how formidable he is, but it has also made you come to the conclusion that he is just a man. He is simply human. Dumb ass human, who looks like a criminal.
You’ll simply go to the police today. That’s your battle plan because the harassment continues, and last night was a clear overstep of your boundaries. He has now bullied you on the internet for more than a week, touched you without permission, sent you death threats and, from the looks of it, knows everything about who you are, where you are and when.
But your feet take you to your phone when they should take you downstairs for breakfast. You unlock the screen and ignore all the other notifications except the unread message from him.
You sigh and finish your morning routine, but the phone vibrates again.
It’s like he knows when you’re awake because you see the messages from your screen without having to even unlock it. Even if he refreshes your conversation every minute, every second, he can’t possibly see that you’ve seen them yet.
It bugs you to no end, this feeling that he somehow knows that you’re awake. It’s like he knows your every move. It’s the most unnerving feeling, and makes you think about horrible scenarios where he has broken into your house while you’re at work, to install cameras or microphones or something. You feel like you’re about to go mad if this nightmare goes on.
You go to the front door, hesitate a while before you turn the knob.
What if it’s a trap? What if he wants to kill you because you called him sick last night at the pub?
What if there’s a bomb or something that goes off when you open the door, what if he aims at you with a gun and kills you on your doorstep this morning?
What the fuck does this guy even want from you?
You sigh with a broken heart and some broken nerves, deciding it’s as good a way to go as any. You turn the knob and open the door, only to find the usual porch and a large bouquet of dark red roses planted there in a rather ugly-looking glass vase.
More ice sinks into your stomach as you look at the evidence of him totally knowing where you live. But the fact that he chose to send red roses… Ugh, this guy is so old-fashioned and so unimpressive that it’s somewhat of a dull surprise to see actual flowers instead of a bomb on that porch.
Who buys red roses these days? Couldn’t he have picked peonies or something, something to go with your other decor… Red roses are so eighties, so funeral-like, so boring.
You sigh and go and take the flowers and vase to the trash. Then you walk back to your house, make sure the door is locked tight, and go back to your phone to type a message.
The answer arrives immediately.
There’s a bit of a pause after that. Your wannabe boyfriend clearly hasn’t got his eye on you at every given moment. That’s a bit of a surprise, almost a disappointment, actually. But only if you were any more crazy.
The reply comes after about 30 seconds, after a series of Typing… bumping in and out of the screen.
You get some satisfaction out of that, but the first reaction is a tiny, tiny dagger to the heart. You sigh – you do nothing but sigh these days – not only because of his message but also because you can’t be seriously having a moment of compassion for your stalker, for god's sake.
You throw the phone away and go to make yourself some breakfast, only to stop and turn when you hear the phone buzz again.
Jesus…
You unlock the screen in a frenzy and type a reply in mere seconds.
Typing…
You throw the phone away for good this time, and don’t touch it for another hour. You eat your breakfast with squirming insides and a rattled heart, waiting for someone to come bring you flowers at any given moment. Perhaps he decides to bring them in himself…
But no one ever comes.
You check your phone before going to work, but there’s nothing from him there. You go and block his new profile, unsurprised to see that there are no pictures, not even a profile picture (well, there is one, but it’s only a black circle). You should’ve done that right away instead of having a conversation with him, but don’t have the will or energy to berate yourself for such blaring mistakes. Better late than never, and besides, your only satisfying moment this morning was to give him a symbolic middle finger.
Still, the sentence "Numquam Retro" catches your attention, and you google it to be Latin, meaning Never retreat. You scoff: men only get into dead languages when they want to sound ominous and tough. But then you notice that the sentence is also a motto used by the Austrian Special Operations Forces. You'd prefer to know as little as possible about this man, but out of curiosity, you skim through some info about some shit called Jagdkommando and can't help but feel a wave of admiration for this crazy dude for surviving even the basic training.
And you never go to the police because there’s a radio silence for a few days. You spend them at the edge of your seat, with lots of trouble sleeping, but soon start to ease into the fact that maybe he finally had enough. Maybe you were not as interesting or attractive as he thought when he met you in person…
Wait, what?
God, you can’t be this desperate... You simply can’t. This has to end.
You don’t talk about him in your therapy, mainly to tell yourself that you’re not thinking about him at all. You’re not missing him harassing you, and you’re not disappointed that he didn’t send you enough flowers to fill your entire bin.
You know you should address this: this crazy need to be something groundbreaking to someone. To want someone to be obsessed with you, no matter how sick that someone was. You know you would have gone to the police if your stalker was the sleazy, weak-wristed drunken man from the pub. You would’ve moved houses already, changed your name and closed your social media accounts, quit everything if your stalker was small and ugly and weak.
But now that you know he’s relatively good-looking, does something dangerous and has a lot of money, and looks like he could fuck and fight half the city by himself, you’re not in that much of a hurry to go to the authorities. You’re even a bit sad that your stalker hasn’t given you any fevered attention these past few days... He hasn’t even asked you how you’ve been.
No one has asked you how you’ve been: no one ever does. You have to wade through this life all by yourself: depressed and anxious and crazy. Lonely… And horny.
God, you just want someone to hold you at night… Someone strong, and big, someone who could pay a few bills for you…
Your phone buzzes from time to time, but there’s no message from him. One night before going to sleep, relatively early, so early that it could be called the bedtime for old spinsters, you break down and cry a little. It’s not a wail: only a soft little sob, a few sniffles and a couple of tears before your nose gets clogged and the pillow is wet.
Your phone buzzes, and you reach for it, feeling so, so pathetic when you hope it would be him.
And the message is from him.
You sniffle and rise to sit, your whole system fully awake now. Oh god… You’re so fucked.
The message makes you feel incredibly good and sweet, almost giddy. It feels like he’s kneeled right there in front of you, like he’s a knight who has simply misbehaved in the throes of his lust. You know it’s ridiculous, but you start to smile a little, and the tears dry on their own. The merry feeling is followed by righteous rage, a little fit, because he’s made you wait for days, he’s tortured you in every way possible, and he does absolutely nothing right.
You unlock the screen and start to type, not thinking it through at all before hitting send.
Oh fuck… That was a mistake. No, a huge error. Why did you have to send that? Stooping to his level, sending stupid things like that…
You put the phone away quickly, then reach for it again to delete what you just sent. But it’s too late.
His reply is waiting for you already, and when you don’t answer, the oppressive, ominous Typing… hits the screen once more. God, how could you be so stupid…
What did you even expect? Everything always blows up when you give him attention: any dumb person knows better than to give this hungry dog a bone. You’re just too fond of digging your own grave, it seems. And there’s no end to the messages: this guy starts typing a new one every time he has sent the last.
Oh God… You lean your forehead to your palm, trying to figure out a way to stop this.
And then–
You take a quick breath of air and put the phone away.
Please don’t send a dick pic, please don’t send a dick pic…
The phone buzzes.
There’s a picture attached, but you can’t see it when the screen is locked.
Message after message, your phone vibrates. You check his texts quickly from the screen, but you swear to yourself that you’re not going to give him the satisfaction of opening the conversation and checking the image he sent you. You know perfectly well what you will find if you do that.
But after only a minute or two, you unlock the phone and open your camera roll with your heart thundering in your chest. Gladly, the images sent to you are uploaded there so you don’t have to go to the conversation to see it.
Just one quick look…
You’re met with a long, veined dick, fully erect, foreskin drawn back from how hard the cock is. The head of it is shiny and smooth but looks far too small compared to the thick length of the rest of him. It almost looks like an exploding bottle of coke with a too small cap – that’s the first thing that comes to mind when you look at the enormous cock he holds sternly inside one strong fist. The slit on top is slightly slick with precum, transparent and runny, and the whole sight of him makes your nipples hard; it shoots warmth down between your legs. You veritably feel like your brain stops working for a moment.
You get out of there as soon as another message appears on the screen, your breaths so heavy now that it sounds like you’re doing breathing exercises.
You’re not sure if this is a nightmare or a dream, but as you lay yourself down to sleep, that long, thick cock is the only thing in your mind when you close your eyes.
…
There are three more messages on your phone the next morning.
You’re instantly awake as you open your eyes and remember everything that happened last night, grabbing your phone while still in bed.
You don’t open the picture at first, but after a few moments, your thoughts start to plague you along with your hormones. You must be ovulating from the way you’re already slick before you have even thought about his dick yet. The minute you do, you know you have to see that picture again. It's a blessing that your phone downloads the images sent to you so you don't have to go to the conversation to see it again...
Tapping the lewd photo on the top of the screen open while holding your breath, you realize with jealousy that it’s more beautiful than you remembered. You’ve never found cocks particularly handsome; they’re just cocks. But something about this man makes you obsessed to the point of you wanting to memorize every bump and every vein.
It's so mouthwatering and big…
You’re awake so early that you don’t have to hurry to get up: a slow morning like this is a luxury. Most of the time you’ve had to force yourself to get out of bed. You’re feeling kind of ok today, a bit nervous and jumpy, but not dull and disinterested like you usually are. You might even want to pleasure yourself, perhaps: a little treat after a horrible week and a horrible year.
Your finger finds your clit through your panties as you start to rub yourself lazily: the thoughts of him possibly watching you through cameras doesn’t bother you so much for some reason. You’re safe under the blanket, so even if he were looking, he wouldn’t see anything but your sleepy, furrowed face.
Him watching you masturbate only ends up making you more wet: the shameless picture he sent you last night makes you fantasize about sending a picture to him and watch how nuts he goes. He would be on his knees for sure: that big, tall fucker… He must be dreadfully lonely for wanting to send such pics to a girl at night, he probably jerked himself off after sending that, coming just from the thought of you gawking at the picture of his dick.
You imagine him stroking that thing, frustrated and quick, incredibly horny, precum making the masturbation sound like he was fucking someone. You imagine thick ropes of cum spurting from that too-small head of his dick, out of that tight little slit on the top…
You whimper and pull your panties aside, not even bothering to take them off. You’re wet as fuck, your fingers meet your folds with such slick sounds that you nearly come just from hearing yourself so wet. It’s been weeks, if not months, since the last time you did this… You moan as you drag a finger up your slit and coat your clit with thick juice, imagining him kneeled before the bed, begging to let him fuck you.
The phone buzzes on the table.
You pay no mind to it at first, but then your eyes snap open. What if he can see you after all? What if there are cameras in here and he’s watching you?
You have to know. That stupid piece of shit can’t keep it to himself if he is.
You slip a hand from under the blanket and reach for your phone with a fluttering heart – Jesus, you’re going to get a heart condition one of these days…
The message is from him, and it affirms your every fear. Another hits your screen when you stare at the horrible testimony that he is indeed somehow watching or, at least, listening to what happens inside your apartment.
You put the phone away and bury yourself under the comforter, your will and desire to masturbate utterly gone. His texts are surprisingly warm, almost sweet, but you know he’s not warm or sweet or gentle. He’s a mentally unstable soldier, he’s a deranged lunatic, and you’re crazy for even thinking about him.
You cry, in silence, under your blanket, and come out only after you feel like you can’t get enough oxygen. There is one more message waiting for you on your phone as you emerge, broken and helpless and lost.
Chapter Text
There’s another radio silence for the rest of the day.
Although you haven’t found any hidden cameras in your house, you act like he’s watching you every moment. That means you put on make-up even if you’re not going anywhere and move in such seductive and flowy ways that you’re completely exhausted by the time you hit the bed. You sleep naked, and take off your clothes slowly and lazily before tucking yourself in, wondering if you’re begging to get raped or saved or both. Playing with fire has never felt so thrilling, but on top of everything else, you’ve become paranoid about a pair of black panties and an old lip gloss tube that have gone missing. You can’t find either, even though you’ve searched the whole house. You rarely use scents, but one of your perfume bottles looks like it has been touched, too, or then you’re simply getting too neurotic here. How could you even remember where you placed that bottle when the last time you used perfume was nearly a month ago?
But the black panties are a mystery. What annoys you the most is that they were your most expensive, beautiful ones. If this fucker has been inside your house and stuck his dirty paws inside your panty drawer, it really is a personal insult that he had to take the prettiest piece. The cute little things had some fine lace that hugged your bum just the right way and a cute little bow with a tiny pearl in front. Those panties were both comfortable and sexy in a chic, highly seductive way.
A man who puts Numquam Retro in his Instagram bio shouldn’t possess such refined taste… It just isn’t right.
And the lip gloss – well, you can only imagine what he would want with that. Probably fancies himself a sniff or something before tugging his pants down and imagining your lips around his shaft while giving himself a good, hard fap.
Your coworkers look at you with worry and concern nowadays; it feels like they know what’s going on and think you’ve finally lost it. That you’re not only crazy but tainted, too, drooling after the cock of some stalker who won’t leave you alone. Who probably has cameras all over your house and your panties tucked inside his filthy pocket.
“Babe. No one will think ill of you if you take a little break.”
Your make-up artist tries to give you a girl-to-girl talk as she taps some lipstick on your shaky mouth.
“A break…?” You look at her helplessly, like you’ve finally found someone who has all the answers to your plight.
“We all need to rest sometimes. Have you slept well?”
“No… No, I haven’t,” you bow your head and swallow in the chair.
“Girl, I can tell. I need loads of concealer just to cover the shadows under your eyes…”
She looks at you so compassionately, like a mother mildly concerned about her child. You almost confide in her, tell her everything about this murderous stalker you have on your back. That some mercenary who has his screws loose is sending you awful messages and dick pics and refuses to leave you alone. Who sent you a death threat – well, not of your death, but still…
And you know she would only pull back in shock and disgust and ask why the hell you haven’t gone to see the police yet. You wouldn’t be able to give her an answer to that question because you fucking don’t know why. This guy has you hooked, or then you’re the sick one here, the cuckoo girl who should be put away. Or put down, probably. That would only be a mercy at this point.
You grind through your workday, sighing from the bottom of your lungs when it ends. The current season featuring modern Mediterranean cuisine is now wrapped, and next up should be a street kitchen theme with your own twist, but you don’t have the motivation or the twist. You don’t even know who you are at this point. You’re dwelling inside a cocoon, reinventing yourself, or that’s what the positive vibes only people claim on YouTube. To you, it feels like death. And all your energy goes to someone you don’t even know, someone who seems to know all about you; all the little things that make you so insane. All the tiny details needed to spark your interest and bring you back alive, just enough to get curious about the rope presented to you. You wish you knew whether that rope wants to hang you or bring you to the other side.
The safety of your home is not half what it was; the electrifying feeling that someone is watching you won’t allow you to relax even in your own house. You’re starting to get irritated about the fact that you don’t know if you can even go to the bathroom without some perv eyeing you. It’s like you’re still on TV, and the cameras are rolling while you’re simply trying to relax. You’re trying to let go of the tiresome doll house performance for just one minute here, but that stupid creep is preventing you from doing even that.
You search for any odd wires or hidden cameras for about half an hour, then give up when your stomach growls. Your therapist would tell you to get something to eat, take care of yourself first and then call the police. So nourishment is what you give yourself but the creep won’t leave you be: it’s like he can sense when you’re at your most vulnerable. The phone buzzes on the counter as you cook some chicken fillets in the pan, the rough vibration on the marble shocking you out of your barely relaxed state.
You sigh. You have nothing left in you anymore, only sighs. You don’t even feel like crying.
You turn the vibration off and concentrate on cooking your food, only to cave in after a few minutes to see that there are two more messages on the screen.
You startle as a third message hits the screen: geilerscharfschütze sent you a video.
The chicken is almost burning on the pan before you go and slide it away from the heat and turn off the stove. You go straight to the camera roll and see the video is already uploaded there. The thumbnail shows he’s crudely at it: the blurry image shows him stroking his cock, and you shut out the squealy, terrified mouse voice in your brain as you click it open.
“Fuck–”
The video starts with a breathless curse and some terribly heavy panting. The depraved noises alone could make a nun faint, but you simply stare at the screen with wide eyes and your breath hitched up your throat. He masturbates with hurried strokes and a strong, tight fist, just up and down and up and down, belt clinking while he’s sitting, his black, standard military pants open and his long pale cock out.
He whines soon, and the cock gives a good, hard throb in his hand: the dry whine turns into a full groan as a thick spurt of cum shoots out of the tight, tortured tip. It’s followed by two equally stout shots, flying somewhere far away from the screen as he continues to fist himself more slowly, savouringly, languidly… Like he’s finally having a tiny moment without pain.
“Look at that…”
He raises his hand up towards the screen, breathless and panting still, thin strings of cum making a lewd cobweb between his fingers as he presents his semen to you.
“Would pay good money to cum inside you, Schatzi…”
The cock still pulses between two strong legs, hanging loose from his grasp, giving a few sad pulls as the foreskin starts to slowly slide down to cover the head. He grabs it one more time and gives it a final loving stroke. It’s almost sorrowful, yearning.
“I love you.”
The video ends right after that.
You’re more horrified by what he said than whatever happened before that. More importantly, you’re horrified by the way he said it. It was completely different to how he talked to you at the pub or how he huffed and grunted and cursed during the short, unsolicited masturbation video. It was not said from behind a rough voice or a perverted, sly wall; it was gentle, intimate… Sad. So full of vulnerability and pain.
You drag the slider back and watch the video again, then one more time, until you feel like you’re dirty and fuzzy and warm and completely lost, inside and out. The soft, pathetic I love you at the end is like a punch to the gut every time, and you’re desperate, and horny, and so dazed that you leave the chicken on the pan and go sit for a while.
Buzz, buzz.
You leave the phone too and go to the bathroom.
You need a shower, now. A girl shower. A long, hot, satisfying girl shower.
You search for cameras and mics in a frenzy for a hot minute or two, but when you can’t find anything, you mutter Fuck it and get into the shower. You cover your mouth with your hand as you pleasure yourself under the hot water. Steam curls around you as the whimpers turn into a wrenchful cry, but you muffle that, too, as best as you can.
You’re utterly soaked as you work yourself into a bleak, hurried orgasm while thinking about his cock and his words. You think about his heavy panting and the raspy voice that turned rather sad at the end when he confessed his love. There was so much yearning in there, in that stupid masturbation video of a mentally disturbed soldier, that you don’t know what to do with yourself. And so you cry, from frustration and fear and terrible longing.
When you come out with pudding feet and your brain somewhat back to normal, you look into the mirror only to see your swollen lips and sad stare.
Yeah… Who’s the pathetic one here?
You’re so disappointed in yourself, in your unhealthy obsession with this goddamn lunatic, that you’re quite sure you cannot possibly sink any lower. This is the rock bottom for you. This is the ultimate low.
When you return to your phone, there’s a message waiting for you there. Of course.
“God,” you say aloud through brimming tears, but then you take a deep breath. Wait a minute…
Sound?
Only ”sound?”
You try to remember: yes, your stalker has only talked about being able to hear you. That would mean that he has no cameras here, none, at least, in the bathroom – thank the fucking heavens – because otherwise he would’ve seen that you were crying your heart out there. For some reason, you’re sure he would’ve commented on that. For some crazy reason, you’re almost sure that he wouldn’t like to see you cry... He always comments on how sad you look on social media and TV, so wouldn’t it be logical to assume he would comment on you crying in the shower, too? And if he had cameras installed in the kitchen or the other rooms, he should’ve been able to see your puffed-up face, that you have cried.
Does this mean that he has only wired the place..?
Or does he listen to you through the phone? That would explain why he can hear you and know when you’re awake with your phone close by but isn’t able to distinguish the sounds of desperate crying amidst horny whimpers.
You feel yourself quite the Sherlock, although it’s just a stupid theory based on the assumption that this moron has a morsel of empathy. Even at your most cynical, you’re sure he would’ve mocked you about crying if it happened to be something this crazy wanker got satisfaction from. But he didn’t, which means he’s listening to you through your phone, or then he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about you being sad. To your shame, you don’t know which option is the most harrowing one.
Another message pops on the screen as you stare at your phone like the tracking device it has become.
Don’t flatter yourself, you think about replying, then tie your hands behind your back, mentally and emotionally.
You need to stop. This needs to stop.
You’re going to the station next thing tomorrow even if it’s the last thing you do, and you’re not going to give this man any more of your attention. You unlock the screen just to take screenshots of your latest exchange - more like his monologue - and then block his profile. He might make a new one, of course, but you’ll simply keep on blocking them if he does. This is over now. It’s done. Capiche.
The blocking doesn’t make you feel any better; however, it only makes you feel worse. More lonely. More pathetic. More… hollow.
In the morning, he has made a new account from which only one message has been sent to your DMs.
You distance yourself like a good girl, a big girl, an adult, and block the new profile immediately. Edelweiss69… Psh. Those usernames only get more cringe as days and weeks go by.
You call to work and say that you need to take care of something and that you’ll be an hour or two late. Three at tops. It’s an emergency, you say, and tell your boss you must go to the police station to file a report. He’s discreet enough not to ask questions, but you can sense the curiosity boiling like a water kettle at the other end. But it’s a big enough alibi to let you do what you need to do and for him to simply postpone the schedule for today. You know he loves you enough to do it for your sake.
At the station, however, the police are not much impressed.
They look at the evidence you have, all the screenshots, they even check the video – right on the spot with the volume on, which makes your ears pang with heat. Then the officer tells you there’s not much they can do. You can try to start a court process, but they can’t arrest this guy.
“Why not?”
The man’s lips are sealed tight, he only gives you a tilt of the head; a distanced, controlled gesture that barely conveys pity. He probably learned that in the academy or wherever these jerks go to train empathy along with shooting skills...
“Can’t you find out who he is?”
“Sorry, ma’am–Miss, but this is barely enough to start a legal process.”
“Wait! I was at a pub the other day. Surely they have security cameras there? You can check who he is through the footage.”
“Miss… This was a public space. You can call us if he appears in your yard or anything like that. Be sure to call us if there's more threats or he tries to come inside your house. Ok?”
You stare at this polite but distant fellow with disbelief. Is this all you’re gonna get? Do you just have to wait until this man comes in and rapes you? Do you have to suffer from this fucker until he decides it’s time to murder you?
You huff out a laugh and roll your eyes, turn to leave, but the officer calls you back.
“Miss… Excuse me. There is something I’d recommend you to do were I in your position.”
Were you in my position… Not in a million years would you be in my position, you fucking prick.
“Yes?”
“I’d lay low for a while. And change your phone number. Change it today. And… No flaunting yourself on social media or anything like that. Actually, I’d suggest you delete all your social media accounts for the time being. They only provide him access to you and a reminder that you’re there.”
“But what if he comes inside my house when he sees he can’t message me anymore?”
“That’s when you call us.”
“Right,” you fake a mock of a smile.
“Good day, ma’am. Uh, miss.”
You leave the station even weaker than you went there. No flaunting yourself on social media – what the fuck was that supposed to mean? You’re not going to delete your socials... There are too many memories and pictures there. Too many contacts. People would wonder where you went, and you don’t want any more extra attention drawn to yourself right now. Phone calls filled with concern are the freaking last thing you need.
You do change your phone number, whatever good that will do. Then you post a picture on Instagram with a caption that says: “Taking a break from social media 💕” It took you almost ten minutes to decide whether to post a cute picture of yourself with minimal amount of makeup or a picture of your small, unkempt yard. Choosing to post a picture of a flower bouquet instead – one you got for yourself a few days ago to show this asshole that you like peonies instead of roses – because a picture of you or your yard would be way too enticing and would also offer leads on where you live, although you reckon he already knows it... The guy probably knows everything, from your bust, waist and hip measurements to your social security number.
You’re actually quite happy to get some me-time instead of “flaunting yourself on social media” for a change. You get to focus on yourself, and the guy just might decide to leave you alone when he sees you’re simply not online anymore. It’s like dusting yourself off after falling; you never knew it could be this easy to get rid of him. You don’t have to block or evade him, the only thing you need to do is retreat, just give him nothing to pick on.
Your victory is short-lived, though. The harasser from hell invades your inbox after only a few seconds.
Fuck.
Fuck…
Fuck this shit. He’s a fucking piece of sh–
You rush back to post a story in which you make it clear that your break will only be a very short one and that you’ll be back soon with more delicious content, but it’s no use.
You roll your eyes at the first message, but the second makes your skin crawl. You actually, veritably think about his offer for a few seconds.
Another message hits the conversation when he sees you’re apparently glued to your phone, seeing his messages the instant they appear on the screen.
Your heart is racing like it always is with this man. But this time, there’s both an offer and a threat involved. If he’s going to come and take what he wants anyway, then what will you lose by sending him a picture, checking if he’s a man of his word?
You try to think with your poor, rattled brain, weigh the options, if this is some sort of a trap. You have never, ever wanted to send a man a picture of your pussy, but somehow would kind of want to do so now. Just to see his reaction... And get the money, of course – but with a helpless sigh, you admit that curiosity will kill the cat today because seeing what he does when you send him that pic is worth more than any money he could give you.
Maybe you are cut from the same cloth as this man, no matter how hard you tell yourself that you’re normal because you start to take off your jeans with weak, trembling hands. You wonder if this is the craziest thing you’ve ever done and how there are more low points for you to go to than you ever imagined. This is yet another ultimate low, but you sense it’s still nowhere near the rock bottom for you. You’re in a spiral you can’t get out of, the tension and excitement making even your thighs shake as you fall on your bed and quickly wriggle your way out of your panties.
You grab your phone and turn it around, then around again, opening the front camera and staring into your own worried eyes for a moment, the slightly open lips and a tired, lonely stare. It’s hard to keep the phone steady with shaking hands, and your pussy doesn’t look all that inviting, afraid and dry as it is. He would probably go nuts with it anyway, but you want to look your best for him, as sick as it sounds. You spend half a minute getting yourself more swollen and wet, so rude and cute that you’re actually quite happy with the first shot. The rest of the photos are a little bit blurry, and you delete them fast, sending the first perfect one to your wannabe boyfriend.
The hunger in the message that arrives is unmistakable, palpable.
You look at your own pussy, right there on the screen; you look at his reply with butterflies flying all around your stomach and a soft, sinking feeling settling into your chest as you realize there’s no going back now. He has a photo of your cunt, and you’ll never get it back. Texting him in a cold, aching sweat, you still feel like you’re the boss bitch now. You're the winner in this stupid race.
Typing…
You huff and roll your eyes, but it takes less than a minute before your phone vibrates again. By that time, you’re up and dressed, pacing around your room like a caged animal.
You don’t know if you should be flattered that it took him literally no time to get off with your photo, but the satisfaction you got from this whole ordeal is beginning to fade. So you go and check your bank account. And he was serious, dead serious… There’s half a million lying there on your account. If nothing more, he is a man of his word.
Your legs give in, and you fall down, somewhere on your bed.
…Is this really happening?
Chapter 5
Notes:
Love love LOVE all the comments and reactions to this! Please know that I read every single one with a big fat smile ^^ I try to update this fic once or twice a week if I only have time because it’s turning out to be a long one, about ~15 chapters or so.
And um, this is the part where things start to get worse :) I assume that everyone who’s made it up until this point enjoys dark fics so… I’m just gonna leave this here…
Chapter Text
It’s no surprise that he has fished out your bank account information from somewhere. Nope: you’re more curious about the money and who sent it.
You check the sender’s name, but it turns out it’s not an individual proprietor; the name you could never even dream of spelling correctly only guides you to the dead tracks of some shady Austrian LLC. You hate how every little detail of this man screams criminal. You’ve never made contact with any kind of dealers or gangs; the worst you’ve ever done is smoke a blunt or two in school. He, on the other hand, looks, sounds and acts like someone who either grew up filthy rich or fought his way to the top of the food chain with a simple knuckleduster. Got friendly with other freaks and crooks like him and learned to cover his tracks, do dirty shit to pay people silent.
And you wonder if he knows you will only use his money to arm yourself against him. You have a feeling that you’re racing against the clock here, racing against him, because what good will money do if you can’t get protection as soon as possible? He’s closing in on you; you feel it in your gut. He might want to “pay you a visit” now that he knows you’re willing to send him pussy pics. Well, not willing; he forced you to do it, right?
That’s what you’d say in court if things ever went that far with him. But you also feel that you’ve stepped into a world that’s unfamiliar to you, a world where the authorities can’t help you, at least not as fast as you’d prefer.
So you call all kinds of different companies to install a better security system in your house and your yard, but everyone treats you like a leper, saying that they’re very busy right now and, even with the money you’re offering them, can’t come and install all the things you need before next Friday. That’s almost a week from now.
You check for available houses next. From abroad, too, to up your chances to get this guy off your back. But with the military intel he probably exploits to find information about you, what chance do you have? It only seems like a waste of time to run and hide. If he wants to find you, he will find you, you’re sure of that.
And half a million isn’t even that much. It’s not enough to do all the things you’d want to do to get rid of him. In your deepest heart of hearts, you know you don’t even want to get rid of him, which is why you pay your student loans, mortgages and other debts first, leaving you with little over half of what he gave you. Which means that the safety procedures you’re about to take only look like taunts and challenges, obstacles raised between you and him, almost erotic in nature when you think about how ferociously he loves to hunt you. He enjoys playing cat and mouse, hot and cold, gentle and rough when he wants to, just to get the right reaction out of you.
You’re like a doll he plays with: you make the right moves every damn time, you dance and prance and twitch just the way he wants. It makes you wonder if he gave you the money just to see what fun you come up with next. What silly little challenges will you put him through to make it a bit harder to get to you? He wouldn’t want to sink his teeth in his prize too soon, of that you are sure. This fucker wants to play with his prey before he devours them, you just know it.
You feel like you’re following crumbs that will eventually lead you off a cliff as you search for information about different security systems, vacant houses, bodyguards and lawsuits. Perhaps he thought you’d go to the police far earlier to see that those lousy cops can’t do shit to protect you. You breathe like a trapped little mouse inside its cage when you try to hire a PMC, only to be told that your budget will only afford someone to check in on you occasionally and that you should invest in that security system. He gave you just the right amount of money to make you optimistic, to provide you with a little kitchen knife when he owns guns.
You never answer his messages, which are pretty much the same, if a bit more unhinged.
You look at his texts, both intimidating and pathetic, but the one where he hints at other women getting wet for him is like a stab to the stomach. No matter what you do, it makes you hurt: it makes you insanely jealous.
Not even the threat of him visiting you tonight fucks with your head as much as hearing about other girls flocking to his lap, moaning and ready while you’re standing on the sidelines, playing hard to get. That’s what actually makes you afraid: the thought that he might be railing other girls – wet, willing girls – while using you as an option, an entertainment when he gets bored.
He has left you alone for days – well, not alone since he’s still bombarding you with his monologues, but you had veritably thought you’d find this guy on your doorstep one of these days. But he hasn’t arrived at your door with more roses: he’s only bragged about how good he is with knives and long-range rifles (and how this should make you spread your legs for him like a normal woman). It makes you pout a little bit because you were sure you’d know this man by now. You thought he’d go nuts with the picture you sent him, come drooling on your door. Instead, he threatened to visit you only days after you sent that pic. Not that you want him to break in and fuck you…
But someone from the security firm is coming to see you tonight and discuss more about your options for protection, so you’re feeling extra audacious. Maybe they will help you if they see that you’re truly under threat; perhaps this madness will lead to a situation where this guy gets arrested while trying to trespass. The police can take it from there, and you get to keep the rest of the money to carry you through a lengthy and tiresome court case. You actually have a little smile on your face as you type your first reply to him in days.
He never replies, and the feeling that you’re playing the game exactly as you should, doing precisely the kind of moves he expects you to, settles inside you once more.
Mentally preparing for an assault, you walk around your house with a baseball bat in hand, drinking your afternoon tea with a weak heart and churning insides. The security expert is supposed to ring your doorbell at about 18 PM sharp, and you wonder if your home will be invaded before, during, or after that meeting. Your safety and future seem to be in the hands of Lady Luck, and you hate it: you hate it that you’re in this situation in the first place. The fact that you chose to wear your prettiest lingerie today has nothing to do with anticipating him to fuck the security expert with a knife and then come fuck you with his big, leaking cock right after.
At 18:04, your doorbell rings. You sigh and leave the bat on the table, your hands slick with sweat as you unlock the door and turn the knob.
The first thing you see is a wolfish grin.
“Has anyone ever told you that you have the cutest pussy in the world?”
You should be horrified; you should feel haunted and scared, but instead, your heart makes a lovely somersault in your chest. The man of your dreams and nightmares is here, the stalker you’ve met only once before.
His voice is dark, playful and amused, exactly like you recalled. You look into his hungry eyes, the pure avarice on that face.
“You need to leave,” you say with a low, intimidating tone, but manage to only sound like a horny housemaid.
“I told you I’d pay you a visit,” he shifts closer to you, the wide stance now angled straight towards you.
He’s dressed very similarly to how he was in the pub, in black combat trousers and a long-sleeved black shirt, snug around his chest because his shoulders and back are so broad compared to the rest of him. A tactical belt hugs his waist, leading to narrow hips and baggy black pants, tucked in the military boots made of genuine leather. You suppose this is his civilian gear, no ripstop and rubber, just plain, casual wear that still makes him look like a soldier on duty. The scar above his upper lip is kissable, the playful glint in his eyes so nasty that you wonder if he sees what he’s doing to you simply by how fascinated you are with his face. And he does raise his eyebrows at you gawking at him.
Could it be that you find him handsome…?
Does this mean he can play rough now?
“That fucking picture almost destroyed me,” he blurts as if filing a complaint here, the obsessive gaze boring into you with such intensity that your lips part on their own. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me?”
He lifts his hand to touch your face, but you recoil from him, nipples slowly hardening under your cream-white blouse.
“Why are you afraid…?”
He asks it, genuinely confused. Like being scared of him is not part of the game. That, if anything, you should be swooning in his arms out of womanly surrender and love.
“Because you’re scary,” you say with a shaking voice. “And evil and creepy and awful and–”
“Tsk. I just gave you half a million, Liebchen.”
He tilts his head in warning as if it’s cute that you’re a little mean and like to play hard to get, but now you’ve gone too far.
“That was extortion,” you hiss.
He simply shrugs.
“I wanted to see your Muschi. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, eh?”
He takes a step, and you quickly dance away from him, making way like the inferior prey that you are.
“You just took my money and left. I want to see more.”
He bends towards you, attempting to be more persuasive, perhaps. But every cell in his body seems to scream demand. He speaks more softly, trying to cover the broken pitch of his voice, and you wonder if someone has strangled him in the past to make him sound that way. If that someone has bashed his face in as well, given him that scar and that broken nose that makes you so wet. You even detect a little dent above his left eyebrow, a memory of skin split open by a hard, knuckled punch. Somehow, you just know that if someone were to hit him now, he would only laugh. Or moan.
“No,” you say quickly. “You can’t, I don’t want to.”
“I’ll give you more money,” he offers right away.
“I don’t want your money.”
“You don’t need my money because I already gave you enough. Should’ve offered you less...”
His chin lifts a little, he looks down at you like you’re both nothing but a speck under his boot and a tougher nut to crack than he thought. The blue eyes are distant but warm, that half-lidded stare only reserved for you. You’d imagine those eyes are blown wide from excitement when he’s on the battlefield, blazing his guns and howling from joy.
“I’ll give you anything you want if you let me see it one more time.”
It’s so contradicting that he’s so scary, and at the same time reminds you of a dog begging for scraps. It falsely makes it seem that you’re in control here, which is absurd because this man could pick you up with one hand and undo his pants with the other. He could fuck you raw right here, rip your clothes off and spread your legs to see how wet you’ve been for him for weeks, but instead, he chooses to come here to scratch at your door, whine for attention and crumbs.
And it makes you drunk with power. Who wouldn’t want to make a man beg for a glimpse of their pussy?
“Ok,” you nod slowly. “Ok, yeah. I want you to leave me alone. Think you could manage that?”
“...You’ll show me your pussy if I leave you alone?”
“Yes.”
“...Hm.”
You know you won’t get him out of your house before giving him what he wants, and he seems calm enough right now. Something is brewing under the surface, however, brimming but not boiling over yet, and you know you should listen to your heart when it tells you to run. Your instincts tell you you’re already dead, that he’ll never be satisfied, that those jaws are panting with insatiable lust even now. And yet you go through another staring competition, a battle of wills, as he weighs you with his eyes. You stare back, unflinching, like a rabbit who’s a little too sure of herself.
“Ok,” he says calmly, a bit too calmly. He’s smiling again, an amiable, amused smile, a smile of someone who just won.
“I’ll show it and nothing more,” you stress, emphasizing every word.
“Ja, ja. Whatever.”
The crooked smile only widens. His eyes regard you so warmly now, or then he simply finds you funny.
You turn away from that unsettling confidence and calm, your rabbit senses now screaming at you to bolt. Instead, you make your way upstairs with this fucker following right behind you. You can feel his breath on your neck, you can hear the soft rustling of his clothes, the aura of a huge stray dog on your trail as you try to keep your back straight and your legs from giving in.
“Nothing more, do you understand? And then you get the hell out of my house and my life,” you ramble as you rise the last steps. His answer is as calm as ever, careless and easy, almost mocking.
“Sure.”
You arrive in the bedroom with goosebumps all over your flesh and a rock inside your gut. The bedroom is dark save from the soft blue light that cascades on the floor from outside, the safety of your cosy nest now invaded by a dark guest.
You instantly decide that you’re not putting the lights on. You are not giving this pervert anything more than you absolutely have to.
He doesn’t seem to care, only sits on the chair right across from your bed, the chair you mainly use to throw your clothes on. He doesn’t even bother to move them away, just crushes your delicate pieces of clothing like they’re not even there. His darkness swallows your rose satin blouse, your white tank top and your dark blue jeans, something you wore on TV last time you cooked. The chair is far too small for him, but he has just enough space to spread his legs, the ugly combat boots now lounging on your mat like he’s perfectly ok with making his home here.
The atmosphere is erotic, you have to admit, as you start to undress before him. You’re not trying to make it any more sexual than it is, but there’s something utterly porny about a massive male in his prime lounging on your girl chair, watching you take your clothes off just for him.
He rumbles in agreement with your choice of underwear, breathing heavily as you battle yourself out of the skin-tight jeans. His face is concealed by the shadows, but you can see him draw a broad palm over his crotch as you reach for your panties: skimpy, beautiful and cute. You notice you’re slightly wet only when the middle part of your underwear draws a streak of wetness on the inside of your leg as you pull them down.
He lets out a whine at the sight of your exposed pussy. You haven’t even spread your legs for him yet, and he’s moaning on that chair...
Breathless already, as are you, telling you that his heart is running wild too. Out of arousal and the need to fuck you, while yours is simply excited and afraid. You’re nothing but raw meat for a hound like him, your skin practically begging to get bitten and marked. And he never told you to take off your shirt, so you leave it on along with your cute white socks, realizing that it makes the scene look even more deranged.
Backing towards the bed, you climb on it with weak limbs when you reach the edge. Slink back a little, and slowly spread your thighs, your toes taking support from the edge as well.
Your pussy is now bathing in the scant light before him, and you can hear his mouth drop open with a wet, hungry click. The eyes in the darkness are wide and white as his hands fly to his belt, and it takes him a while to fight his cock out of those pants. His hands are shaking as he battles to get his fly open, messing it up on the first try from the frantic hurry to jerk off.
Jesus Christ, could a man get any more pathetic…?
This wasn’t the deal, but you say nothing, too eager to see this man brought to his knees. You watch the muscles on his forearms work when he pulls his dick out, and thank the god above that he has his sleeves rolled up... You’ve never seen a specimen like him, the tendons and build of this man are utterly inhuman in your opinion. It looks like he hasn’t had a regular diet or training routine in his life, that he’s just been thrown in the streets at some point and had to build a body to withstand all the bullshit life decided to hurl at him.
And his cock… It’s standing up like a tower as you wake up to this nightmare, the underside of it just an ugly cord of muscle before you. It’s about to fall to the right, but he grabs it in one cruel hand, long, lean fingers wrapping around the thick shaft like it’s just another weapon he’s about to use. You can feel warmth shooting down your core, pulsing out of your pussy with a soft, shy leak. You hurry to close your thighs to prevent him from seeing it, but he squashes such rebellious attempts immediately.
“A–ah, not yet... Spread your legs more.”
You fight back a tremor, visceral and mean from how selfish he is. This is crazy... This is fucking nuts that you’re in your bedroom with this man, watching him pull out his cock while you’re presenting your pussy to him.
And when you refuse to do what he wants, his voice changes into a rough command, probably used to torment people who’ve gotten used to crude barks and hazing.
“Spread them or I’ll spread them for you.”
You’re not used to it, which is why your thighs fly open like a book.
“That’s it… That’s a good little Muschi.”
The army voice is gone in an instant; the soft, pleased stare is back. You’re so angry that you could die, so afraid that the fury in your voice comes out as a weak meep. His praise is nothing but mocking, and still, still, your pussy is pulsing with heat.
“I was supposed to just show it,” you complain on the bed, only making him more pleased.
“This is showing it, Dummkopf.”
He starts to stroke that thing, ugly, pale and long, and you realize that no one is coming to save you. The bodyguard is already dead, probably strangled to death with those same hands that are now stroking that vicious cock in front of you. He’s mainly focusing on your cunt, talking to it instead of you, there’s some odd, new German pet name introduced to you too. You have a wild guess on what it means, and you don’t like him calling you that at all. He just looks at you darkly, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as if he can hear your thoughts.
But you know better than to complain, and your head is already spinning from that half-lidded look, the obsessed, complacent gaze with which he stares at you. The shame and want are now panging on your cheeks, even your pussy betrays you with a lonely throb. His cock is leaking, you can hear it from the slick sounds that fill the room. Stroking himself with a monotonous, accustomed pace, his balls are left sagging over the waistband of his boxers, and you feel sad for them, you’d want nothing more than to have a taste and make them shoot up, blow him while he lounges on that chair. Let him grab your hair and use your mouth as he likes, tell you how dumb you look when your mouth is stuffed full of his cock. He could caress your head after… Only after.
If nothing more, you wish he would simply rise from that chair and take you on this bed. God have mercy, but you want him to fuck you... You want to feel that long, angry cock inside you, spreading you until you can’t feel anything else in this world but him. You want him to rail you so hard that you forget your name and all this fucking filth inside your head.
The chair is now creaking from the violence of his lust, and you fear how far his seed will shoot this time. If you have to scrub semen from your mat in the morning, wishing he would have shot it inside you… Those balls jump now with every fap, pulling tighter by the minute, the sound of desperate wanking and broken panting about to drive you nuts. Your vision is hazy from brimming tears, you want to join him and touch yourself so badly, but you have no choice but to stay here, propped on this bed, showing off your drooling cunt, so wet now it’s dripping on the bedspread.
“Touch yourself, Liebchen,” he huffs, eyes glued to his reward. It’s eerie, how he’s somehow so in sync with your thoughts when there’s evidence, you know that he’s dumb as a boot.
“That’s not part of the deal.”
“Either you touch yourself, or I’ll fuck you with this dick.”
His threats only get worse as he approaches his climax. They’re more demanding, more pitiful since he’s slipping out of control, and you’re not even that shocked by what he said, even though you should. Your nerves are so torn to shreds that you merely soak his words like a sponge. Some part of you even enjoys them, internally bites a lip at how horrible he is.
“You’re an asshole and a liar,” you complain as you bring a set of cold, trembling fingertips to your clit.
“Just do as you’re told, for once, Dummkopf…”
He accepts your insults with ease, no doubt accustomed to hearing such shit at work. Probably thinks you’re only being affectionate with him... Probably thinks you like to be called dumb as well, that it’s a sign of a blooming relationship that you’re exchanging slurs here.
And you do exactly as you’re told, for once. Massaging yourself gently, sensually, you're the complete opposite of what he’s doing to himself. He slows down a bit, the frantic stroking nearly coming to a halt as he watches you being soft with yourself. It’s like you give him permission to be soft as well, and it feeds you with more power, far more than it should.
He watches, entranced, as you float your fingers down and spread yourself gently, draw a slow stroke up your slit. The wetness is so generous that it makes audible noise, and you bite your lip in earnest now, the tension in the room about to melt the skin from your bones. You hear him curse under his breath before he picks up his previous pace, watching you so intently that you fear you’ll pass out soon.
“Wet. So fucking wet. I knew it…”
He talks to himself in that chair, no filters on whatsoever. Apparently, he doesn’t see himself as a loser at all.
“If you want some cock just say so…”
“No,” you say bluntly, casually, feeling more powerful by the minute.
“Oh. You like women?”
“No… It’s not that.”
“Cock’s not good enough for you?”
“Not that either.”
“I’m not good enough…?”
You’re tapping into some distant hurt here, some past anxiety of this man, suddenly brought to the present moment. He’s in your room with all his skeletons, all his past ghouls, and the fear of not getting accepted is such a lousy cause for his horrible behavior that your nose wrinkles with disgust. He’s still stroking his cock and avoids your stare, the hungry, listless eyes concentrating on your cunt again.
“I just gave you a shitload of money,” he mutters, so tightly that even a Dummkopf like you can tell that he’s hot and bothered.
“I never wanted your money.”
“Took it anyway.”
“Because you extorted me, you fucking loser,” you blurt.
The mutual masturbating session turns into a solo one when he immediately stops stroking his cock.
“Loser, eh?”
The avalanche of your mistake hits you like a ton of bricks.
Oh shit… Oh fuck.
How could you be so stupid?
He rises from the chair, shooting up to his feet with the help of all that muscle and fury you should've sensed from that kernel of vulnerability he just showed you.
"I'll show you a fucking loser."
"No–no, please, I didn't mean that-"
You make yourself smaller, plead on the bed, but it's no use.
He’s upon you in a few heavy leaps, blackness and forearms and a giant cock filling your vision as you get buried under your fatal error in a matter of seconds.
"Have you ever been fucked by a loser?"
You snatch your hand from between your legs, lightning-fast, practically giving way to the approaching weapon. That cock is defying gravity when it’s bouncing there in the air, you hear yourself whimper just before he grabs it and shoves it on your folds. The other hand grips your knee, preventing you from closing your thighs as the wetness between your legs gets smeared all over his swollen tip with rich, relishing groans.
“Fuck… You’re all wet…"
He’s so lost in your cunt that he forgets that he was angry there for a minute, his head rolling back with a sigh. Your mouth gapes open as you stare at his exposed neck, the body you wouldn't stand a chance against in a fight. You’ve never felt so helpless and aroused, a sloppy mess for him as he tries to prod your tight slit with the head of his cock. You bite your tongue when he finds the entrance and slips in, almost by accident. It’s neverending, how he feeds himself into you with reckless want, all the way until he bottoms out, and you let out another weak little sound.
“Ja… You like that?”
He huffs and falls down on the bed, leaning on his hands as he hovers above you, looking at you in a way that says Mine. You can feel his balls pressing against your butt, all that saggy skin and vulnerability that wants to slap against you. Your walls start to squeeze him, and he shudders from euphoria, his stare a little too adoring to belong to a man who’s here just for a fuck.
All your worst fears have come true, all your secret wishes, too… He’s inside your house, he’s inside you. You’re spread wide, filled to the brim with his cock, a stream of tears running down your temples as the vision of him gets blurred.
“Don’t cry. Hey, please don’t cry…”
He lifts a hand to your face. It’s quivering, the tiny brush of knuckles, and it only makes you cry some more, the sudden change from threats to gentleness not making any sense in your poor, addled brain.
“You’re horrible,” you whisper under him, knowing that you look and sound like a spoiled pillow princess.
“I know,” he murmurs apologetically. “I know.”
His fury is completely gone, the past hurt forgotten the instant he got inside you. The yearning is back, and the numb shield from his eyes is gone: here is the man who said he loved you on that yucky fapping video. He’s alive, barely holding on to life, just like you… But he’s a lost cause, a starved dog, full of fleas and fallen fur, so empty that you feel like you’re sleeping with a skeleton here.
“I’ll go gentle… Ok?”
You nod, the expression in your eyes now completely helpless. He starts to move, so slow that it takes you a while to realize that he’s not only excited, but nervous.
Never in your wildest dreams would you have thought your stalker could get shy about fucking you, but here he is, caressing your temple with a gentleness reserved for glass dolls. A little shaky and a little rough, he pushes out more tears from you with every careful thrust.
“Like that… You like that?”
You nod again, tears filling your vision once more, now out of pity for both him and you. He’s worse than you ever even thought, more needy than you could’ve imagined. Broken moans hit your skin as he buries his head into the crook of your neck, trying to find love that isn’t there.
“Fuck… You’re so fucking soft… Tight…”
He whines those words as if it’s painful to be inside of you. You still can’t believe that this is actually happening, that your stalker is inside your house, dicking you down after you both just masturbated together. His hips start to pound you more quickly when you stay mute, the huge cock pumping in and out without effort although he said you’re tight.
It doesn’t feel bad, but that doesn’t make it good... And still, the worst thing here is the noise. All the sounds, sloppy and wet, accompanied by his huffing and panting and the obscene wailing of the springs of your bed frame. Your whimpers, punched out of you with every other thrust even though you try to stay quiet... The stupid, starved groans that meet your neck and make you want to touch him.
“You have to pull out, I’m not on anything…” you whisper weakly on the bed, still trying to figure out how you even ended up in this situation.
“No. No, no no, I’m not pulling out,” he breathes on your neck, only increasing the pace of his thrusts. Immediately possessive, afraid of being forced to leave your warmth. So afraid of never getting what he wants…
“I’m gonna need a morning after pill,” you sniffle next, appalled that you have to fucking bargain with him about this thing.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get it for you.”
He’s so soft now with his words, spooked or something when he saw you in tears. It gives you hope, somewhat, that perhaps he has empathy after all. Perhaps he’s just fucked up because of whatever happened to him, that it’s only nature and nurture that made him this way.
Your fingers find his shirt, skimming the side seam of the cotton separating you from his skin. It’s only a soft touch, but it makes him whine. Makes him cling to you even harder, fuck you with need, so rough that you can feel the sweat breaking through his shirt.
Touching him feels like sin, exhilarating and wrong, and yet you like the way his body feels under your hands. Strong… Hard. Real.
“I’ll bring you ice cream and flowers and… whatever you need, princess,” he coos into your ear while fucking you hard, voice so soft now that it feels like he’s tried to learn how to speak to women from romantic films. At the same time his hips grind you into the mattress, blunt and rough, and your legs finally give in and fall to each side, the sloppy wetness between your legs getting the ride of its life. Eight inches, maybe more, get crammed inside you over and over again, relentlessly until you sound like whipped cream.
He only babbles more affectionate nonsense to you with a husky, dry throat, lips only a breath away from your cheekbones, a loving stare examining how cute you look when you’re so helplessly fucked. You hear yourself whine a moan in the air as he splits you in half and hits some dark, secret spot; your lids drift closed, your head falls back as if someone is pulling you by your hair. His mouth is immediately on your exposed throat, planting hungry kisses on your skin, open-mouthed and clumsy.
“Fuck,” he pants in the middle of kissing your neck raw. “The things you do to me…”
He’s trying so hard to be gentle and failing royally with each step of the way, while you sound like you’re in bad porno, your moans so perverse that it’s not even funny anymore. He feels so good you fear that you can’t take it... Getting speared by his cock is turning you into a stupid, deranged mess, the impending orgasm only seconds away.
“You like that, huh? Nice, big cock… You just wanted–a good fuck…”
He’s awful, mouth breathing filth on your cheek, forehead massaging yours as he continues to use your hole. You wonder if it feels like heaven after his dry, calloused fist, if the last time anyone let him hit was years ago. That would explain why he’s so mental about this, babbling dirt in your ear about how he’s going to shoot a big load in you, how he’s going to fill you up and fuck you senseless.
“Don’t s–stop,” you beg, for air and mercy and that he would never, ever stop because you’re so close to heaven, so close to bliss.
“I won’t. I won’t. I promise, princess.”
His huffs are serious when you expected him to mock you. He sounds like he actually cares about your pleasure, too… So eagerly, in fact, that he would probably slit his wrists right now if it only made you come for him. If he can make a woman like you climax, he must be worth something; if he gets more out of this than just busting a nut inside your cunt, he’s won in life.
And how can such bad, horrifying sex make you come so soon? Or even come at all…?
There’s drool and moans on your skin, the manhandling you receive is everything but swoon-worthy, and yet you’re feeling like you’re on the hottest date ever. Your brain is already melting, and with it, your pussy starts to throb. You wonder if he even notices such a thing from how he’s basically fucking you now like his life depended on it.
“You want to cum together…?” He pants on your face while fucking you like a horny teen, but you’re already gone.
“Wait for me,” he gruffs, so, so late to the party.
Your back is already arching…
“Wait–You needy little–”
He goes into turbo mode when noticing you’re close, your body tense and your face distorting with a mute moan. The desperate drilling only makes you come sooner: loud and hard while he curses in German.
The cries that paint the air belong to you, but you hardly recognize yourself: so pathetic it sounds when you cum with him buried deep inside your soul. Strong hips try to work him to the finish line as if it’s a competition that he gets there with you: he didn’t expect you to be this needy, your cunt so drenched that it’s a miracle how he’s able to stay inside, big and long as he is.
You wish he’d slow down a little, let you enjoy all that thickness properly… You wish he’d fuck you through your climax with some tact, but he’s far from a tasteful, sensual man. Instead, he ruts you like he learned even that from hardcore porn, balls slapping your flesh with every ruthless thrust. The orgasm leaves you limp and weak, but he continues to use your body, barely sensible with the things he’s saying when he chases down his own release.
“Fuck–ah–fucked you dumb, didn’t I? You fucking cock hungry–I’ll fucking show you…”
It’s compulsory filth to get him there more quickly, and the climax is whipped out of him, the sharp, painful groan telling you it feels good as fuck.
You actually fear he’s dying there for a moment when all his muscles contract and he throws his head back, gritting his teeth so hard you know where those strong tendons on his neck probably came from. You think about the video you saw, the moment his load shot off the screen, and how thick it was... All of that is now going inside you as he turns from stiff to slack, from erratic to relaxed so fast that his thrusts finally feel like he’s making love to you.
And you’ve never heard a man cum like that... Everyone is usually so quiet, only grunting once or twice when they come. He’s the opposite of an attentive, discreet lover, the noises he makes thoroughly deprived.
When he’s done, he crumbles on top of you and rubs his whole body against you. The cock is buried deep within you, pulsing with fat, languid swells while you’re stretched to your limit. You threaten to get squashed between him and the mattress, swallowed by his rough form.
He won’t stop fucking you either, just slowly rocks his hips while moaning more pathetic whines on your skin. Trying to make the good feeling last forever, trying to get deeper. But even a cock like his has to end somewhere, and there’s only so far he can go. You feel like he’s trying to somehow crawl inside your skin, make a nest in your ribcage or something, get back home with his attempts to get closer. But eventually, he stills.
“I love you. I love you. I love you.”
He whispers a string of sad, profound confessions into your hair. You stare at the ceiling, blinking in his embrace, thighs spread so wide that it hurts, cunt so thoroughly fucked that it burns. You only notice the pain after the feel-good hormones fade away and get replaced with sorrow. His body feels so good on top of you, better than a weighted blanket, better than any daydream you’ve ever had about some big man holding you while you drift off into sleep. But you’re not feeling sleepy now; you can’t even breathe.
He rubs his face against you, and rolls his hips one more time, making you wince. He’s more than knocking on your cervix there, making you nauseous or worse. You place your hands on his ribs and push him gently, trying to make it clear that he can pull out now. That you want him to get off of you.
He does it so slowly that it’s pure agony, looks down as he pulls out as if to check he was indeed inside you. Or to check what a nice creampie he just made… You're both embarrassed and pleased to be examined like that, especially when you feel his cum gush out of you with a forceful push. It’s thick and violent, never-ending, your pussy rejecting the foreign fluid shot there with such urgency.
He says something filthy in German, breathes with his mouth open, mesmerized by such a beautiful sight. By the time he crawls and crashes next to you, he’s already looking like he’s not even that sad. He just looks like he’s in some Shangri-La for demons.
“What’s your name?” You ask, voice nothing but a whisper.
“People call me König.”
“...What’s that?”
“The opposite of a loser.”
More cum oozes out of your slit as you’re sprawled there in the soft darkness. You’re lying in a warm puddle of semen, or so it feels, the load from his balls so generous that no woman would be able to take it. If he lied about getting you that plan B tomorrow, you’re going to kill him, that’s for sure…
“What’s your real name?” You ask, not fond of hearing his neverending panting. It’s like he’s trying to drive it in your dumb female head that he did some heavy duty there when he fucked you so nice and hard. That he should be decorated for how well he performed.
“Can’t tell you that, princess.”
You wonder what you two look like right now, lying next to each other on your wide princess bed, staring at the ceiling together. A thoroughly fucked girl in her white socks and a white shirt; a big man dressed all in black next to her, some mercenary who’s still wearing his combat boots and breathing heavy from the joy of getting laid.
He didn’t even care to tuck that monster back into his pants... Probably likes the way it’s glistening with your wet; pure evidence of how much you wanted him.
“Where’s the bodyguard…?”
“Dead.”
You swallow and peek a look at him, still dressed and suddenly distant on that bed. He closes his mouth and smiles to himself, then turns his wolf eyes to you.
You try to search for some warmth on that face, but there’s not much else but greed there, fathomless hunger as he moves towards you. So quickly that it makes you flinch, but it seems that he’s only happy and therefore moves a little too fast.
He pulls you close to him like you’re the most beautiful treasure in this world, his body naturally curling around yours as he takes the role of the big spoon for the night. You know you’re not leaving this bed anymore, not even to wash his seed off your thighs. His arm wraps around you as your body molds against him, so softly that you fear you might disappear.
“Don’t worry,” he bends to whisper in your ear, gives you a fond little squeeze. “I’ll take care of you.”
Chapter Text
You wake up to someone fondling your tits.
To your surprise, you also wake up slightly wet because you just had the raunchiest sex dream ever, but then you notice that the things that are currently being done to you must’ve bled in the dream.
The man – König, your stalker – is here, in your bed, and of course he is.
Why would he leave after a good fuck?
You vaguely remember falling asleep with him in your bed. You remember falling asleep in his arms, even. His arm was around your chest before he started to snore, and you were too worn out to do anything about it; in fact, you didn’t even want to do anything about it. Snuggling and cuddling after cumming hard like the sad, desperate little thing that you are has that effect on you, apparently. It’s like someone simply turned off the lights in your head after you came.
But now he’s at you again. Sluggish and drowsy, just like you are, but the fact that you were still asleep didn’t stop him from starting round two by himself, it seems. Waking up to this fucker hiking up your shirt and having himself a grope reminds you exactly how little sovereignty and sanity you have left. It’s like your body is his to play with – at least he seems to think so, currently squeezing your tits like they’re his stress toys now.
He rumbles to himself when he sees you’re awake. Drowns his face into your hair, rubs his nose on your neck, sending tingles across your scalp. A sense of thrill goes through your spine when he starts to grind his fully erect cock against your ass.
“You’re so soft…” he sighs.
His morning voice is blue and pitchy, his dry humping everything but erotic, but somehow, you end up getting wet for him. And it doesn’t really help that he practically forces a hand on your mound and starts to pet your pussy.
Who even does that?
“So fucking soft…”
It’s like a lovely little secret, what he whispers in your ear. It makes you feel slightly better, as stupid as it sounds. He’s in his most worshiping mood already and all you have to do is exist.
The smell of sex hasn’t left your bedroom, and there’s another new scent here now. Stale musk and some cheap men’s shampoo: leather wax and him. Distant notes of gunpowder, but to your relief, no alcohol or nicotine. Even his morning breath is endearing: not cosy, you tell yourself, just… Homely.
The arm around you pulls you tighter against him, a chest made of hard, rigid pecs. It seems like he’s only loose from the waist down, hips rolling up and against your ass with surprising fluidity. You don’t even want to think about questions such as did he rape you last night or not. You’re not strong enough for that. So you decide to concentrate on the good things: how good it felt to have a big dick inside you, how nice it was to cum so hard. How lovely it was to drift into sleep with a strong man by your side, holding you like you belonged to him now.
And sleep has taken the brunt of your fear away: you only feel like cotton candy here in his embrace. Cotton candy that has a few aches and sores, perhaps, but even those feel like pleasure as the drowsy humping and sighing goes on.
You’re floating somewhere between dream and waking, excited and relaxed, mortified and horny as he picks up your leg and spreads it wide, slipping his cock between your folds from behind. You can only imagine how obscene you look: exposed and sleepy on the bed, pussy greeting the chill air and his blazing cock, plush lips greedily hugging the morning wood. Your body betrays you at every turn, the sounds of your arousal loud and lewd as he runs himself along your cunt. Back and forth and back and forth, he coats his cock with your schlick, filling the morning with hopeless need.
How on earth can you even want this man is beyond you, but now that the manic craze of last night is gone, your body responds to him with a far more relaxed greed. It resembles a horny hangover, making you wish he’d just slip that fat cock inside already.
He does exactly that after a few more needy slides that feel like hot torture, probes on your entrance a little too long until you lose your patience with a pent-up whine. Angling yourself for him to help get that bulged tip inside, you try not to care about his stupid, happy grunt. If he decides to comment on your impatience, you swear you'll elbow him in the ribs... But for once, he's clever enough to keep those porny remarks to himself.
And fuck, it feels good when it slips in…
It's even better than last night.
“You feel so fucking good,” he groans behind you, mirroring your thoughts. “Best pussy I’ve ever had…”
You barely make sense of the words he’s saying, so drowsy and sleepy he sounds. You’re stretched to the limit, about to drool on the pillow and clutch the sheets for hungry support, but his stupid babbling makes you halt; pure poison seeps down your stomach when you think about him ranking pussies in his mind.
Has he had a lot of women before you…?
More importantly, have they been willing?
The thought of him making some other girls moan as he bullies that horse cock in their dripping holes makes you see white, then red. You can’t bear the thought of this scenario having happened to some other women before. It doesn’t help that he put you at the top of his list: you want to be the only one; you want to be the only girl he can think about while he’s fucking you.
“You’re everything I imagined,” he whispers into your ear, and it’s hard not to be enraged when he’s murmuring such bullshit on your skin.
Everything he imagined...?
What did he imagine?
A warm, wet hole to fuck? A limp body that barely responds to his touch? A woman who’s too exhausted to even feel afraid anymore, a new girlfriend, preferably depressed, so that he’ll up the chances for her to stay?
You know nothing about this guy: not his name, where he comes from, what he does for work, what his ultimate goal with life or you even is.
What the hell does he want from you – is it just this, just sex?
He still has his clothes on like it’s no big deal to crash on your bed after a shag and then get immediately back to work when the big boy downstairs wakes up again. You don’t know what time it is precisely, but it must be hours since the last time you fucked. That means you’re in desperate need of that morning after pill, but instead of getting it to you like he promised, he chooses to fuck you again…
“This feels so right, Liebchen,” he pants on your face, a rare slip of actual vulnerability right there.
He’s so sluggish now, sluggish but needy, making the thrusts long, delicious and insanely good. You sigh for him – just once or twice, and very quietly. You don’t want him to think you’re enjoying it too much.
No man has ever wanted you so badly... No man has ever fucked you like this, like the walls themselves are oozing with lust. You’re helplessly aroused with him using your hole; you even turn your head a little to allow his lips find your cheek. The hurried kisses he plants there are followed by hungry thrusts and pain.
More, more, more, your mind mewls like a pathetic cat, but you shove it inside a closet, some distant dark room that never had lights installed let alone on.
But your hand finds his, only by accident, you assure yourself. It just happened to arrive there over his arm. And if you turned your head a bit more, your lips would brush his… Even the thought makes your cunt clench along with your heart.
…And then the lovely, unhurried sweetness of the morning fuck is ruined.
He has to ruin everything, it seems, even the cute morning session that almost made you feel something for him.
He gets carried away and picks up the pace, selfishly starting to chase his own peak. The hungry arms around you threaten to crush you: he doesn’t care to whisper cute things in your ear anymore, just starts to fuck you like a fleshlight, the sounds of slow lovemaking turning into wild, wet fucking.
You’re filled to the brim, over and over again, and were you horny enough you might even cum. But now you only feel like you need to pee, you feel his palm crushing your breast and another one wrenching your thigh, forcing you open for his cock. Rapt with both revulsion and want, you simply let him take what he wants, because something got in last night, something far worse than just leaves and dirt and him...
Because the worst part is, you sort of like being used. A fragment of you is fulfilled by this crazy scene; a part of you feels cute, even, to be held in place for a man like this. Taken like a commodity he owns, fucked like an obsession he can’t live without. Your poor little half-moans only make him squeeze you so tight it actually hurts. His thrusts are pure need, punitive, nothing but the end goal in mind as you realize his cock must be seconds away from bursting.
“You… You close?” He pants, balls beating your soaked flesh as he huffs like a beast behind you, excited about you being so adorably shy today.
The sex is so bad, and you just let it happen, deciding that the sooner it’s over, the better… And this jerk doesn’t even seem to understand what he’s doing.
Fully awake now, you listen how the orgasm is forced out of him without fanfare. He buries himself deep inside you with a strangled groan, pitiful and sad, slides in and out with slow, sloppy glides to milk the rest of the load out. Overstimulated and sensitive, he shudders with you in his lap and rubs his face on your neck, so rough that your skin is chafed raw.
When he finally stops, he’s panting, and you’re still. The cock pulses inside you, and you just want him to pull out. You don’t want another load kept inside you, but he won’t let you go.
No: he only spreads your leg more to gloat about the union of him and you: his big, tall cock so safe and snug inside your tight heat. His palms are rough, exposing your poor, abused hole for an imaginary audience and making you want to squirm away from shame. Instead, your pussy celebrates the spread with a longing throb, hoping he would continue the fuckfest because–
“You didn’t cum,” he mutters, a bit sad.
And that sorry little complaint is simply the last straw for you.
Why does he think he can just come here and fuck you twice, simply use your cunt and rub your tits like you’re nothing but a fuck toy?
“It takes a bit more than that,” you say, cold as ice, so passive-aggressive that it would make even your therapist tilt her head with worry.
He lets you go, reluctantly, a man thoroughly blind to his shortcomings.
“Ah. I’m a loser, eh?”
The man – König – has a dry sense of humour, or then he’s just repeating the word that got him triggered last night. It makes you a little uneasy that he took it so seriously. You thought a man so far gone as him wouldn’t give a fuck about the insults others might hurl at him.
But perhaps it’s not about the insult... Perhaps it’s about who says the insult. He doesn’t want to appear a loser in your eyes, but oh boy, would you have news for him. You veritably can’t think of a more pathetic man, but you’d rather die than tell him that. You don’t want to end up in a top story of a newspaper like those women who suffered tragic fates at the hands of their fucked up lovers.
Still, you’ll be damned if you let him cuddle you this morning. He can keep his post-nut confessions to himself today. Another I love you from those lips and he’s fucking dead…
You have to fight your way free of his cock, so reluctantly it slides out of you when you pry yourself away from him. He lets out a soft whine when he doesn’t even get to stay inside your cunt – a disappointed moan or a sad little whimper, you can’t quite tell. Whatever the sound is, it’s pathetic.
“Where are you going?” He demands to know when you skitter across the floor before his cum stains your precious mat.
“Shower.”
“I’ll join you.”
You fear you’re about to go insane soon. He doesn’t even let you go to the shower by yourself.
There’s nowhere to escape him: he’s soon inside your bathroom, half hard and grinning when you back up against the wall. The tiles look even smaller now that he’s here, and you desperately need to pee, but can’t voice your needs for the life of you.
He would probably want to watch…
He looks even more indomitable when he’s naked before you, body nothing but cords of tormented muscle, shoulders hunched but feet planted wide as he’s trying to fit inside your walls. Scars, nicks and slashes blot his torso and legs, burn marks here and there on his arms, the parts where his body hair refuses to grow telling you there’s been permanent damage to the skin. He looks like a massive stray dog – if stray dogs were human – both starved and fed, trained and bred. His feet, palms and cock are disproportionately large compared to the rest of him, and he’s big already. You can’t help but feel sorry for the woman who had to give birth to this man.
You can’t even wash his scent away from you in peace because he fights you over the dominion of the shower gel bottle, chuckling when you try to hop to reach it from his grasp. He demands to wash your tits himself; he even washes your cunt, using too much soap and being, overall, such a jerk about it that you can do nothing but try to disassociate to someplace else as you lean your palms on the glass wall of your shower stall.
“Ass too,” he rasps, and slips a wide pad of thumb between your cheeks to give you a good rub there.
Your butthole squeezes itself shut the minute he washes you down there, good and thorough, like it’s his new favourite place from now on. You hope to god that he doesn’t develop a crush on your ass next and decide he wants to fuck you there.
“Nice and clean… Now I can make you dirty again,” he breathes in your ear after a gropy session of lather and rinse. That’s when you finally put your hands over him and push him away. You also give him a defiant, foul glare, whatever good that will do because that stupid, smug smile of his only widens.
“I want breakfast,” you declare, so very tired of this man even when you only just woke up.
“Whatever you say. Actually, now that you mention breakfast… I’m starving, princess.”
At least he’s stupid enough to be enticed away from your body with food if he’s hungry enough. Turns out that haunting, fucking and bullying you takes a toll even on an able-bodied man like him because he looks positively excited about the prospect of getting something to eat.
And there’s nothing you can say or do to make that dopey smile go away. This König seems incredibly happy to wake up with a cute woman in his arms, fuck them sloppy and take a long, satisfying shower with them afterwards, then go downstairs for breakfast. Not that he does a single thing to help: he stays in the bathroom and whistles there while you go and prepare some coffee in your skimpy little bathrobe.
It’s the first morning in ages when you haven’t woken up to a feeling of emptiness and ennui. Still, you’re not sure if you’d still prefer that over this. You’re so rattled and confused that you put the toaster on with no bread in it, then lean on the counter, deep in your thoughts.
Should you call the police now? When he’s still in the bathroom, apparently taking a dump?
Would he kill them when they arrive? Would he mock them? Bribe them?
...Fuck you with their blood still on his hands?
It turns out that’s not even an option because your stalker is swift and silent as he strolls into the kitchen, his pleased smile the polar opposite of your mood. The goddamn bastard is whistling still.
“Mm. You make good coffee,” he comments after taking a mug from the cupboard like he’s been here before and knows where they live. As if he lived here now, pouring himself a nice cup of coffee and having a sip, complimenting your skills as a housewife like it’s his place to even do so. Then he gets curious about the toast and rummages through your fridge, pulling out jam and butter and serving himself all the things you have in your home while you try to decide whether you got assaulted or not.
He looks so huge, towering over your fridge, the countertops barely reaching the middle of his thigh. You secretly admire all that simple, raw strength, but there’s so much testosterone in this room, walking around and feeding itself with your pussy and your food, that your legs feel weak. Or perhaps it’s just his cock that has destroyed your guts...
“You’re a good woman,” he says, genuinely respectful and thoughtful, clearly so very happy with the situation he finds himself in. It’s breaking your heart that he’s acting so sweet when, less than 24 hours ago, he hurled threats and filth at you.
“Yeah,” you mutter.
A good woman…
What does that even mean?
And why the hell would you even want to be a good woman for this man? He’s the lousiest, nastiest piece of shit on this earth, and yet you feel elevated when hearing such a compliment from him.
He munches on the toast with his mouth open and gulps that coffee so loudly you want to strangle him, probably clogged up the toilet already and will soon fuck you again once he gets his morning calories… Whatever have you done to deserve such a lover?
“Why so serious?” He asks with his mouth full of food when you continue to be mute.
“I don’t know,” you twitch a shrug, something so fierce brewing in the distance that even a thickhead like him can see the clouds. “Perhaps because I didn’t cum.”
“Hey. Let me fix that,” he sets the coffee mug on the counter, suddenly as serious as can be.
You pout at him, lower lip trembling, tears not far away as he approaches.
The atrocity of your situation is finally starting to sink in: it feels horrifying that your harasser is still standing in your kitchen, eating your toast and drinking the coffee you made for him out of your supposed free will. You can still feel him inside you even if he’s two meters away; you can hear his panting and groans, you fear that you’re soon pregnant with his child. Some unknown soldier’s child, some killer’s bastard you’re no doubt supposed to take care of by yourself while he goes out to have fun with his guns and whores.
He approaches you with solemn dedication in his stare, and your pussy responds with a shy, yearning wink. Goddamn it…
He tries to be slow and sensual as he opens your robe, but there’s nothing romantic about the way with which he attacks your breasts with his mouth. Drags a tongue over them, licks and nibbles and tugs your nipples until they’re all glistening and perked up -- until the familiar drunken haze envelops your brain once more, the mellow, silken heat rushing down your core as he decides it would be a good idea to use his teeth on you.
He breathes a smile on your skin when you jerk away from him, hands shot to his neck to prevent this lunatic from chewing your fucking nipple off. If this is what he has to do to make you touch him, he will do it, and you won’t even remove your hands… You find yourself fondling the soft hairs at the back of his neck, the little amount of sweat that breaks when he tries to fold in on himself to get to your nipples.
What he lacks in seduction and charm he makes up thousandfold in hunger, the starved mouth on your breasts causing your head to loll back as he laps at your flesh. He’s so nasty, so infuriating, doesn’t even bother to be gentle with you, making even the task of making you come a pilgrimage of lust and enjoyment for himself. With every little nib and bite, he’s only feeding a beast who’s never full, and you’re the one who has to pay the price.
“You–ah… like to be licked?”
He asks it with a dirty smile on his face, and you whimper something incoherent. He takes it as a sign of enthusiasm: you’ve been too shy for your own good ever since he pushed that dick inside you – that’s what his eyes seem to say. It’s not a good play because shy, mewling girls only get licked and fucked…
There's a flash in his eyes, and you feel faint already when he grabs you by the hips. Simply lifts you onto the counter without warning, stare half-lidded and stupid already as he peeks down to get a glimpse at the main prize. You barely get to gasp as your butt meets the cold marble because he's already at your thighs, prying them open with the strength of three men.
He gets on his knees in front of you and licks his lips, the peak stubble on his jaw making him look annoyingly hot. He looks like a ruffian with that shadow on his chin, sexy as fuck… God, you feel yourself leaking on the counter before he has even touched you there.
“Hallo, breakfast,” he prattles to your cunt before diving in, the coarse stubble grating your thighs so that they’re basically forced further open by pain.
You shift in an attempt to brace yourself, and while doing that, your fingers land on the handle of a kitchen knife.
He must’ve seen it on the table: he simply didn’t think you’d mean him harm. Perhaps he’s too clueless as to how much you despise him – a woman who’s wet for a cock can’t hate the cock in question, not in his worldview, at least. The little blade is tempting, innocent and sweet: not a threat to him, just like you’re not.
It’s more than just an intrusive thought: how horrible would it be for an unstoppable man like him to have his life end in a kitchen, by a woman who struck him with a silly little kitchen utensil? Even the image of him holding the artery on his neck, shocked and bleeding to death right there in your feet, makes your heart ache. The organ runs wild at the vision of him leaving your life, once and for all.
You tell yourself it’s only because you could never kill anyone, not even when they are mean to you like he is. But in your heart of hearts, you know you would miss him. The man who’s made your life hell is now preoccupied with the wet folds of your precious little cunt, excited about getting to lick you to ruin while you’re offered a wonderful opportunity for good old self-defence.
A sane woman wouldn’t think twice about plunging that knife deep inside his throat. He did rape you last night, after all.
Didn’t he…?
It doesn’t matter that you came. It doesn’t matter that you slept in his arms after that, like a baby. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he forced himself inside your house after extorting you. He forced himself upstairs and extorted you some more. He practically forced himself inside you after you called him a loser. After you exposed your wet pussy to him, teasing and tempting him while you were both masturbating in front of each other…
But it wasn’t right. It wasn’t.
And the police can’t help you. They can’t protect you from this psycho even if a dozen walked inside this building now, of that you are sure. It would only result in more corpses and an arduous lawsuit, through which he’d harass you too no doubt. He’d follow you everywhere, and now with the taste of your cunt, he’ll never leave you alone.
Even the bodyguard you hired is dead, with no repercussions whatsoever yet. So, who else can you trust but yourself? What choice do you have but to defend yourself?
There’s a kitchen knife in your hand. This is the golden opportunity. It could be the only opportunity you have.
“What are you doing…?”
But your heart betrays you. Your body is too weak, your mind too fogged: your heart dallied too long and his sixth sense is too sharp.
He slowly withdraws from your cunt. He doesn’t look at you like you’ve suddenly grown a new head; he only looks at the knife, his moves turning both calm and tense, both soothing and stiff.
“Put the knife down,” he rises slowly, hands level with his hips, ready to spring into action and wrestle that knife away from you were you to stab yourself or him. You don’t even remember taking it into your hand, but you now squeeze the funny little blade, knuckles white and eyes shot wide.
“Come now Schatzi. Give me the knife.”
He keeps talking to you like you’re a wild animal or an untamed pet. You enjoy the tiny amount of surprise in his eyes when he sees his cat has claws, after all, but what you’d like to see is fear, even just half an ounce of it.
But there is none.
He’s not afraid of you. He wouldn’t probably even care if you somehow managed to stab him to death.
It’s horrible, awful, hope-draining to see that this man learned to die long ago. He’s already dead, and it doesn’t matter what you do. You can scream and cry and jerk and stab, you can play dead or not play at all: still, you’ll always lose.
“Easy,” he slowly reaches a steady hand to yours. “That’s it…”
His hand curls around yours before he takes it away, expertly the instant your fingers go lax. The body before you returns to a relaxed morning state when the knife is firmly secured in his hand rather than yours. The other hand lifts to touch you softly on your cheek; he caresses you gently, like a lover or a husband would.
“I know... I know. I’m feeling a little crazy too… Love can make people crazy,” he babbles softly, like he’s talking to an injured bird who bumped into his window.
You don’t even have tears to cry anymore. You simply stare at his chest, the black t-shirt that smells of him and his musk, a tiny bit of salty cum, too. He sounds so gentle when he wants to... So soothing, so loving, so delicate and tender. It also sounds like he’s a bit impressed with you, which is just great, exactly what you needed… More craziness, more obsession and adoration from this man.
Your stare lifts to his, the sorrow in your eyes too vast to manifest in wet tears and screams. Perhaps you were so soaked for him last night that there’s no fluid left in your system for tears.
“I’ll get you that pill, Liebchen,” he says tenderly. “And some ice cream… What’s your favourite flavour?”
You blink with your bathrobe open, pussy slightly wet and your eyes dry from futile hope. He tilts his head in pity, eyes roaming your face in soft wonder. You whisper your favourite ice cream flavour, and he nods. The corner of his mouth curves up as he brushes a thumb over your cheekbone, wiping those imaginary tears away.
Then he flips the blade in his hand like it’s nothing but a toy, yanks open the drawers of your kitchen before he leaves, inspecting every nook and cranny for knives, small or big.
“I’ll take these… Don’t want you to do anything you might regret.”
He takes them all to his car, a stout, heavy Jeep parked in front of your house. He simply tosses them on the backseat before he leaves to get you that ice cream and plan B. You get a soft kiss on your forehead, a gentle pinch on the butt before he goes, the smile on his face devil-wide, as if you didn’t just try to kill him while he had his nose up your cunt.
Notes:
The fluff is coming, I promise! In, like, a few chapters... And it's questionable. The fluff, I mean. But it's coming!
Chapter 7
Notes:
So flattered to hear people are re-reading this fic?! And it's not even done yet 😭🩷 (looking at you babypandacakes and PhePhePhe!)
Chapter Text
There’s no new nail polish this weekend, no cupcakes or crying in the shower.
He comes back with the emergency contraception, buckets of ice cream, and some food – frozen pizza and beer, more toast and some chips, bags of candy and a bouquet of red roses “for the most beautiful girlfriend in the world”.
Your nose curls both at the roses and him calling you his girlfriend, then you watch how he tries to use your oven while you devour the pill that will hopefully prevent you from getting pregnant with his child. It looks like the bastard didn’t even bother to buy condoms… It looks like he’s going to fix himself some quick food and then rail you again, thinking that it’s perfectly ok to fuck you some more now that he chivalrously got you that plan B.
To your mild surprise, he doesn’t attack you after gobbling two family-sized pizzas and watching you nibble at one fat slice like you’re his sulky teenage daughter. Instead, he puts on Netflix and pulls you into his lap, apparently deciding to have a movie night with you. But the film he chooses is some godawful teen boy movie that has robots and Megan Fox in it, and it’s pretty clear that it’s not the former thing that’s the main reason for wanting to watch this particular film.
“There she is,” he whispers in your ear when the Fox chick appears on the screen. He even squeezes you from the middle, tightening the hug so much that you feel like he’s trying to force a surly whimper out of you.
Did he pick this stupid movie just for the singular purpose of trying to make you jealous?
You pout and say nothing, but when she sways to the screen again and König purrs, you shove an elbow straight into his stomach.
“Ow!” He laughs, extremely delighted and amused, and shoves his nose into your neck in return. “Are you jealous…?”
You say nothing, only rip yourself from his lap and go put on Hayao Miyazaki’s Ponyo instead.
König is smiling, grinning when you return to the sofa. He pulls you back into his arms and is thankfully quiet for a while, but then he starts to tease you about the cuteness overload on the screen. He tells you you’re just like that little mermaid fish, and if you were small enough, he would put you in a bucket too and carry you around, save you from birds and kiss you on the mouth.
They’re oddly sweet, the things he says, and your mind breaks just a tad more. Why does he have to be clueless and stupid 90 % of the time and then, out of the blue, become so syrupy sweet that you feel like melting sorbet in his arms?
“Do you always watch kid’s movies?” He asks gently, probably thinking you’re too soft for this world.
“Not really, do you?”
You’re still sulking, and he laughs, perfectly aware that the stupid movie he chose was also made for kids. He says he has never even seen that movie and thinks Megan Fox is ugly. Too plastic, too shallow, too distant for his taste... Oh no, he likes girls like you.
… And just when you think about forgiving him for being so gross, he drops another filthy bomb in your ear.
“We can watch porn too if you want?”
Your eyes go wide, your nose wrinkles, and the cute pink thing on the screen is so incredibly adorable that him even mentioning porn right now feels like an insult of the worst kind.
Are these your only options with him?
Transformers, Ponyo or porn?
“I’m not watching porn with you,” you grump and try to leave the couch once and for all. He’s not going to let it happen, of course.
“Thought so, Muschi. We can make our own...”
Seizing you by the waist, he pulls you back to his chest, nuzzling his way into your neck and planting a fat, rude kiss there. It soon turns into a love bite – or a particularly nasty hickey – and you actually have to elbow him again to get rid of him and his mouth. It only adds fuel to the fire, and you end up running up the stairs with him on your tail, his happy panting chasing you all the way upstairs and into your bed, where he topples you with ease.
He’s smiling by the time he falls on top of you, and if this was your boyfriend, you’d deem this horseplay of the sweetest kind.
But he’s not your boyfriend.
You refuse to call him as such.
It doesn’t prevent you from fucking him, though… Or, letting him fuck you. As he always does, without a condom, but this time with a terrible amount of gentleness once he gets the first hungry thrusts out of his system. It appears three times a day makes even a horny dog like him mellow and relaxed. He even pulls an orgasm out of you. Not without being absolutely cringey about it though… No, being a graceless swine is simply a crucial part of who he is.
“Come on… Come on,” he rasps in your ear when you show the first signs of tensing up and losing control over your breath. He actually takes some cues on what you seem to like, changing his pace according to what makes you gasp and moan the most.
He’s obsessive about your pleasure, and it’s about fucking time, but the rough, ravenous stare is even worse than the loving one you got last night... Worse, because it makes your whole body shake with want, your pussy swell with greed until there’s nothing left, nothing but a black hole that swallows both him and you.
“You want to cum?” he huffs when the defiance in your eyes slowly melts into something this guy probably relates to love. “Huh...? Princess wants to cum?”
A few weeks ago, you would’ve thrown a man out of your house for talking to you that way, laughed at how stupid it sounds when a guy says shit like this in bed. Now, you only spread your legs more, try to take his cock like a good little princess who doesn’t know what’s best for her but luckily, has a man like him for guidance.
“Ask for it. Go on... Ask nicely, little one.”
Your orgasm is only a breath away, but he can afford to slow down. He's in no rush at all, whereas your lips are trembling when you look up at him.
“Ask for it.”
“Please,” you whisper the quietest whisper in the world. “Please, just–”
“Yes?”
He looks down at you with filthy, pleased eyes, authoritarian when last night, he was about to drown inside your cunt. You dissolve into a whimpering mess, a dumb girl who can’t even keep her lips from trembling when she speaks to a man.
“Let me cum... Let me... Please...”
You can’t believe this is even happening, but here you are, begging for him to get you off. Asking for permission to cum as if even that was in his hands, mewling when you gave him what he wanted and he still refuses to move.
It’s not mercy that breaks through his eyes, only soft satisfaction when he sees you so helpless under him. Curious about torturing you some more, his hips give you a fat, tentative roll. The pleasure blooms close now, so close that you both shiver... Your hips buck up to meet the pelvis that rubs against your clit just right, and he simply can't keep his mouth shut when he sees you answer his thrust.
“Greedy,” he grins, voice on the precipice of madness and total control. But he gives you what you want: loving, lengthy ruts that send you further into bliss. Moans gush out of your mouth as soon as he grants you that good, solid pace, and you have to give it to him – this would make good amateur porn. The sex is so depraved it turns even you into a blathering mess, and he only laughs with a parched, burned throat.
“Hah... How did you become so... Ok. Ok. Auf gehts. Go ahead.”
When nothing happens except more whimpering, mewling and hyperventilating, his tone of voice turns ten times more harsh.
“I said go ahead,” he snarls, and you finally cum on command, a bit more loudly than you had intended.
Shaking and crying on the bed, you know you’re utterly lost. He slows down in order to feel it all, bottoms out so that you can do nothing but stay in place and writhe around his cock. Your eyes can’t stand that victorious glare, so they shut tight while your face twists and mewls – while he drinks in your every cry and sigh, absorbs every pulse of your cunt, greedy and gone and viciously in love.
Your whole body jerks when you feel his mouth on your throat, teeth bared and smiling. He huffs a rough laugh on your neck from how pathetic you are, tells you look fucking pretty like this. The rest of the coitus is rash and selfish, just like everything about this man is. He cums with a thick groan and a few dense thrusts, doesn’t seem to even entertain the idea of pulling out.
Great... Well, at least the package he brought you had two pills.
For a moment, everything is fine; everything is still. Seated deep inside you, his frame alone forces you to keep your legs open. The after waves of climax beg you to wrap your hands around his middle, to answer his kiss when he searches for your lips. But you can’t do that, so you turn your head away. He acts as if he only meant to kiss your cheek and sighs, plants soft pecks down your neck until you feel like your heart is bursting out of your chest from the sudden golden tenderness.
He pulls out without you having to ask him to, and the sudden feeling of being left out in the cold is more than you can bear. So what else can you do but follow him when he rolls to the side, naturally gravitating towards him when he pulls you into a hug?
All fight has been fucked out of you, and all you want is some mercy for yourself – some cuddles and to feel his skin, stuff your nose into the soft hairs of his chest, so addictive in their ludicrous smell. He curls towards you too like you’re his Juliet: like you’ve always done this, lifetimes and lifetimes before.
“You liked that, didn’t you?”
You allow him to pet your hair and keep you close to his chest, too weak to do anything about it. His cum is bleeding out of you, his fingers buried in your hair, rubbing your scalp while the other hand around you brings you closer. You wonder if he’s heard of aftercare or if he actually, truly cares, but it’s eerie how good it feels to surrender into his arms and not struggle against him anymore. Just accept the sweat and stench and ruin, ease into it like it was only a too-hot pool.
“I... I don’t know,” you say weakly in the prison of his arms.
“You don’t know?” He snorts. “Ja, ok... Never heard a girl cum like that. Just saying.”
You inhale quickly, sharp with shame and fury, but he won’t let you defend yourself. He won’t even let you speak.
“I have to go to work soon. It will take a few weeks… Two or three, perhaps. Don’t know yet.”
He crushes you against him occasionally, tries to hug you or something, but his moves are not fluid and natural; they’re jerky and compulsive, like he’s trying to make sure you’re real. When you slip your arm around him, mainly to make yourself more comfortable, he relaxes a little and starts to prattle about seemingly mundane things.
“You should get something for… What is it called? Birth control?”
“Or you could use a condom,” you comment bitterly in his chest.
“Not an option.”
He’s somehow so cruel and unfeeling and yet, at the same time, you know he’s capable of being gentle. It’s not calculative or even manipulative; it’s just how he is. Love and caring mean totally different things for him than they do for you. Or any other normal person. Well... You can’t really call yourself ‘normal’ anymore, can you?
“Also mein Liebling… You wouldn’t deprive me of feeling you?”
He sounds so sad it’s quite comical: as if it’s the worst thing in the world to wear a condom. He’s like a child who refuses to put on winter clothes when it’s cold.
“I couldn’t take it for one second,” he continues with a tight, hurt voice. You guess you were wrong after all: he does try to manipulate you, only, the attempt is so weak that he sounds like a kid when he’s doing it. You begin to find your ire again, bitterness over the fact that he’s doing all this shit to you and won’t even bother to put on protection.
“Are you even clean?” You ask with a frost-covered voice. Some pillow talk, this…
“Clean as can be,” he declares like a young scout. Then, finding another opening to try and make you jealous, he lowers his voice with anticipation.
“You want to know how many ladies I’ve had?”
You’re not even going to answer that: it’s a ridiculous attempt to make you desire him, get a chance to boast about his conquests. You can’t believe that any woman would spread their legs for this man willingly, so you guess he has either paid for them to do it… Or then did some variation of the horrible scenario he did to you.
Still, it’s maddening that you feel a sting in your gut with the vision of him making love to other women. You truly hope he has made love to them instead of assaulting them, although even that seems to make your blood boil, and only because you can’t stand the idea of him losing his mind over another woman. Such a concept would pulverise what’s left of your already crumbling worldview.
And the thought of some other woman moaning with his cock inside them, calling out his name, reaching to claw his back while he’s grinning there like crazy… That same woman giggling from joy when this lousy bastard brings her roses and calls her his cute little mermaid fish... It’s something you honestly can’t even think about without wanting to kill him and then yourself.
“Not as many as you think,” he says reassuringly, taking your silence as a sign of pure jealousy.
“Did you have to pay half a million to all of them?” You blurt, prickled sore by this stupid fucker.
He’s silent for a while, and you mentally hit yourself for being so obnoxiously cruel. But then he laughs. It’s a curious mixture of deep, genuine laughter and a confused noise of not knowing if he has just been insulted.
“I like your humour, little Dummkopf,” he mutters into your hair and presses a kiss on the top of your head. You fight the urge to both squirm away and further against him. “I like it even more when you get jealous…”
You’re being teased, played like a harp, for moping about this subject. It’s a sign of you adoring him so much you’re ready to claw those other bitches eyes out if you’re ever given the chance. Which must mean you like what he’s doing to you... In fact, you must love it; you’re clearly as insane about him as he is about you. You must have been begging for this to happen, you poor little thing…
“I’m not jealous,” you breathe as sternly as possible.
“No…?”
“No. Least of all to your whores. I just don’t want to get your stupid fleas.”
There’s more fear in this room than your soul can take, but it’s not about him doing whatever he wants to you anymore. It’s about losing him to the sight of a meatier bone.
And he’s so very content with your commitment to him. So pleased that his hugs turn from compulsive to soft, his touch on you a fallen angel’s caress instead of hungry devil's pawing. The dark voice is now happy and humorous in tone, so carefree that you doubt he’s ever been this untroubled in his life.
“Don’t worry. I take good care of myself. I’ll take good care of you too.”
…
He leaves in the morning.
The look in his eyes is almost benevolent when he raises a hand to brush your cheek. He drags out the scene of his departure, acting like you’re living in the 19th century. A tuck of your hair, an unduly long, clumsy kiss: he seems to love to play the role of a soldier leaving off for war. The only thing that catches you slightly by surprise is when he reminds you to take care of yourself while he’s away.
“Remember to take your meds, Liebling. Hmm?”
You nod, an uneasy swallow dragging down your throat as you watch him march to his Jeep. He looks at you from under his brows and gives you a naughty little nod before he leaves, driving off with acceleration utterly unsuitable for a sleepy little suburb like this. You wipe your mouth – a simple, demonstrative act just before the heavy silence settles on the streets.
The tension leaves you only after minutes, no, hours pass.
He’s finally gone. A million miles away, you hope.
But he said he’d come back… After two or three weeks, weeks during which you should try and devise a plan to get rid of him.
The problem is, you’re not sure if you want to get rid of him. Not entirely. You just want, well, what you would like is to be treated a little bit better. He could use a condom, talk to you like a normal person. Ditch the fucking roses and listen to what you prefer instead of making dumb assumptions and playing stupid roles. But he’s kind of fun to be around, and the sex is good enough… You like the excitement, although your therapist would probably say it’s the trauma speaking. She would suggest you go to the police immediately, which is why you never talk about König in your therapy.
You’re too used to the ups and downs by now, too hooked to the attention. He has trained you this way, no doubt employing your depressed state and the lack of care and love during childhood, “daddy issues” and whatnot, to make you addicted to this obsessed... devotion. You crave unnatural amounts of affection, an abusive relationship you mistake for love. He’s trained you like a dog. Pavlov’s dog.
So of course you keep your mouth shut about him: there’s no way your therapist wouldn’t criticise you for doing the exact opposite that’s recommended with men like König. She wouldn’t blame you, of course, but it would still be humiliating to spill everything out now. That yes, you answered his messages. Yes, you spurred him on. No, you didn’t call the police after he left… You didn’t report him in any way, and your yard you only inspected after a good, hard rain, never finding a body and never even thinking about calling to to the place you hired that poor, useless bodyguard from.
It’s kind of your fault that there’s a crazy stalker obsessed with you, who now calls you his girlfriend, who fucks you thrice a day and says he’ll come back to take care of you after his work patch ends. You have over half of the money he gave you, and he still insisted on leaving you with a fat roll of cash. To buy something nice for yourself, he said when he took your chin between his index finger and thumb, gently forcing you to guide your eyes to meet his. Girl products, he cooed, lingerie, pretty little things; whatever his princess needs. Then he kissed you for about a minute, and you had to mentally tie your hands behind your back to prevent yourself from grabbing his face and answering that insanely tender kiss.
It made you feel fuzzy and warm inside, and the feminist in you who would smack you in the head and tell you this guy König only wants you to look good for him when he comes back, is shoved in the same closet with that mewling cat who never had enough attention and love. They can moan and argue in the darkness while you concentrate on the good things: sex, money and violence, a passionate marauder who has vowed to take care of you.
Oh yes, it must be your fault that you’re enjoying his attention... You’re enjoying it far too much.
After only a few days, you feel a desperate longing, especially when you haven’t had a single text from him.
König hasn’t messaged you on any social media platform; he hasn’t approached you with a text message or call. He must have fished out your new phone number from somewhere but he seems preoccupied with his work, or then… Then he simply got what he wanted. Some cuddles and lots of pussy, so why exactly would he want to pester you anymore? Perhaps he wants to move on to the next victim, get a new frail hare to chase. A scared bunny who desperately tries to hop away, not towards this drooling wolf. You should be glad…
But the problem is you’re not.
You’re everything but happy: you could scream from frustration that there’s not a single message from him even when days have passed.
After five days, you unblock his profiles and type a message on his first profile, the one he contacted you with what seems like an aeon ago, the one with all the cute, silly pictures you now go through like a woman starved. It’s a shame he doesn’t have any pictures of his face... He is kind of handsome, after all. And his smile is what really makes him look like a fucked up criminal, the type of man you’ve now grown to like. Perhaps you always liked men like him but didn’t just know it.
You type an entire love letter to him, a desperate essay that includes a love confession of sorts and more than a few apologies. Then you wipe the dramatic message that tells him he’s not a loser and type a casual “How’s it going? Hope you’re ok.” Deciding that it doesn’t sound genuine or even nice, you wipe that away too and type only one sentence: “You’re awful and stupid and I miss you” without heart emojis, without full stops, then wipe it away too.
You leave his profiles unblocked, hoping he would message you, but there’s nothing: just radio silence. You wonder if he wants to torture you or something, listening through your phone or some other device if you’d cry after him. And you do cry after the sixth day.
You haven’t even changed the sheets, trying to catch his scent on them still. He didn’t leave his shirt here, nor a toothbrush, not a single sock, nothing. It’s like he was never even here. You eventually cry into your pillow, and there’s still no message, so you have no other choice but to make peace with the fact that he got what he wanted and then dumped you. He gave you some money, killed your bodyguard, fucked you nice and hard and then left. You wonder if you were his most expensive woman: half a million and one man down is quite a lot, but then again, what does it even matter? You never meant anything to him.
But on the seventh day, a message finally arrives.
It’s haunting, how unbelievably happy it makes you feel. Like everything’s suddenly okay in the world, while just weeks ago you prayed for this man to leave you alone.
The message is the best you could ever receive, too: a crazy, incredibly sexy picture of him dressed in his gear, with clunky helmet and a headset, some night vision goggles and olive green gloves, a tactical vest of some sort filled with gadgets you’ve never seen. He has some kind of a mask on, too. Not a balaclava but a draping hood that only reveals his eyes, the skin around them smudged with black paint as he’s holding the goggles up with one gloved hand.
Good evening ❤️, the message says, and you can feel your cheeks explode with lovely heat, your mouth pursing, spreading to a smile.
You type a reply, then curse yourself for being so keen. It’s like you’re on call for him, waiting for his messages like a miserable, lonesome girl. Well, he already saw you type, so what the hell: you type the message again and hit send, bringing your thumb between your teeth as you wait for his reply.
Your smile only widens when he types a reply right away as well.
He tries to call from an unknown number – who else could it be but him? – but you don’t answer. The evidence that he has pried your number from somewhere spooks you a little. You changed it only a week ago… More messages hit the screen when you evade his call, but he doesn’t seem to be put off by you playing hard to get again.
You wish you were there to keep him warm too, especially when you feel warm all over now that you know he has indeed missed you and is thinking about last time too. It seems he was only busy with work, in the field or somewhere he couldn’t use his phone. It has to be the explanation because that’s the only explanation you’re willing to accept.
More messages hit your screen the next day, and you read them with excitement and care, over and over again, until you’re fuzzy and giggly and smiling.
You can’t believe he’s silly enough to tell his fellow soldiers that the silly little chef from the noon TV is his girlfriend. He’s so goofy, who does that? You have barely met two times, he only spent a weekend here, and the situation between you is messy as hell.
You’re not his girl, but then again, what if he never claimed that you were? What if he just boasted about having fucked you hard and good? The cute bimbo chef who allowed him to dip his dick inside her three times… God knows what this man has told them about you. He could’ve declared that you’re about to get married, or then he could’ve bragged that you have a tight pussy. You have no way of knowing what’s being gossiped about you at that war dog club. Soldiers are the worst bunch, after all – perhaps it’s better that you don’t know.
It’s stupid how that sentence, escorted by three red hearts, is able to make you feel so fluffy inside. He’s so silly and open with his affection, making you fall for him harder than it should. You know you should talk about your new “acquaintance” with your therapist, if only to have someone return you back to reality. Tell you that this is not romantic, and he’s not a love interest; he’s someone you should report to the police.
The trip back to Earth occurs later in the evening, and it’s enough to remind you of his callous ways, bring you back to solid, stern ground.
You ignore such filth, feeling more sour by the minute. He must be horny after a week without a woman, but you’re not going to send him another picture of your cunt. It’s enough that he has that one shot he paid half a million for, the testament of your degradation and despair.
He tries to call again when you don’t reply to his messages, and this time, you pick up, wishing he could talk you back to the sweet bubble of longing you’ve felt for him this past week.
That, of course, isn’t going to happen: he returns to his usual ways the minute he hears your shy ‘Hello’.
“Send me a pussy pic,” the rough voice on the other end demands.
Yeah…
How could you forget this guy is nothing but a jerk?
“No,” you sigh. “Is this the only reason you called?”
“Heh. No. I want to know how your day has been.”
His voice is both familiar and strange; intimidating, bold and sexy. It induces both safety and some flutters in your system, and you don’t know what to tell him, so you tell him nothing. Biting your lip, your heart twists into a tiny little coil inside your chest as the silence on both ends lingers on.
“Have you been eating enough?” He finally gruffs.
“I… I don’t know.”
“You must eat two meals a day. And don’t forget breakfast. Have you been sleeping well?”
“...No? No, I don’t think so…”
“I’ll call your doctor to prescribe you some sleeping pills.”
You pause and blink in stupefied silence. What is he, your parent? Your caretaker? He can’t just call there and do that; they’ll laugh at him. Unless… Unless he threatens your doctor at gunpoint to give you something that will knock you out.
“I don’t need–”
“Have you been drinking enough water?”
“...Water?” You stutter like a demented person.
“Ja. Water. Wasser. It’s important, you know?”
The call is not exactly the romantic, sexy call you fantasized about having. Still, his way to try and take care of your health is sweet in all its straightforwardness. You also suspect that this man doesn’t entirely know what depression is. He thinks the bad things will go away if he gets you to eat properly, sleep well, and drink enough water.
And he sighs. The weariness in his voice is apparent when he speaks next, enough proof that he’s indeed been toiling 24/7. Otherwise, he would’ve bullied you from dawn to dusk.
“My little Dummkopf. I should be taking care of you instead of shooting people’s guts out...”
You swallow. It’s another thing to see him all sexy in his gear and another to envision him slaughtering human beings in it. He’s a soldier and you’re a chef: you live in different worlds. The only proof that he’s working in hell is that crazy photo and the times he shows his true colours with you, the times when he orders you to do as he says and fucks you like you’re nothing more than a war trophy for him to have fun with.
“Want to know how my day has been?”
He changes the subject without effort, and you find yourself disassociating again, far away from the call, far away from him, the man you could never find a real connection with.
“Not really,” you utter, almost without a voice.
Your lover, your knight in shining armor, the boyfriend you never wanted, only draws breath and starts to prattle about his day.
Chapter 8
Notes:
Hey peeps <3! I struggled a lot with this scene because it’s long as fuck and might be a heavy read so I decided to cut it, I usually like to keep these chapters short, around 5 k or so. Still not sure if I should’ve just kept it as it is, but here is the first crazy half that ends in a nice cliffhanger… 2nd half will be posted shortly after!
There’s looots of drama in this scene (this whole fic!) I simply like to make these two suffer ^^ it’s for my health <3
Chapter Text
You get a call from your doctor the following week. He has prescribed you some strong medication that should help you sleep like a baby.
You feel sorry for how rushed and fearful he sounds, the calm male doctor who used to be so tired of listening to your problems. Now, he’s very concerned about your well-being and stresses that you start the new medication as soon as possible. You tell him you will do so at once and that he doesn’t need to worry. It doesn’t seem to make him any less afraid.
You also get your birth control in order, cursing the fact that you’re ready to mess up your hormones because of some lousy guy who refuses to use a condom. There are days when you hate him and days when you miss him. All in all, three weeks pass so slowly that you begin to question whether the weekend he spent here was only a dream. He doesn’t text or call you anymore, and you figure he’s neck deep in work, eliminating targets in particularly cruel ways. To you, it’s romantic that he wanted to ensure you were eating, sleeping and drinking enough water before he left to do his rotten job… It might’ve been the last thing he did before stepping into a bullet hail.
Silly thoughts like these are the only thing keeping you company at night; those and the memory of him. His eyes, his sick smile, his all but spartan diet, the stupid roses he brought you. His hands, always a little sweaty from the palms; his pecs, wide and smooth and covered in soft pale hair; the rest of him simple soaring muscle and broad bones. The smell of his sweat, his cum, his breath in the morning, all of them far from disgusting, actually. The faint thicket of hair that coats his everything, the dark thick curls that adorn his cock.
Some of those hairs even found their way into your bed, and you don’t even want to get rid of them… It’s like you’ve slept with a werewolf, and it shouldn’t make you feel so giddy. You wonder if having a crush is detrimental to your brain cells because they seem to die by the thousands every time you think of him.
You remind yourself that sex is okay but attachment is not. You have nothing in common with this man, there’s nothing he could possibly offer you other than his dick.
Sex is okay, attachment is not…
You repeat it to yourself like a mantra because this fucker steals his way into your mind at every turn.
At work, you pay attention to what you wear and ensure your makeup is always in mint. You flirt with the camera, hoping it will catch his attention, wishing he would binge all the episodes he didn’t get to see while working. Or watch some when they air, chilling with his war buddies in some bleak, austere breakroom. Smiling to himself, knowing that you’re his – why else would you suddenly smile so much? Surely you’re looking at him through the camera, eyes slutty and shy, desperately trying to communicate your longing through the screen.
The rosy fantasies are usually disrupted by the visions of what he would actually do while watching your show.
Beat his cock in solitude, or beat some poor soldier to a pulp for giving a filthy comment about your tits. Probably destroy the whole screen if too many men flocked around it after he told them that the cute little chef was his girl. His pussy. His Muschi…
These visions are not half as bad, especially when you know this guy is ten times more jealous than you are. A hundred times more petty and a thousand times more reactive, like a bomb about to go off at any given minute. But you can’t help but caress the lethal weapon that is him and his memory: you find yourself sighing after him like a Victorian lady, waiting for a love letter by the window.
What you get is far less romantic and far less discreet.
Because one day, when you decide to do something else than sit around and wait for him, he comes back. That one day you chose to spend with three of your closest friends, König decides to bless you with his presence.
You’re walking to your house with your girl crew, and you’d never, ever bring anyone here these days out of fear that some poor soul might bump into your “lover.” But this day is special, and you want to treat yourself to a slice of normal life—but of course, your stalker has to have a sixth sense about that, too.
When you open the front door and lead your friends in for some tea and a lively, heartfelt chat, all four of you freeze when you see a half-naked man standing in your living room.
“Hallo, Liebling,” he smirks with nothing but his boxers and socks on.
You could die from both love and humiliation as your jaw drops open without your consent. He’s standing there completely unbothered, turning a black t-shirt in his hands, his whole body ripped with muscle, the shirt barely enough to cover the swelling monster in his pants.
“Who’s this…?”
Your friends handle the situation tactfully: they straighten their postures and initiate small talk like it’s only natural that there’s an intimidating, half-naked giant in your house. But the slightly elevated pitch with which one of your girlfriends speaks is ringing in your ears like a fire alarm. Some women apparently babify their voice when they see something appealing.
“This is Kurt,” you quickly make up out of thin air. “He’s my boyfriend.”
His eyes are on you and only on you, gaze heavy as lead. For that alone, you could swoon. There are three other women in his vicinity, and he’s clearly in the process of getting himself ready for a long-awaited fuck, and still, still, he only has eyes for you…
“Oh. Wow. You never told us…?”
Your friends are trying to act cool about the fact that you haven’t told them you’re dating some hot Saxon giant, but you can tell they’re dying to get more information about this man. The guys you’ve drooled after before have been nothing like the bloodhound standing in your living room right now.
“Yeah… It’s kind of a newsflash for me too,” you mutter, eyes glued to the beast about to rail you as soon as the third wheels leave.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Kurt,” one of your friends chimes in. She immediately earns a little grin and a nod while you resist the urge to scream.
“My pleasure, ladies.”
You nearly walk over your furniture to slap him for being so charming with your friends after being such a horrible pervert to you. Acting so cool and casual after everything he’s put you through, for standing in the middle of your apartment and being so hot; for taking it for granted that he can break into your house and expect to get laid after you’ve tried to enjoy your life for fucking once.
His nasty grin only widens when he sees your chin draw down towards your chest, your eyes flashing with a glare of How dare you.
“...You moved together so soon?” Someone asks hesitantly next to your shoulder.
“No,” you breathe with your mouth open now. “No, he doesn’t live here. He just… has a key.”
Luckily, you don’t have to usher your friends back the way they came. They get the message simply from the sudden tension in the air, lightning searching for a route to discharge. You hug them hurriedly goodbye, then turn straight towards the staircase after the door clonks shut.
König doesn’t need a better hint than that, just follows you upstairs like a horny mutt. You can hear the grin on his face as he makes stupid remarks on the way up.
“Boyfriend?” He snorts a laugh behind you. “I’m too old to be your–”
“Shut up.”
“...And Kurt?”
“Your fault for not telling me your name.”
He’s smiling when you get to the bedroom, but you’re not; you’re fuming.
You already know it will only take a few minutes before this man is inside you: it’s not like he came here to drink tea. The foreplay consists of staring daggers at him, while he looks at you like he looked at you in that pub: like a piece of juicy meat, nothing more.
When he takes a step towards you, you turn away, heart pounding in your chest as you listen to him stride over to his moody girlfriend. He’s unbothered by your feigned indifference; just picks you up in a hug like you’re his sulky little pet.
“Did you miss me?” He rasps while closing you into a brutish hug.
“No,” you whisper.
He tightens his grip around you, forcing a tiny whimper out of your nose. Incredibly happy with that little squeal, he buries his face into your neck.
“Yes you did,” he smiles. “I know you did…”
Warmth bleeds down your core when you hear his burned voice so close – has he shouted his throat raw on the field? He’s not as mushy with you as he was when he left, probably has to adjust himself to handling a soft civilian. But he’s gentle enough. Affectionate to the point of making you want to shove your principles down the drain and grope this bully back.
You’ve made a vow to yourself to never touch him, so you simply let him squish you like a toy, his hands working their way under your shirt. Deciding that it’s not cheating if you feel a little faint, you lean back towards his chest, your nipples tightening to stiff little peaks in his hands.
“I’ll fuck your brains out, princess,” he breathes in your ear, making your legs feel like they’re about to give in.
Your jello; nothing but putty in his hands as he paws at your breasts. Your hands rise on top of his in a desperate attempt to find support—so much for those principles—and before long you’re fondling him while he’s fondling you, urging him on by writhing and sighing against his chest. Your body language is enough to tell him how you truly feel; in fact, it’s a whole arsenal of loaded guns gifted to him without question.
Too impatient to drag the romantic bullshit on any longer, he starts to callously undress you. Pulls your shirt up and over your head, fumbles a bit with your bra, grunting when the strap on the back is more complex than he thought. But even that poor piece of lace ends on the floor before three seconds have passed. Your jeans are taken off so violently you feel like a doll between two sweaty palms, your shamefully soaked panties ripped down your thighs with a few swift yanks.
When you simply stand there, naked and mute like a lamb, he snorts a laugh through his nose and gives your butt a fond little slap.
“Get on the bed,” he says, voice harsh like barbed wire, and you have no choice but to comply.
You’ve never been treated like this, like a possession or a whore. You refuse to think of yourself as the latter, but there’s a warmth inside your gut as you do as you’re told. How many times have you wished someone would simply take the reins and stop being so goddamn lousy in bed? It’s just that the reality is lot harsher than you thought because this man is not here to play games. This is not some roleplay fun for spicy bedroom times: you wonder if the fucker even sees you as fully human.
Out of the frying pan and into the fire, you think as you crawl on the bed on all fours. Leaning on your elbows, you spread your legs and brace yourself for slaughter, pussy exposed and ready for him to use as he wants. When there’s no immediate rutting in sight, you turn your head a little to look back. Little did you know you’d be met with the sight of a man in shock.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” he mutters as if in a trance, quickly wets his lips before swallowing.
The reaction reminds you of someone receiving a present for the first time in their life, it’s absentminded adoration: he simply forgets to be mean. He must’ve thought you’d lay yourself down in yet another missionary for him; he certainly didn’t expect you to get so filthy. Doggy style is meant for, well, dogs. His princess has never stepped down to the gutter like this…
At the same time, he doesn’t need more cues when presented with a half-wet pussy. Moving to take his boxers off as fast as he can, he’s all soldier when there’s a chance to rail a willing lady. It’s not a graceful act, especially when his eyes are glued to your cunt the whole time. He nearly trips on himself while fighting those long limbs out of his underwear, and you would roll your eyes if you weren’t so afraid.
The sight of his cock is enough to make your stomach drop, even if you know that that thing has been inside you more than a few times. It swings from side to side when he approaches you with that mesmerized, hungry stare, and you quickly turn your eyes to your pillow, trying to find some comfort in the floral print there.
But it’s not his cock that finds your wetness first.
You jerk when a warm palm meets your ass, fingers spreading like a fan over your cheek. Another shudder goes through your body when a thick, wide thumb probes your hole without fanfare: you whimper when he drags the pad of it across your slit. The audible, slick click is enough evidence for him that you want this, just as much as he does.
“Shhhit… Little pussy is just begging to get fucked, isn’t she?”
Jesus…
You bite your lip to prevent a foul moan from escaping your mouth – you can’t believe he’s talking to you like this, you can’t believe it’s actually working somewhat. He continues to examine you with care, the finger dipping in and out, exploring how tight and wet you are just for him.
“Don’t worry, princess,” he huffs behind you with excitement. “I’m here…”
You bet he’s fulfilling some stupid hero fantasy when he’s cooing such things, talks down on you like you’re ten times more fragile than him.
And perhaps you are… Technically, he could do whatever the fuck he wants, he could choose to be violent and rough. Instead, you get to be the princess of his story, someone he has conquered and saved.
But that doesn’t mean you get a princess treatment. Turns out this is all the prep you’re going to get: his finger leaves you so suddenly that you moan at the loss. A futile thing to do because your bully would rather die than leave you without fulfilment… The digit is replaced with something far thicker, causing you to whimper again. The tight head of him is fed inside you without gallantry, in such grunty haste that you cry from the sudden spread.
You’re stretched, invaded and filled so quickly that your jaw simply drops, your mouth gapes open from the attempt to take the full length of his cock. Broad palms arrive on your waist to keep you in place for him: he won’t allow you to set the pace, much less escape his dick.
“A–ah,” escapes your mouth, and you’re not given a moment’s respite, not a minute to adjust. He pulls back only to thrust that thing back in, knocking another desperate, shocked cry out of you. There’s more helpless sounds where that came from as he starts to fuck you in earnest, so greedily that there’s nothing you can do except take it with tight little cries.
“I know, I know,” he huffs behind you. “You missed me, little one. Wet pussies can’t lie...”
He says it with compassion, but the railing you receive is everything but gentle. Every thrust forces a sob-like moan out of you, every drill of his cock spreading your walls a bit more. The things he says always make you want to die from shame and swoon from love, but you’re not the only one who’s pathetic here. The choked groans behind you tell you enough: the man’s missed you more than anything in this world.
It only gets worse as he starts to fuck you sloppy, the position you’re in producing the most lewd sounds you’ve heard in a while. It’s dangerous, perverse, and so, so good after weeks of pining: the pleasure blooms so quickly you forget to stay meek.
And it takes only a minute for him to cum.
Sadly, you cum too.
You blame this stupid position for it: if it weren’t for his balls kissing your clit every time he pounds you, this wouldn’t happen… And you try to hide it; truly, you do. But he can see the shudders, hear the moans you cry deep inside your pillow. Your pussy is milking him too – of course he can feel it.
“That’s it,” he grunts and pants, probably drools behind you. “That's it, Liebling… I told you I’d… Fuck…”
His balls slap you with an increasing crescendo until he cums too, not far after you, with a loud cry and a violent, desperate moan. The cock is buried to the hilt, it throbs against your walls, you can feel it twitch. He slides in and out a few more times until he stops and settles to catch his breath, savouring the way your cunt is still sucking him with long, lousy pulls.
“Oh ja… That was good.”
He’s panting still, probably watching how pathetic you look in your face down, ass up position, with his cock spreading you to a magnificent full O.
“That was a good fuck. Eh?”
He tries to fish a squeal out of you by giving your butt a nice little slap, but you’re not going to indulge him. Instead, you pull yourself away with shaking limbs, off of his cock and out of the abyss, collapsing on the bed with a breathless sigh. Cum spills out of you with a forceful gush in the process, running down your thigh as soon you curl into a fetal position. How this man can even produce so much of that stuff seems like a cruel joke to you.
He shifts to plaster himself on your back, spooning you like a lover would, breathing in your scent like it’s heavenly perfume.
“Danke,” he sighs softly. “You’re the best…”
Your heart skips a beat just from hearing that soft, pleased voice. He dares to come here – no, fucking break into your house – fuck you and make you cum and then says thanks like you’re some sort of a prostitute?
“No problem,” you wrench your shoulder, your whole body away from him.
He grabs you by the waist, lightning-fast; actually, his whole arm curls around you and seizes you back to the bed and back to his embrace.
“Don’t go. I’ll make you cum again,” he nuzzles his ugly face somewhere in your neck, making you squirm.
By the time he moves you on your back, your face is crumpled with annoyance. Princess is a fitting pet name for you – you feel like you’re always peeved. Or perhaps it’s because your charming prince is, in fact, a horny old dog.
“Hah,” he laughs when he sees your expression. “You’re so fucking cute... Always playing difficult, hmm?”
You risk a look into his eyes, now glinting with remote warmth. He’s so rarely present, but when he is, it makes your every wall come tumbling down. Underneath all that filth and slime, he must be a decent person, someone capable of love. You simply have to believe that in order to let him do this to you.
But the soft attempt to brush your soul is gone as quickly as it emerged: he brings his attention to your body and your body only, escaping the soft question in your eyes. The rude erection seems to swell to its full glory right before you, and he dares to coo at your pussy when he bullies his cock back in.
“Come on, Muschi,” he persuades with an annoying, whiny tone. “One more time…”
He looks like some Greek god above you, and you hate it – hate it that he has to be so hot. If he weren’t, he would already be in jail. You would’ve stabbed him, called the police, hired a lawyer or better hitman, anything to make him go away. Power, money and good looks rule the world, and by right, you should be entitled to all of those things considering the suffering you’ve gone through… But instead, the universe gives you this. A tormentor and an archangel in one man, some devil who can’t even look you in the eyes when he’s using you.
And then, without warning, without a shred of decency, he fishes out his phone, some old, dirty iPhone with a shattered screen from how poorly he’s treated that thing. It’s pulled out from somewhere under the covers – what the fuck was it even doing there, has he been in your bed, taking pictures of his cock to some other girl? But to your horror, you realize he’s about to take pictures of you when he turns the camera on and starts to concentrate on the screen.
He’s about to take pictures while you’re having sex.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“Just a little… something to look at when I’m lonely,” he explains while pulling back, trying to get as much of you as possible in the frame.
You immediately cover your face with your arm, draping it across your eyes so that only your lips and chin are visible. It’s the most important thing that this jerk doesn’t get your cunt and eyes in the same shot – it’s just an instinctual reaction to hide because revenge porn should be the least of your worries if you ever piss this guy off.
“You’re not going to show it to the boys, are you,” you ask, already knowing you can’t trust this man’s word at all.
“No. I’d have to kill them after,” he announces with pride. This fucked up jerk doesn’t seem to be surprised in the slightest that you’re playing the part of a bashful, shy girlfriend. In fact, it must only add to his arousal.
You hate it that he’s like this, hate it… The moment was only a minute away from soft, and he ruined it with his stupid phone and his stupid need to get himself more wanking material.
“No one gets to see what I have…” he mutters, mostly to himself.
He takes shots with the flash on, even brings his hand to your waist to emphasize the fact that you’re his. Hate and love inside you have another tug of war: if he would simply ask if he could take some pics, if he would simply ask for permission, beg with those eyes that sometimes turn adorably soft, you would give them to him. You would give him adoring stares, soft pleas and an open, wonton mouth. You would give him pretty lingerie, full nudes, something to truly brag about to his friends.
But he never does that... He just takes what he wants.
“Fuck… I need a video too.”
No.
No…
Why can’t he just fuck you and be done with it??
“Make some noise, Liebling…”
You lift the arm from your eyes and shoot a murderous glare towards his phone when he starts to rut you again, just for the sake of getting some nasty shit on film.
“Fuck you,” you say without thinking, managing to sound like a spoiled little diva who didn’t get her favourite cupcakes for dessert.
“Feisty,” he laughs. “Sie ist ungezogen…”
If he’s genuinely delighted or if he fakes amusement for the video, you can’t tell. But that filthy smile, those distracted eyes, the foreign language and the fact that he watches you through a screen when you’re right here is about to drive you nuts. And he just makes it worse, worse, worse.
“Naughty girl… Feeling silly yet?”
“Stop filming.”
Your voice is drenched in so much menace that he finally gets pulled away from his screen. The surprised stare belongs to a boy who doesn’t understand he has gone too far, that bedtime was hours ago and he should stop playing his stupid video games, or else he’ll find himself without a computer.
“Ja, ok. Whatever you say, Liebling.”
It appears he finally got the memo. The phone is clicked shut and thrown away, but the fact that he still got what he wanted, a bunch of nasty photos and a horrible video, is enough to make you cry from pure rage.
Tears of anger are even worse than tears of fear: the shame, rage, and utter disappointment with your “boyfriend” are more than you can take. If you could trust this man even the tiniest bit, if you could do cute, nasty stuff like this together, misbehave in mutual agreement without fear, you would give him everything he wants and more—everything for just a crumb of respect. But he gives you nothing. Nothing but humiliation and void.
“Crying again, Schatzi... Did you miss me?”
He’s looking into your eyes, fully present this time, the sloppy hip rolls making it known he’s about to cum soon. The voice with which he asks you if you missed him is so vulnerable that you know he’s about to nut anytime now, but this emotional crap is the last thing you need after the stupid shit he just pulled.
“Did you…?”
You squeeze your mouth shut, eyes full of tears as he breaks in front of you. He hides his face in your neck when he cums, sounding like he’s about to cry too. For a whole other reason than you, you presume, because he’s so dumb he can’t even understand how much he just hurt you, how badly he fucked up and used and abused you again.
“You fucking loser…”
And it simply escapes your mouth: a silent, poison-tinged whisper. You regret it immediately, and not because of the consequences he’ll level at you, but because–
Because you reckon you never really meant to make him hurt.
And he huffs on top of you for a moment, a secret, stolen moment…
Then he gets off of you, out of you, gathers what little clothes he had when he came into this room and storms out like a huge, stumbling hurricane.
Chapter Text
You only notice he fucked you with his socks on when he almost rips the door from its hinges and lunges out while holding a pair of boxers over his crotch.
His reaction shovels more ice into your stomach, it makes you completely stiff for a moment. Then you turn on your side and rise to sit, staring at the door he just slammed shut.
Was it a riot or an escape, you don’t know. But you feel awful, so awful that there’s a gnawing, horrible hurt inside your chest. It’s like nothing he’s done to you even matters in this moment: you said something infinitely more vile, made him so upset that he couldn’t even look at you when he ran off. Stormed out, so that you wouldn’t see his pain…
You want to run after him and say you’re sorry, just talk things through, but you know you can’t talk with this guy. There is no communication between you two, none, nada, he simply doesn’t know how to talk. He only knows how to kill and fuck and misinterpret everything. Everything you say goes in one ear and out the other, but when you happen to call him a loser, he takes that one word like it’s his only legacy in life, holds it close to his chest and runs away.
It’s so much more than just a trigger word, it’s horror and self-hate and fear, and you just took advantage of that pain, all that loath someone else put inside him. You just took it and rubbed his nose in it.
You feel no better than him at the moment, wondering if you’re the toxic one here. Maybe you should both be put down… This whole relationship is fucking sick: it’s nothing but blood and cum and tears. Your soul is tainted, it’s sullied and foul when you thought you couldn’t possibly stoop any lower.
When you creep down the stairs in your short, black nightgown, there’s nothing but silence waiting for you down there.
For a moment, you panic that he left altogether, but then you see him standing next to the kitchen window, looking out into the bleak darkness of the street.
“Are you going to kill me now…?” You ask with a whisper.
For a while, nothing moves. Then he turns his head to look at you. You see from his eyes that he has cried, and it’s the most shocking thing, to see that this crazy psycho can cry.
“Why would I kill you?”
His voice has lost its power, and the red eyes look so sad, so thoroughly heartbroken, like he has lost everything he ever had and then some more.
An entire array of daggers shoot inside your gut when you see him like that: pain explodes inside your chest, it chokes you for a good long moment with tears. Then your shoulders slump, you crumble right in front of him, eyes squeezed shut and lips trembling while a wrench of a cry tears out of your chest.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” you wail, so weak you can’t even look at him anymore. “I missed you, I just–I just…”
You only get to bawl for a second or two before he moves. Kind of wishing he would just stab you to death and end this miserable thing called life, you watch him arrive in front of you while you’re bawling like a child, sobbing and shaking until you look like one, too. But he never kills or hurts you: he only walks to you with his big hands twitching at his sides, and pulls you into a hug.
“Liebling…”
You cry so hard that your shoulders start to shake, your whole body trembling from the force of your grief. No touching policy is so last season as you return the hug, fiercely, clutching him like a woman about to drown. There’s stress and fear and emptiness, tons and tons of it, but he holds you fast while you weep and howl.
“Shh–shh... I know. I know. I’m a bad man. Rotten to the core.”
His self-awareness is offered to you without ceremony. Those words are enough proof that he knows what he’s doing, what he has done, that he’s not just some irrational, irresponsible creep. He’s aware, so fucking aware…
Your teeth start to clatter, you feel hot and cold at the same time, wondering if people can go into a shock even when they’re safe inside their own homes. You’ve already cried his shirt damp, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“You’re the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen,” he explains as if that would make it all better. “I’m sorry. I just had to have you.”
He starts to rock you side to side, making it hard for you to dissociate. His scent is so familiar and yet, brings back memories of fear and disgust, hope and helplessness and everything in between. You’re literally crushed against him, strong arms keeping you as close to him as possible. And the immediate second he says he’s sorry, the rocking stops; he grows stiff from the hips up.
“No I’m not… I’m not sorry. I would do it all again.”
It’s like being held by an abusive parent or a drunken man, some serial killer spilling out unfiltered confessions to his dead victim. He sounds dreamy and absent, even if you know this man hasn’t drunk a drop of alcohol today. You’ve never seen him drunk, even though you’ve sometimes suspected he could be under the effect of some drug – soldiers like him must be prone to developing addictions from all the shit they go through. But his pupils are never dilated, his speech is perfectly coherent even if it’s filthy... He’s impulsive, yes, but not sporadic. He’s just severely traumatized, extremely reactive when it comes to emotions. They make him twitch and jerk as if there’s no protective skin between his feelings and the outer world at all.
“I’m sorry for not being who you want me to be,” he finally corrects after giving this whole thing what you suppose is a thorough thought.
And the way he talks makes you feel guilty for not returning his feelings, for not being as helplessly in love with him as he is with you.
He has done every horrid thing imaginable to you, and yet you feel like you’re the criminal here for being so complicated, for resorting to playground insults. You feel like the worst person alive when you refuse to jump into his lap when he breaks into your house, when you won’t kiss him back like a lovesick housewife. You feel like a monster for not cradling his head after a round of semi-abusive sex, for not whispering silly little nothings in his hair for giving you the bare minimum… And seeing that shieldless stare, witnessing this giant hulking man staring out into a silent, dark street as if even the void gave him more comfort than you, makes you want to rip your heart out and offer it to him as an apology.
It would make you laugh if it didn’t make you cry…
“I just want to make you feel good. Like the first time. Remember? You were so fucking…” he stops to sigh the tension out, then tries again. “Sorry. You were so beautiful. I could feel everything.”
You swallow at the memory, the heavy lust that seemed to possess you both like demons back then. He remembers that night a bit differently than you – it must’ve been the night of his life while you were scared shitless, drowning in desire and despair.
“You begged me not to stop. Almost lost my mind when you said that…”
You shiver, calm down a little. Listen to his heart pounding heavily underneath your cheek. When you dig yourself deeper into his shirt, the grip around you tightens instinctively, protectively.
“I just want to make you feel good,” he says with sullen hope in his voice. “...Let me eat you out?”
The latest suggestion – a plea, more like – makes you swallow. There’s an exciting lump in your throat, your heart skips a beat at the thought of his unhinged mouth on your folds.
“Just give me something… I’ll be a good dog. I promised to be a good dog, remember?”
“Your promises don’t mean shit,” you blurt, but he doesn’t mind.
“I know. Bad dog. I get horny and poof, brains fly out the window…”
He sighs, loosens his death grip on you, and you draw back a little, wobbly in the status quo of the post-argument. It feels odd to be scared of a guy you just hugged for a good few minutes, and that’s when you realize you’re not actually afraid of him at all.
And his latest excuse was a lousy one, but your lips can’t help but purse a little when you hear this man calling himself a bad dog. He seizes the moment in an instant, desperate to make you smile, desperate to let you know he can be trusted with your cunt. Oh yes, he can be taught many new tricks if you want…
“I can be a good dog,” he vows. “I can be whatever you want.”
You look up at him with pity, up at those stupid, hopeful eyes and that criminally sexy face.
No matter what you do, you just can’t be angry at him… Not when he’s begging and pleading like that. He looks so stupid when he’s in love that you have to fight the urge to both slap and kiss him.
“Eat me out then,” you whisper.
“Yes. Yes. Yes.”
You have to push him away when he instantly tries to show you what a good mutt he is, telling him you need to shower first. There’s so much sweat and cum and grime on you that you can’t stand yourself, let alone let him go down on you and have a lap. You’re not yet that deranged.
When you emerge from the shower, he’s sitting on the stairs, waiting for his mistress like a loyal hound. He gets up on his feet when he sees that you’re naked, and follows you to the bedroom without saying a word. He waits patiently as you light a few candles, mainly to make yourself more comfortable. The situation is both comical and endearing: there’s a big dirty killer looming behind you while you’re yet again unclothed, tiptoeing around the room to give it a more romantic, soft vibe.
He stares at the candles, then at you, the look in his eyes surprisingly soft. It’s rare to see him so involved; usually, he’s just selfish and intense. Now he’s happy, interested, so keen to make you feel good that your insides feel like soft candy by the time you get on the bed.
The sheets feel cold under your butt as you position yourself there, thighs pressed lightly together, still concealing your prize. It’s like giving him a treat when you open your legs: softly, slowly, trying to be seductive with a man who would fuck you even if he found you in the trash.
You’re not sure what you signed up for, but the power dynamic has changed: he gets on his knees adoringly, like it’s a spinal reaction that comes from seeing an exposed pussy. He’s been nothing but disrespectful towards you, but now you feel like a revered idol, a goddess, even though you hate that word. The flames dance on the wall and all over him, your loyal devotee, and your nipples get hard from that stupid glazed stare alone.
“You’re so pretty,” he sighs, stare softening still.
“Just… Get on with it, okay?” You whisper with an aching heart.
Don’t be silly, it begs. Please don’t be silly…
He smiles, gives you a wiggle of his eyebrows. The grin is back, and with it, his questionable charm. He crawls towards you on all fours and makes the flutters in your chest turn into a full-on throb. Your insides twist and coil when his mouth meets your cunt: it’s somehow even worse that he has his face down there. He can see every secret part of you, every drop of dew… Every shameful reaction, every pulse and wink and throb. He can feel you cream right onto his chin as he presses his nose on your mound, lips as close to your pussy as humanly possible.
“No teeth,” you remind him when he laughs into your cunt.
“No? Gonna fuck you with my tongue then,” he gruffs into your core. Dark and already breathless, his mouth is hot as he tries to push the wet muscle inside you. It enters you with a surprising force, a demand that leaves you gasping on the bed. He pulls out and does it again, the sound of the fucking slick and wet, making you feel entirely like a spoiled princess who really ought to count her blessings.
I have a clit too, you know, you want to say, but he finds it before long. Has a bit too much fun with it too in your opinion. It looks like he’s not actually ignorant and selfish, only a bit inexperienced – oh, loudly inexperienced – because his joy of discovering that you have a pleasure button of some sort compares to a conquistador finding the mythical El Dorado.
He swirls and twirls his tongue around it, licks it with slow licks, laps it with quick flicks. You beg him to stop, but he’s having too much fun, closing his entire mouth on you and giving his new favourite place a suck. You physically jerk when he does that, and he answers with an enthusiastic moan – it vibrates through your core and makes you bite your lip: who knew this crazy psycho would turn out to be so good at oral sex?
“Stop… S–stop, it’s too much,” you shiver when he continues to play with you like you’re his most unique toy.
“No it’s not,” he argues back with an open, wide smile, mouth panting wet and hot.
You always call him stupid, but you’re not exactly smart yourself… This thing is not in your control; it never was. It’s his playtime now, and he wants his three-course meal.
But when your hand floats down and finds his hair, a gleam of gold shoots through your whole being. It just feels so right to touch him while he’s lapping at you, and he seems to agree because he growls with excitement, a cute, low purr of joy.
“That’s it, pretty… Yank my head…”
Shit…
More than once, you’ve thought about putting a muzzle on this dog, but right now, you don’t want to. God, you don’t want to…
You haven’t even pulled his hair yet, and it’s already driving him nuts just to feel your touch. He licks and laps you with an increasing pace, presses kisses all over your pussy from how much he likes this, likes you. You allow him an honest little tug this time, just a tiny little pull of his hair, and push your cunt up against his face, looking down with lust and shame.
“Ja, ja. Show me my place… Fuck my face, just like that–”
His voice is hoarse from all that lust, the response to your tugging and bucking immediate. Hands scoop you by your waist and draw you flush against him, telling you you’re being far too delicate with him. You fear he’s going to resort to slurs next, so without decency and decorum, you do it again. Buck your hips so that he almost chokes on your cunt, pull his hair until you feel sorry for his scalp. And it’s still not enough.
He groans and moans and does his best to please you, withdraws half an inch, not to catch breath but to spill more filth in the air.
“That’s it, pretty… That’s it… Fuck– Gonna cum in my pants–”
He shoots a hand down, ripping his belt open with shaky fingers. It’s pure yen, unadulterated need to drown himself in you and everything you give him, your hand on his head both punishment and praise. It’s hot, that he finds you hot: so fucking hot that he needs to touch himself while eating you out… At that moment, your mind loudly declares that you love him, that he’s so crazy you could die for him.
Wrestling such obscene thoughts away, you pull his hair again, this time wrenching so hard that he groans and spills all over his pants, hardly having given himself ten or twenty faps. Your rug is ruined; your whole soul is tainted; his heavy breaths and sad groans are enough to shoot you over the edge, and cum too, all over his chin and his shaking mouth. You have to use him to get yourself off, but it doesn’t matter: he seems to love it when you grind yourself all over his face.
“Fuck–” you moan while rolling the rest of it out of your system.
“Fuck…” he shudders as he tries to handle two orgasms at once.
Reality comes back in slow, unhurried steps. It slinks back into your room as you ground yourself on the bed and into his panting mouth. You release his hair, but he doesn’t withdraw, choosing to come down while huffing hot air inside your pussy.
When he finally gets out of there, he does it with a kiss. A soft, lingering kiss, pressed on your mound. It’s such a loving gesture that you gasp and open your eyes, trying to search for something less intoxicating to concentrate on.
There’s a faint rustle as he gets back on his feet, no doubt granting himself a thorough look of you, soft and sloppy and utterly ruined on that bed. You’ve never felt this limp: it’s like your bones have been sucked out of your body. He falls next to you on the bed, breathing more softly, and smiling like a king.
“Loser, hmm?”
“Shut up,” you whisper, eyes and heart full of sparkles.
He takes it as the compliment it is, and laughs. Works his way closer to you, so damn pleased with himself. You must look like the happiest woman on earth even without that soft smile, and he drinks in every drop of you with childlike joy. He’s fascinated, like a boy about to get a slice of his birthday cake, and your heart just won’t stop hurting.
He looks nice… So, so nice when he’s happy and confident like this. It’s confidence born from actual success, not some forced, punched-out reward.
“You’re fucking crazy, did you know that,” you whisper while catching your breath and looking at the mess on his chin.
“Heh,” he licks his lips with pride. “Sure. You liked that…?”
You nod, about three times, and when he grins you can’t help but lift a hand to touch his face. It's a slow, deliberate movement, and still his eyes flinch, prepared for a moment to get hit. It’s another kind of pain to see that he’s far more used to pain than pleasure, that he’s ready to recoil even from your soft, simple touch.
But you haven’t really touched him much, have you…?
He swallows when your fingers meet his cheek: the blob of his Adam’s apple is visible even in the dim light of the candles. It’s a soft little brush that leaves him looking at you like you’re some otherworldly vision, a phantom woman he mustn’t spook off.
He never leans into your touch, but you see it from his eyes that he would want to. He just doesn’t know the protocol here, and however you turn it around in your head, you don’t feel weak or used. Frankly, you don’t feel like a trophy girlfriend at all... You feel like this man is even more abused than you, trying to find his way home that was never even there.
“I’ll do it every day if you want,” he says seriously, leaning on his elbow on the bed.
“Not if you make such a mess,” you try to lift the mood with a joke, but he never gets it.
“I’ll get you a new rug,” he shrugs, looking only vaguely ashamed.
“Or you could just scrub the old one clean…?”
“Do I look like a cleaning lady to you?”
There’s distant hurt in his eyes when he thinks he’s getting criticised again. Chastised after having performed so well, behaving like the good dog he promised to be. Then the pain is shoved into some deep, dark recess as his eyes flash with amusement, and you know that you’re about to hear more filth.
“You can clean it,” he suggests. “With your mouth. I’ll watch.”
When your smile turns into a disgusted, wry face, he looks at you as if surprised.
“What? It’s your fault it’s fucked.”
“Just forget about it,” you sigh.
But you’re not mad at him, not anymore. That would be like running against a wall and complaining that it’s still there. And it’s too bad that nothing can kill the afterglow of good delicious sex… You’re practically swimming in bliss while he’s pouting at you for some imagined spite that never even was.
Women, he seems to think as he looks down at you, his princess who complains about cum-stained rugs and then smiles at him on the bed. Deciding it’s best to just concentrate on the good things, he finally moves closer to get some cuddles.
“I want to hold you,” he says in a blunt explanation. Then he seizes you like a plushie: roughly, urgently, he moves you around like a doll, and you don’t mind at all. You find yourself pressed against him, your back to his chest, in the same spooning position he put you in on that very first night. Your eyes are apparently too much for him, your pity even more so, and with that, you guess you must live.
“This okay to you…?”
Your heart is squeezing to bits from love, pain and this silliness, you whimper something incoherent as an answer but can’t bear yourself to move.
“Hmm? You like this?”
You look at how his hand twitches on the bed next to yours, then moves to rest on top of your fingers, swallowing them completely.
His palm is warm, his body like a wall behind you. He feels safe, for once, and his hand doesn’t look like it’s smothering yours until you can’t breathe. It only looks strong, experienced, masculine… Full of scars and dents and nicks, his joints swollen and wider than yours, the pads on his palm calloused and rough. Some old dirt under one fingernail, but you don’t mind. He has an outdoor job.
“First rough and then gentle. You like that, no?”
“Shh...”
All the monsters are far away; only he remains. And he feels good.
“Ja… No barking; time to sleep. I get it.”
He lowers his head gently down beside yours. His arm feels good around you, draped across your waist and hand. It squeezes you against him just once before a soft sigh meets the back of your neck, some howling part of you already drifting off to sleep.
“I love you, Schatzi.”
Chapter 10
Notes:
I'm a little late from my usual schedule because of some nasty health crap that knocked me off my feet :(
But here's finally some fluff ^^ Thank you for the comments, as always!! I love to read them, they always make my day. Some of you are the kindest souls alive I swear ;_;
Chapter Text
A black and blue toothbrush appears in your bathroom. It’s so mundane that at first, you look at it like it’s some sort of a trap. But no, it just means the man brushes his teeth like any other normal person. A black shirt gets thrown over your laundry machine, and you know it’s an artless suggestion to wash it for him. But when he leaves, you go and pick it up, bring it to your nose, and smell it with your eyes closed. You even bring it to the bed with you, dress it on the thickest pillow you find, and cuddle it when you sleep.
You try to cleanse yourself from him, emotionally, spiritually. But it never works. He taints you even darker when he comes back because now it’s your turn to turn your eyes away. You’re shy in a whole new way nowadays: ever since The Incident, you’ve felt like you owe this man. Kindness, softness, and a pair of doting eyes, at the very least.
And the softer you become, the softer he becomes. The kinder you are to him, the more gentle he gets with you. It’s so easy; the remedy was so obvious that you could hit yourself for being so clueless. Shy touches and helpless, timid looks are like opium to him.
And you’re frightened for other reasons entirely now.
You can’t bear to look at him for long, you can’t bear to look into his eyes because your heart begins to ache too much. It’s impossible to refrain from that, though, when he tortures you with his attempts to make love to you. Every now and then, he wants to give it to you nice and slow, and it’s different from the fucking, the rutting, the heedless doggy style – he takes you in plain old missionary more often, nose right above yours, your eyes only inches away from his.
It's far more horrible than the dicking you used to receive: his hands slide down your sides, they curve around your legs and lift them around his waist. You hook them there without complaint, clutch him close as he starts to work himself into a sweat, and there’s nowhere to escape him anymore, no chance for you to look away. You've been lulled into a trance, a claustrophobic sort of state as the stare above you grows soft, his breaths hitting you through pale, quivering lips as he fucks you with slack-jawed adoration. It's more than just greed, more than just want, and you both forget your shields when your thighs start to tremble. No one speaks a word, but the lashes above you flutter for a moment when he realizes you're about to cum together.
There are scratch marks all over his back when he’s done with you, and you only notice them when he leaves to take a piss. You're not sure if you should apologize for using your nails on him like that, and König never says anything about them. He doesn’t mock you, or make a lewd joke about it, he never calls you a horny kitty or anything like that. You have a feeling that he's secretly so happy he can't even speak about it. That in truth, he couldn't have hoped for a lovelier welcome home.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” you mumble shyly while fixing yourself some tea the next morning.
You know it’s silly to apologize for sinking your nails in his back during sex because you know he only fucking loved that. So you gather it may be an apology for your past crimes too because the guilt you feel for calling him a fucking loser while the man was inside you never really left you. But you never bring up what happened that night, nor does he: it's water under the bridge now, end of story. It appears you can say or do anything to him as long as you let him come back to you. Lick you, fuck you and keep you close while he sleeps. It does nothing to remove your guilt, though... Quite the contrary.
“Last night? Your–your back,” you explain when he only looks at you curiously.
A shit-eating grin spreads across his face before he walks to grab you into a hug from behind. Kisses are pressed all over your neck, already sensitive and red from a thousand hickies as he envelops you in a crushing embrace, squeezing you until you feel like mashed potatoes.
“The good kind of hurt, princess,” he rasps in your ear, two firm hands swaying you from side to side like a doll.
You can feel the sudden gush of warmth soak your freshly changed panties; you apparently get wet just from hearing his voice nowadays. Your heart hammers inside your chest as he continues to tell you how you can claw his eyes out while he’s fucking you for all he cares. Leave as many marks as you like, it would be his pleasure. Just don’t touch his balls… They’re sensitive.
Then he lets you go with a dry laugh and slaps you on the butt, and it’s a mercy because you’re starting to get way too flustered here. It’s only morning, you haven’t even drunk your tea.
…
His gifts are lavish now, downright opulent. You know he’s trying to make you quit your job by drowning you in money and gifts – you have a new car, small and pearl-white, gift cards to who knows how many stores. Luxurious shops, expensive beauty brands, things that aren’t even you: he tries to soak you in luxury and expects you to be a lash-batting princess for him in exchange. There are fresh flowers brought to your house every week, dark red roses until your bin truly threatens to get filled because there’s no place or vases for them anymore, and the old ones simply won’t dry and die. The only thing you want is emotion, connection, something so raw that even he can’t give it to you.
And he senses that you’re not entirely his, even if you would want to be.
He’s so much better at fucking now, still a bit reckless when he gets his paws on you, but you don’t mind. He’s selfish and obsessive, but it no longer makes you angry. It makes you pity him because clearly, he tries so hard to penetrate you, but sex is the only way he knows how. It’s the only form of intimacy he knows, is capable of, and when you say it to him, right to his face, he still doesn’t get it.
“This is just sex,” you whisper. “Okay...?”
“Ja. Ja. Whatever you say.”
He huffs a tiny smile at you as if you just told him that you love him. Caresses you with shaky hands, cradling your face between his palms while fucking you. His eyes are adoring, his whole body in a sex high: nothing you say to him now has the opportunity to stick. He only reaches for your hand, slots his fingers between yours, and squeezes so hard you fear your joints might break.
And you can’t bear to watch him eat those godawful, processed, ready-to-eat meals anymore...
So you start to cook for him.
Trying to make it look like an accident, you prepare a large amount of food and simply give him a plate. He doesn’t seem to realize that you’re offering your heart here for him because you’ve decided to use your winning recipes, the best of the best, nothing but the most carefully selected ingredients and secrets for him.
He eats a lot, and you know this man has a good appetite, but some part of you still wants to think it’s because your food is better and more nutritious. You use extra virgin olive oil from Crete, fresh herbs and vegetables from the market hall, organic poultry, wild rice cooked just the right way and seasoned with cloves and sage. You cook it all with love, something you haven’t done in years.
Your hound only licks his lips and pushes the finished plate away, looking at you with drowsy delight.
“Any dessert?”
You look at the empty plate, all the work, care, and love gobbled and probably lost on him, and decide he shows his gratitude this way. Your ugly dog is appeased, for now. Expresses his undying love by eating whatever you give him, be it cunt or food or soft stares; he even licks his lips and the spoon clean and asks for more. He never uses the cutlery you give him, only a spoon, but it’s slurped shiny as if he was about to stick it inside his boot and leave on some dirty mission of his.
Still, the shame of not being clever enough to charm him with your cute pink cupcakes or blackcurrant panna cotta is burning inside you because why on earth would you leave this man without some sugar?
“How about you take your girl to a restaurant sometime so you can have an entire three-course meal,” you retort, deciding you will one day bake this man an apple pie even his Austrian grandmothers would be jealous of.
König only thinks it an excellent idea, and you know you’re fucked. No woman would choose to show herself in public with this man, and all your fears come true as he takes you out to dinner only to be rude to the waiter. Snaps his fingers every time they walk by as if they’re dogs or slaves, downs two shots of vodka before and after the meal like this was some Soviet-era joint where the only digestive is booze. He tries to start a fight with some man for “looking at you too long”, orders the waiter to get on his knees and apologize to you for bringing you the wrong dish. You have to threaten that you’ll leave if he doesn’t stop harassing the poor people here, and that threat is the only way to get your dog to behave.
…
You have to live with insufferable amounts of tenderness nowadays. Well, ever since you became more agreeable, he has tried to make you cum first as if his life depended on it.
The “loving” you receive is about to drive you to madness, but other times, when he’s in his most nasty dog behaviour, he imprisons you in your home for days and fucks you dumb. Cuddles you on the sofa and forces you to watch some sick, unduly violent anime series or an old disgusting splatter flick with him.
On those days, you are sure there has been some incident at work: someone or something that made him feel like shit and you, his girl, has to make him feel better, has to pay the price. Not that you’re complaining, and it’s not like you get to choose how your dick is served anyway. But it’s like living on a knife’s edge with him. You never know what kind of man returns to “take care of you” when he’s not deployed.
Once, he interrupts you when you’re trying to have breakfast, walking beside you completely naked and with a rock-hard dick.
“Blow it,” he commands and raises his hands to his hips, leaning forward so that the head of his stinking cock almost touches your plate of eggs and toast. You don’t even spare him a glance, only slide your food away from the leaking tip.
“No.”
When you continue to concentrate on your food, he starts to jerk off.
“I’m having breakfast,” you turn to look at him, mouth still chewing and eyes filled with disgust.
“I got breakfast for you,” he announces breathily while fisting his dick, loose balls swinging sloppy and lazy between his thighs.
You grab your glass of water and throw the cold liquid on his dick, so fast that even a trained soldier like him has no time to react.
“Was für ein–”
The fapping stops as he removes his hand and looks between his legs as if getting splashed with cold water was something he never saw coming. You rise from the table and abandon your breakfast, march upstairs like a rebelling teenage girl because if you can’t fucking eat breakfast in your own home without this unneutered mutt being a dick about it, then you can survive without food just fine.
“Scheisse…”
He’s still astonished that his dick got wet so fast, and you swear you can almost read his thoughts by now. His girl didn’t even bring a towel for him, she didn’t even care about the wet rug… She must be truly annoyed.
But you know this bloodhound only gets more aroused when he sees you being difficult and sees you fighting back, so it’s no surprise that he’s scratching at your door after a few minutes. He’s gentleman enough to knock, but when he comes inside—uninvited—you see that he’s still hard. He’s also carrying a tray, and on it, he brings you all the food you left on the table, along with a fresh cup of coffee.
Your crazy boyfriend brings you breakfast in bed, naked, like some male sex slave or the most erratically trained dog in the world... Your heart can’t help but melt at the sight; your lips try to suppress a little dance of a smile as he sets the tray on your bed.
“It’s still up,” he complains, gesturing at his dick you know practically well to be hard. Even a half-blind person could see “it’s still up” – it’s only a miracle he doesn’t poke your eye out with that thing...
“It’s wet and everything. Your fault...”
You sigh and tell him to bring you a towel, but your mutt only pouts with thin, compressed lips when he still doesn’t get what he wants.
“Muschi… You are supposed to lick it clean,” he sighs and tilts his head in a gesture of Do I have to teach you everything? Even the basics?
“No I’m not. Get out,” you tell him and he frowns at you, looks so ridiculous with his still-wet dick and that unruly kid expression that you have to use all your willpower not to burst into laughter. Who knows what would follow from that…
Your appetite is not what it was downstairs, but now it’s completely gone – you just want to eat, not suck some massive dirty cock first thing in the morning. Perhaps someday, but not today. You know it’s a battle of wills more than anything else, and you could’ve just told him to shower to see what you can do about his predicament. It’s petty, you know, but so is following you around with a boner and demanding you to blow it.
And he leaves, and mopes for the rest of the day, slouching on the sofa with a vast manspread as he binges on survival reality TV.
Doesn’t speak unless spoken to; he doesn’t even praise your cooking, only eats it in silence while focusing on the screen. There are no familiar grins or hyena-like laughter, no stupid comments on the show, but he almost snorts his beer out of his nose when the naked couple on the screen have a mutual breakdown and yell at each other out of stress and hunger.
He’s so pitiful that it’s hard to understand that he’s the same man you’ve feared and loathed these past few months. That this is the boogieman you’ve lost sleep for. Now he just looks like an overgrown teen, sulking on the sofa, refusing to talk to you because you refused to give him a blowjob.
You don’t roll your eyes at him, though. You can’t help but smile, but when he refuses to acknowledge even that, you finally slip into some blush pink lingerie and tiptoe downstairs in front of the TV.
His munching stops the instant his eyes focus on you. They rise from your thighs up to your lace-covered breasts and, finally, to your eyes.
“Please, sir, could you help me? These things are so uncomfortable… I don’t know how to take them off…”
All the brooding is gone in an instant: it’s replaced with a look of pure fervor as he sets the plate down without ever taking his eyes off you.
You know he loves to hear you sound so dumb, even if a part of him must know you’re faking. It must. He’s the dumb one here, the dumbest man you’ve ever met, but he doesn’t seem to give a shit because the more you overdo it, blink and coo and act shy, like a helpless creature forced to ask for assistance with the simplest things, the further he spirals into the whirlpool of drooling want.
He rises to his feet, walks to you, and scoops you into a bridal carry. Your peace offering is eagerly accepted, and it’s no wonder when the gift wrapping looks so pretty and cute. Your doe eyes and pleading hands, now wrapped around his neck, must help him find forgiveness in his heart for you too. Only after a few seconds is his sullen mood cured; all sulking and moping are forgotten as he babbles at you while carrying you upstairs.
These things must feel so strange on your body, who put you into such ridiculous clothing? Everyone knows you’re supposed to be naked… Here, let König help you… Does your pussy need some nice hard fucking? Hmm, does it…?
That’s the moment when you realize you have power over him.
He has lost.
He lost the game.
It’s underlined with red when he forgets to be dominating more often than not, such as that one time when you showered together.
“Can I cum…? Bitte… Please, I can’t take it anymore,” he huffs as he fucks you in the bathroom, too impatient to take you to bed.
You had to entice him to the shower by going there yourself, naked and inviting, so that he would wash the dirt off his cock before sticking it inside you. It’s better to just use proven methods with him rather than try to explain what a UTI is and why you don’t wish to get it. The downside is that he only just got home and is now grunting between your legs, thrilled to get to fuck you from standing. He’s not going to last long, which means you have to wait your turn and simply let him use you.
Although lately, you’ve had a feeling that you’re using him too...
“Okay,” you sigh while holding on to his slippery neck, one leg bent around his for better access.
“Danke…”
His head drops to rest on your shoulder, the pace of his thrusts increasing until he goes rigid and moans. The seed gets pumped inside you with slow, sluggish movements, his groans muffled and helpless on your neck as you listen to your dog have his release. You wonder if it’s been a while since he has fapped, if he’s been busy at work because usually, your steadfast soldier lasts at least a few minutes.
This was the quickest of all quickies, and the man is weak and panting above you, his cock pulsing even after the peak of his orgasm has passed. You know you’ll get your share later, but it always makes you a little sore in the heart that he has to be so selfish. As if getting laid is the first and foremost thing he’s here…
“What’s wrong, Liebling?”
He nuzzles his nose closer to your neck and catches your earlobe between his lips, now resembling a lovesick human again instead of a breeding bull. You pull back a little, get off of his cock as discreetly as you can, which is challenging because he certainly won’t lift a finger to get that thing out of you.
“I just–” you start, then sigh. “Don’t thank me. It makes me feel like a… Like a…”
“But I thought you were my little Muschi?”
He speaks softly, gives your cheek a tender caress with his broken nose, but you can’t help but shoot a glare up at him.
“I ought to slap you.”
“Don’t slap me. Please. I will only like it.”
He sounds like a poor man begging, but the azure eyes squint with a smile, his all but straight teeth becoming visible as he smirks. You look at him with unease, the corner of your lip tugging with disgust, but he only tilts his head.
“Komm schon, Kleine… Why do you think I’m in the military?”
You sigh and shake your head, pondering whether it’s any use to take another shower. He’ll just pump a new load in you soon anyway. The problem gets solved when he grabs his shirt to clean you up, stuffing the black fabric between your legs until you whine and wriggle out of his "tender" care. But then, when you try to get past him, he gets on his knees.
“What are you doing,” you ask with a tightening voice.
“Men don’t propose to their whores. Right?”
The puppy stare directed at you is adoring, vulnerable without its usual film of filth and need. He looks up with pure, childlike innocence and some serious backbone, something you’ve only seen when he promised to eat you out every day if you want. The combination turns your insides to both frost and gold as you look down at him -- the cum stained t-shirt in his hands, his battered face now soft and bare, the eerie eyes filled with pure, pristine devotion.
“Stop this nonsense,” you whisper, but his stare only softens.
“I would’ve done this earlier, but you were being difficult….”
“Get up, this is absurd–”
“I want to marry you.”
Your breaths are getting shallow; some would say they’re getting out of hand. His gaze never wanders, he just licks his lips like people do before they're about to deliver a speech. He even reaches out to take your hand in his – cute, you're holding hands now...
“I have a ring. It belonged to my mother. I want to put it on your finger.”
Your spit dries in your mouth, the swallow of your throat so arduous that it makes an awkward sound. Here he is, knees wide and cock half-hard, glistening with your wet and traces of his cum, offering you something he didn’t buy or steal. His body looks so gorgeous in its naked glory, he’s gained a few healthy pounds of fat since you started feeding him... They’re evenly disposed over his muscles so he doesn’t look like a tortured animal anymore. An unhealthy mind in a surprisingly healthy body, and your heart is twisting inside the prison of your chest.
You’re not sure if he’s doing this to prove you wrong or if this has been his plan all along – didn’t he threaten you’ll marry by the end of the year, back when you were still texting? Scratch that: back when he was texting you. But now that you’re not “difficult” anymore he sees an opportunity to court you for real, or then this has to be his most stupid, childish joke. But you have a feeling that it’s not enough that he has to harass and fuck you non-stop... He also needs to possess you. Truly, lawfully possess you, tie you to him, no doubt with the excuse of wanting to protect and take care of you.
So why is it that you find this stupid, out of the blue, all but romantic proposal so utterly cute?
There’s cum on his shirt, there’s cum on the floor, for Christ’s sake… The toilet seat is up because he left it up, again, although you know you should probably be thanking the heavens that at least he’s not pissing all over the tiles.
Anyhow, the bathroom is the last place you thought you would get proposed. This man is the last person on Earth you’d marry...
Or is he?
“No,” you say with a thundering heart and a frail voice – so utterly, horridly frail.
Your refusal breaks the unconditional love in his eyes, and he returns somewhat back to normal, the man who doesn’t give a fuck about anything. He never shows his sorrow, if there even is such a thing as a cold-blooded killer getting sad about some ridiculous bathroom proposal gone wrong, but your heart is not that strong.
Him talking about his mother and some old inheritance ring is doing a number on you – you sometimes forget this filthy dog even has a mother. Someone who bore him, nursed him, watched him grow. Some other woman who probably thought those eyes were pretty and that filthy crooked grin was sort of cute. Someone who might be waiting for her son to come back home so they can bake him apple pie, someone who might not give a shit, someone who might be dead for all you know…
Shit...
You can’t seem to recuperate from this shock, so you try to get away from him, dust yourself off, and go to your bedroom to throw some clothes on as if nothing ever happened. He raises an arm to prevent you from escaping, and you collide against it with a hollow huff as if it were an access barrier on the road. Your thighs are pressed together as he snares you by the waist, and you yelp as he bends to bite your ass – hard.
“Ow!”
You raise your hands to push him away, but can’t do it, not when he’s grinning at you like that. He won’t even flinch anymore, already used to it that you only hurt him with words. Even those are weak and few these days.
“This is mine,” he grabs your ass and gives it a good, hard squeeze. Then he rises to his feet, straightens to his full glory of what feels like miles above you. Your mound is covered with a warm, rough hand as he grabs your pussy and almost lifts you off the ground.
“This is mine, too.”
You breathe in his solid grip, his total ownership for a second, then fight your way out of his grasp, but he just laughs. That darned laugh, that carefree smile, his eyes glinting with genuine joy when he gets to bully you to his heart’s content will be the death of you one day.
“You’re crazy,” you declare—and he just won’t stop smiling. As always, you’re not in control; you thought you were, but you’re not, no, not at all.
“You’re fucking crazy… You’re a crazy man,” you huff, and it's nothing new under the sun, which is why he only looks down at you and smiles, even raises a hand to cup your cheek.
“Crazy for you.”
…
You cry before bedtime.
You cry your heart out in silent little sobs because he didn’t lose, and this is not a game.
It’s… Something you have no name for.
“What is it…?” He asks while holding you, this time without the usual I’ll fuck your brains out ritual. You’re just tucked in like a good girl, safe and secure in his lap, snug against his chest and scent.
“Nothing,” you sniffle and curse that out of all the men, he has to be the one who feels so nice and safe. A hand comes to pet your head as he tightens his hold of you, his gentleness pushing even more tears out.
“You can tell me. Who do I need to kill?”
Me, you almost blurt.
Us, you nearly wail.
“No one,” you sigh and clutch him back, pulling yourself closer to him, the bleeding organ in your chest giving you some serious aches as you do it.
He presses a kiss on the top of your head, making your eyes squeeze tight from how much you like him, enjoy him, adore him. Your lower lip starts to tremble once again until you breathe a shivering sigh out of your mouth. A surprisingly compassionate noise erupts from his throat in return, something to tell you it makes him a little sad to see his princess so helpless.
“My sad little mermaid fish,” he pets you like you’re his favourite toy, dirty and broken and still his most beloved one. “So beautiful and so sad…”
You guide your eyes up to him, and he cups your chin in his hand, brushing a thumb across your cheek.
There’s actual warmth in his eyes, something so vast and deep that it couldn’t be faked, not even by a talented psychopath. It doesn’t insult you that he’s half-hard, probably getting a nice boner simply because the girl he loves is so adorable when she cries... He seems like the kind of guy who wants to play the part of a hero, who gets to wipe the helpless maiden’s tears away and then fuck them on the verge of another kind of weeping.
“You want me to make you feel better…?”
The soft suggestion is selfless and pure, the accent happy, even if what he proposes is the only way he knows to make you feel good. You doubt he knows he’s as much the cause of your misery as he is the cure, and perhaps that’s why you find yourself nodding in the darkness, crying another tear or two.
He gives you a sad smile before he goes under the covers—down, down, down, like a good, loyal dog.
Chapter 11
Notes:
Thanks for all the well wishes, I'm feeling much better now so no worries! I may avoid surgery altogether because I’ve rested like good girls are supposed to ^^ huge challenge btw because staying put is the last thing I want to do in this life..
Hope you “enjoy” this chapter! Much love to everyone who’s still reading, you’re the best 💋🩷
Chapter Text
Weeks bleed into months.
The winter cold turns into spring, and you get to wear dresses and skirts again. It drives your dog crazy whenever he’s around to see them, and he’s at work far too much in your opinion, but you never tell him that. You just listen to him complain about how he doesn’t like it when you wear those low-cut tops on TV. How you should reserve them for him, along with that dumb red lipstick. Too many men are fantasizing about your cute pink mouth painting their cocks, and when you hang up the phone upon hearing such idiotic filth, there’s a collection of clumsy, apologetic texts waiting for you when you come out of a nerve-cooling shower.
He explains to you how you don’t know what kind of dirty creeps are out there, only waiting to ruin silly women like you. You’re still not sure if he’s joking or just suffering from the worst case of cognitive dissonance known to man.
He delivers on his promise to take care of you, and does so often. Your calls are mainly about König wanting to know if you’ve remembered to eat, if you’ve been sleeping well and if you need anything. He can give you more money, call anywhere you like if you need something. The proposal is never mentioned again, nor are other women, thank god. You only stick your thumb between your teeth and smile when he threatens to come back and make you sit on his lap if you don’t eat your fill. Spoon feed you himself and make sure you swallow every bite.
You can’t stifle the quick breath of laughter as you imagine König bouncing you on his knee to get you to swallow some stupid soup, perhaps clumsily bringing a glass of water to your lips and trying to force you to drink. You’re pretty sure it would only end up with him getting your shirt all wet. Maybe getting something else wet as well…
“You wouldn’t,” you whisper, voice nothing but smiles and soft tease.
“I would,” answers a low, rumbling taunt from the other end.
Everything is sort of ok; your body is nothing but fluffy, fuzzy velvet whenever he calls. You even ask when he will be back, earning about 10 minutes of teasing and dirty talk from him. He mainly goes on and on about how cock-hungry and naughty you are and how he will come back sooner than you think and that you should prepare yourself. That he will fuck you on the floor as soon as he arrives; his dirty princess never needs to worry about that.
He doesn’t even realize that you miss him, not just his cock.
You’ve sighed on his black t-shirt more times than you can count, you’re always on call for his texts and phone calls, you even pick what you wear based on what he likes. If he has ever pinched your nipple or your ass while you’ve been wearing something nice, it’s mentally sorted into the pile of clothes labelled as ‘sexy’ in your mind. If he’s ever said you look fucking pretty in something, it shoots to the top of the list.
You’re so giddy you even talk about König to your therapist.
First, you only reveal small things, such as how you’ve met this one guy who’s tall and good looking and how he’s all you can think about these days. She gets curious when you can’t exactly describe how you two met. Before long, you’re sitting in the chair with a pounding heart and sweaty palms as she says: “Why don’t you start from the beginning and leave nothing out this time.”
You swallow before you begin, and she doesn’t even have to say anything; the look of profound pity and slivers of disgust tells you enough. You realize how horrible it sounds only after you tell it to another person, and even if you try to smooth out the sharpest edges and smudge out the ugliest moments, she still leans back in her chair and looks like this was the most gruesome account she has ever heard in her career.
Then she gives you a reality check. A professional’s opinion on how these events unfolded.
You listen to her speak about manipulation tactics and how they can be used to lure a victim in. You listen with ringing ears and a blank mind how what you’ve been through is usually classified as domestic violence. That even though you get to go to work and live in your own home it doesn’t mean you’re not practically held hostage here. You’re a victim of abuse, and the events of the first night he spent with you fill the criteria of sexual assault. You’re showing symptoms of Stockholm Syndrome; you nod when she asks you whether you’ve ever heard of the term. Then you listen with your hands in your lap when your therapist says she feels deeply sorry for you and how this all must have been a horrible experience and that it’s understandable if you’re feeling a little confused right now.
Words like sexual harassment, violence, coercion and control sweep past your ears.
Words like murder and rape.
This man is extremely dangerous and should be reported to the police.
When you try to mumble that there’s more to him than this and that you think you actually like him quite a bit, that you feel sorry for him and that he’s treating you much better now, when you tell her that you said horrible things to him and regret it, when you assure her that you’ve been abusive too, she tilts her head with compassion.
You can hear yourself talking, loud and clear, and wonder how bad it sounds, absolutely awful. You wonder how it can sound so crooked and cruel when the reality of it has mostly felt too good... How you sound like one of those women, beaten and bruised and still insisting that they love their beater, that the man will change if only they change. If they do the right things and turn into some mythical perfect woman, everything will become magically better. You almost tell her you’ve already seen him change, but shut your mouth before such pitiful talk gets vomited out of your heart.
What even is normal has been lost to you long ago, but there’s still some sanity left in you to understand that your therapist is right. It’s not a healthy, normal relationship when a stranger tells you he loves you before he’s even met you. It’s not ok to ram through your boundaries over and over again and laugh it off when you both find out you somewhat enjoyed it.
She admits that the man you describe is charming in his own way. People like these usually are. He also sounds very selfish and chaotic, irresponsible, and utterly incapable of emotional intimacy. Throw in his violent tendencies and impulsivity, and we might be talking about antisocial personality disorder here. In brief: clinical sociopathy. Even psychopathy.
He’s a hypocrite when it comes to relationships: he can hurt you as many times as he likes, but you can’t say anything back to him without suffering horrible consequences. He doesn’t show much remorse, if at all – no one can tell if he’s faking it when he looks like he’s in pain. These people are highly manipulative; that’s how they survive. He also shows signs of hypersexual behaviour, and while your therapist cannot diagnose this man from your account alone, you should still understand that these kinds of symptoms are usually indicators of serious mental health problems.
She asks if he has any long-term friends. How are his relations with his family?
These people don’t usually have anyone in their lives because of their antisocial behaviour, but you can’t answer her questions because you don’t know.
What kind of past he has? Has he told you anything about himself?
Also questions you can’t answer because you don’t know. You haven’t really asked, and it’s not like he’d tell you anyway. He hasn’t even told you his name, and upon hearing that, your therapist purses his lips like a patronizing adult. So, this man seems to dodge the questions he doesn’t care to answer, and so with the lack of empathy, his pathological lying, his manipulativeness and homicidal behaviour, your therapist deems him highly dangerous, potentially capable of hurting you too if you don’t get out in time.
“What if he’s just suffering…?” you suggest, only to get looked at like a child again.
You hate that look, hate it if it comes from other people than him.
Him – the man like a mountain, your soldier with cruel eyes and a big cock, the stare of a selfish child and the bashed face of a criminal. It’s near impossible to think that he’s nothing more than a hollow shell of a man; that you’ve been sleeping with a ghost.
Your therapist explains what gaslighting is, although you already know what it is: a controlling tactic where the victim is made to believe that they are to blame for what has been done to them. And if he is a psychopath, he didn’t become that way because someone was mean to him. He was born this way. He knows what he is doing and is incapable of empathy. He doesn’t see you like you see him; he doesn’t see people at all. He only sees resources.
She says it’s not your fault that you’ve ended up in a relationship like this and that overwhelming survival situations like these can make people very confused. But you don’t have to abandon yourself anymore. You’re not responsible for this man’s actions and, least of all, his happiness. All you need to do now is to get out of this abusive cycle and do so safely.
You nod again, and think about the familiar scent of his shirt.
You think about the playful smile he gives you when you leave the shower, grinning at your pout when he’s been too handsy again with your butthole.
Then you start to cry.
…
It’s difficult to stay calm and collected when the stolen key first scrapes, then turns inside your lock.
It’s difficult to look at him without shaking and trembling from dread.
Armed with the knowledge you always had, your palms are sweaty and your cheeks are ablaze when König opens your front door without any kind of warning that he’s coming. Fear and ecstasy align: you’ve grown used to it that he uses you and your house like it all belongs to him. You sort of like it that he simply decided somewhere along the way that you are his girlfriend now; you adore a man who just walks in with the right of conquest.
But he’s also a man who holds multitudes inside him now: the man you used to be scared of, the man you almost fell in love with, the man your therapist says is dangerous and unstable.
And anyone can see he’s dangerous and unstable. It’s just a different thing to look at the man who’s been inside you more than a dozen times and see someone else standing there... Now that you’ve been splashed with some ice-cold water, your short history with him feels like a series of traumatic events. Compared to all the normal relationships, yours is a fucking train wreck. You just didn’t want to think of it that way. Not when he has been so ...cute.
Stockholm Syndrome, your mind whispers, and all you want to do is strangle it, cancel all the white noise in your brain. Call your therapist and say that she doesn’t know shit about anything, then go to your insane lover and tell him he’s the one and only for you.
But now that you look at him, you’re not so sure. You’re not sure about anything anymore: who you are, who he is, what has happened these past few months.
And on top of it all, König looks very homely and fuckable today.
Dressed in his black sweats and an old, worn t-shirt, he looks like he just got home from the gym. Everything’s baggy enough to cover the muscles you’ve wished to see for weeks – too bashful to ask for nudes, you realise you’ve been shy only because you didn’t want anyone to later accuse you of bringing this horror upon yourself.
His hair is cut short, almost to a buzzcut, and it makes you mourn that you can’t grab his hair anymore, to guide his hungry mouth over your folds when he’s lapping at you like a fucking dog. You know he likes it loads when you do that – although, do psychopaths even like it when others feel pleasure? Surely not. So how could he fake joy and love so well…?
“Why haven’t you answered my calls?” He demands to know, and the loud, carefree tone twists in your heart like there’s a knife in there.
The duffel bag hits the floor with a thump, the smile that follows is almost relaxed. Way more confident and drowsy than the earlier sadistic grins, he looks… almost normal to you now, and it’s chilling, an entire cold breeze blowing inside your heart as you try to decipher who the fuck this man even is beneath his skin. Usually, you’ve at least strolled somewhere around him so that he can have a grab at you. Now, you keep your distance, just like you used to do when he was nothing but a username on your phone.
And when you won’t walk into his arms, he finally realizes something is off.
“You want to play difficult again...?”
He stops and stands at his full height, giving you that naughty little half-grin and a confused once-over that makes your knees feel weak.
He even tilts his head like a puppy who doesn’t understand what’s going on, and your heart is wrung dry in your chest, it’s dark, empty and hollow when he finally takes a step and pulls you into a forced, brutal hug.
“Huh? Princess wants to–”
“Stop it,” you press your hands over his chest and try to fight his embrace.
He doesn’t stop there–of course he doesn’t–just burrows his shaved face into your neck and tries to give you a few bites.
“I don’t think so,” he laughs while licking your skin. “Princess just want to get fucked hard... Is that it?”
“No. We can’t–I can’t do this.”
“Why can’t you? Hmm?” He continues to babble in your ear. “Why can’t you do this...? Tell me, princess.”
“Because I’m… I’m seeing someone.”
You don’t know what the fuck is even happening: you don’t know why you said that, why you invented such a lie. But the arms let you go as quickly as they seized you.
“...WHAT?!”
It cuts air, that word. Slices it in half as his breath hits you with a stupefied, furious tone.
Yeah…
It’s understandable that he’s riled.
You, on the other hand, are drifting somewhere far out of your body. All you know is that your therapist told you to get out. You’ve repeated it to yourself like a mantra this past few days: leaving is the only viable tactic. That’s what she told you…
“We need to stop… whatever this is,” you look at the hands on his chest.
Your hands, still touching him…
You slide them off quickly.
“What the… Who is he?"
He looks at you with wild, furious eyes, his nose a little crumpled from the ick. You avoid his stare, now piercing and stripped of all the madness for a while. It’s too much to stand under that laser gaze as it is – if you raised your eyes to his he could tell you’re lying for sure.
What the fuck were you even thinking...?
That he’ll leave you alone after he finds out there is no other man?
He’s only going to fuck you raw or worse, but the saddest thing is, it seems that this has been a certain fear of his because he’s not interested in getting to the actual bottom of this. He’s not even that shocked. He’s panting and huffing, yes, but he doesn’t blame you or call you a whore; he doesn’t shame you in any way. His first question is who the rival is – and why there even is a rival.
“Why… Why would you… Does he have more money?”
“What..? No.”
“Bigger cock?”
“I’m not gonna answer that.”
“Who is he, Schatzi,” he tries to persuade with a gentler tone when fury and spit won’t work.
He simply can’t grasp it why a woman would treat him like this; he certainly doesn’t understand why you could even want someone other than him. He thinks all a woman needs is a big dick and a truckload of money. That no one in this world could take you away from him simply by, for example, treating you decently. Treating you like a human fucking being...
It would be laughable if it weren’t so sad, his worldview that leaves only the strong alive. And your therapist told you that whatever you do, you shouldn’t engage... If you are forced to stay in contact with this man, you should apply the DEEP technique. Don’t defend, don’t engage, don’t explain, don’t personalize. Just be like a stone wall – nothing goes in, nothing comes out. Don’t try to fight him, don’t try to win. Don’t tell him what he did wrong; don’t accuse him of anything at all. No matter how wronged and hurt you feel, you can’t get back what’s yours, so the only option is to leave.
But the thing is, you don’t know how.
You don’t want to throw him in jail, so you never went to the police. You just… You don’t even know what you want. So apparently, a lie slipped out, some emergency response to an impossible situation.
And now you’re in a deep pile of shit while he’s spiralling into a tornado of masculine denial, one of the most dangerous natural disasters of all...
“I’m–I’m not gonna tell you,” you make up quickly. “It’s none of your business.”
You must keep acting because backing down now would be even more shady. That’s what you tell yourself when, in truth, you know it’s another lie.
All that talk about other women has made you jealous enough to vie for a lousy attempt to make him jealous in turn... It’s a dangerous game because you’re no longer a pawn or victim; you’re a player, and not much better than him because you’re playing awfully dirty. Who do you even think you are, trying to trick him, knowing he will only come back and make you answer for your crimes?
And how delicious it will be to answer for them sooner or later… You’re already waiting for the punishment and you know it. Right now, you anticipate it as if it’s some kind of reward. In your heart, you’ve made a choice, and your therapist would throw her hands in the sky and scream if she knew.
“Yeah... Yeah, of course,” he repeats, sliding a hand across his shaved jaw. “Fuck the loser and marry the jock. Right. I get it.”
He’s pacing around the living room, too agitated to stay put or calm down. His brain is visibly trying to decode how something like this could even happen. He used to be in control; he used to know everything his doll was doing, even behind his back.
How did you, a simple, dumb girl, manage to have an affair on the side when his eye is fixed on you nearly 24/7?
“We were so happy…” he says to himself, lamenting the loss of what was, in his mind, a beautiful, healthy relationship.
“There never was a ‘we’, ok? I never wanted this,” you blurt, closer to the actual truth than you’d want to admit.
He stops his eternal pacing and looks at you oddly—as if such a thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. That his lovely little conquest, in fact, didn’t want this to begin with.
“Look,” you take a soft step towards him. “You’re delusional. You need help…”
Shit, shit, shit...
That was not supposed to come out of your mouth either.
You should never tell a crazy man he’s crazy... You can’t change him, you can’t change him, you can’t change him. It’s futile to even try.
But as always, this man doesn’t seem to give a fuck about what you think. He only looks at you like you’re talking gibberish; some nonsense women are on about every now and then.
“Just sex, huh?”
“...Yeah,” you whisper more and more lies. “Just sex.”
He looks you up and down, and you finally get what is coming for you.
Shame.
Heaps of it.
He looks at you like your price just went down at the market; he looks at you like you’re more than just disgusting, like you’re something vile he said goodbye to long ago. It’s the first time he’s given you such a foul look.
“You women are fucking all alike,” he whines like there’s something utterly gross in his mouth.
And the most curious part is that he’s faking some of that scorn. He’s overdoing it, turning this into a theatre where he tries to put you into your place with a single look alone. You know it’s the pain talking because he looks a bit foolish when he tries to feign repulsion that isn’t quite there. This is only a martyr's display of I knew this would happen when you know he’s trying to hide the pain.
He’s insulted, sure, but he’s also afraid of losing you to someone else. The actual devalue and discard phase of a pathological abuser would look different: he should just dump you in the trash and say he already got ten women waiting for him. He’s not supposed to be this invested in you, oh no.
“I thought you were different,” he spits with full-scale hurt. “A good woman. You were fucking perfect.”
Were.
Were…
“Sorry to disappoint you,” you breathe into the air between you.
His nostrils flare, once, twice, when he looks down at you. Those once blue eyes are now wide and white: he looks like someone who’s about to wreck this whole house at any minute; years of bottled pain soon about to be let loose. Shocked, you realize you just said the exact words he once said to you. Long ago, when he told you he was not one of the good guys… And what’s actually painful is not that he’s once again jumping off the walls but that he thinks you capable of having an affair behind his back. He believes it of you; in fact, he has only waited for you to bounce on some other man’s cock and cheat him nice and good. Run after a better offer like a whore to a bigger pile of money: that’s how it simply works in his world.
And psychopaths aren’t supposed to feel pain... They’re supposed to be cold and calculative, not behave like hurt boys who just got their toys taken away.
Maybe he’s only a sociopath, your mind suggests cheerfully.
“I’m going to kill him,” he informs with a cool, steady tone.
“No,” you shake your head, thrill exploding at your core.
“Gonna kill him slowly. Fucking slowly. It’s gonna take at least a week.”
“König…”
“Gonna fuck him with a knife for a week.”
“Stop it.”
“And then… I’ll come back to you. Won’t even wash the blood off. Gonna fuck you with his blood all over me.”
Jesus Christ…
The thrill inside you spreads as you watch him chant himself into a slow and steady havoc. It’s a vibrant mania that makes his pupils blow wide and his hands turn steady. His throat works whatever ugly slump was there down without trouble, and your heart is thundering in your ears from how the air seems to just thicken around him.
It’s like a spell before a bloodbath, a collection of magical words to gather his strength for carnage. A black mass before he goes to explode like a nuclear weapon among his enemies.
“Gonna fucking ruin you for any other guy,” he vows with a chiselled, dark tone that rises like thunder. “I fucking swear that, do you hear me?”
Yes… Yes…
Please, god, yes.
You look at him like he’s a god, but he only sees a woman who’s mocking him with glee.
He turns away, and you flinch, hold your breath as he storms out of the door he just came through, his duffel bag left lonely and forgotten on the floor. The heavy wooden door slams shut so forcefully that it drops a picture off the wall: the glass shatters into tiny little pieces as it hits the parquet, and your heart just won’t stop racing.
The air is thick with his scent; it tastes of slick hurt breaths and heavy sweat, and you wonder if there is anyone in the whole world who can help you now.
“Jesus Christ,” you whisper, alone in your cold, crazed home.
This is not what your therapist recommended.
Chapter 12
Notes:
This chapter is long as hell, this time just couldn’t split it anywhere! I suggest you hunker down with some tea or coffee or something because lol 9 k is no joke. Also wish to remind everyone that the fluff tag is there for a reason even if it looks like a sick prank ^^ hehe!
Enjoy! <3
Chapter Text
Contrary to what he promised, König is away for more than a week.
Probably trying to get to the bottom of this because obviously, you’re not seeing some other guy… You’re not even thinking about other men than him.
You’re not sulking, or so you say to yourself when you pick the most sultry, cute clothes for TV. Pink nails and pink lipstick, a few buttons from your blouse always open so that he can see your pretty little peaches all prepped up and seethe in his want. Floral dresses and lashes that bat sweetly: those are your weapons of mass destruction, your way of calling him back to you when almost two weeks have passed. He should’ve burst through your door by now, so you even pour a bowl full of marinade on top of some chicken and ponder out loud how sometimes, you wish you had a dog to lick these things clean…
The man behind the camera gapes at you with his mouth slightly open, but you pretend you never even see that stupefied, slightly aroused face. Your producer is happy with this recent turn of events and how the pinch of sudden naughtiness has brought your show more viewers. You just want one crazy Austrian mercenary to see you, to watch how silly a girl can get when they miss a particular cock they’re extremely fond of.
It’s frightening how conditioned you are to his and only his attention. Other males look like little boys to you now… Even the most prominent, muscular men look too small, so laughably unmanly in your eyes. Too weak, too normal, somehow so incredibly ordinary that you wonder how on earth you have ever wanted to be with a guy other than your insane war criminal.
These men have no balls, no guts, no shaky, sweaty hands that try to steal their way under your dress. No stare that feels like fire on your skin, no mouth that curves into a foul, cruel smile. None of those cocks could find the spot in you that makes you both cum and cry; no one else could make your heart sing and scream as he does.
These men tell no awful, dirty jokes, they give you no comments about how you should be collared and tagged as their property. They would never let you put a collar on them as well—a spiked, black one with a chain as thick as your wrist. None of them would let you parade them down the street and be overjoyed about it; they would never escape the leash and attack their pretty owner with a bloodied grin and a throbbing, leaking cock.
You wonder if they’re even alive… Frankly, most of these men look like they’re all half-dead. Living for nothing else than some clean indoor job, some empty entertainment to fill their mind, hobbies so normal they would bore any sane person to death. An occasional blowjob as their main dream in life, a lazy, half-assed missionary on Sunday mornings if they’re not too invested in their smartphones, something spicy once a year and only if they’re drunk.
Some of these guys don’t even own a gun… Most of them have never killed anyone. It’s sick, but you find yourself reluctant to date someone who won’t be willing to fuck holes into a man with a blunt blade just to get your attention and get rid of competition. Who has ever claimed you to himself like König has? Who has ever cared for you like this man has? No one has been this devoted, this crazy, this willing to prove his love to you over and over again. No one has eaten you out like you’re his last meal and vowed to do it to you every day if you want.
Your therapist might call it an unhealthy obsession, but you’re not that interested in her opinions anymore. Life is more complicated than that… Men and women are more complex than that. The voice that tries to tell you there’s an explanation for why you feel this way shuts down almost on its own by now because a cold, lonely bed is your real enemy, not him. Having to reduce yourself to a decent, normal being sounds like a nightmare; trying to accept and love a man who is kind and considerate towards you somehow sounds like hell on earth. A healthy, uneventful relationship is either an anomaly or a trap, a golden cage to die in.
You have a thirst inside you that can’t be quenched, something he started and only he can satisfy.
The day the episode airs, the one that has you sighing dreamily after dogs licking your dishes clean, is filled with gathering clouds and a thick air that leaves you with a headache. As soon as the evening gathers and the darkness falls, the flood arrives as well.
And the rain is not your ally tonight. It doesn’t rap your windows softly or call you to sleep, nor does it wash away hope and guilt.
It hits your windows in thick blankets, sweeps across the streets like a herald to the apocalypse, beats your house from all sides until you check the weather cast for warnings, scrolling down the news for possible local floods. There are none: it’s just a heavy rain that rolls over your silent suburb with no mercy. A thunderless, early summer storm that makes you hope no one has left their laundry or dogs outside, for the rain hammers the world so hard it must leave bruises on the skin.
Six hours after the shameful episode aired, there’s a knock on your door—three heavy thumps, actually—demanding to get in.
You don’t have to guess who it is and why that special someone chose not to use the doorbell. Or a stolen key…
If anything, you’re surprised he doesn’t wrench the door open with a crowbar. Simply kick it in and attack you with cock and teeth, demanding to know why you fooled him like this in the first place.
He must be angry and hard behind that door, erect, confused and therefore fierce. Maybe he wants to see if you’ll open the door yourself, answer for your crimes with some backbone... Maybe he wants to give you a gleeful head start before barging in, see if you try to escape through a window perhaps.
Like a metronome to doom, your heart thunders in your chest as you walk to answer the door, your every limb gelid and weak. When you open it, you see your tormentor: tall, ugly and rough, so handsome that your pussy gives a yearning, tentative throb at the sight.
He’s drenched, completely soaked... Nose and chin dripping with rain, his shoulders heaving as if he just marathoned here, feet planted wide to ground himself before the massacre begins. ‘Demonic’ is the first word that comes to mind, even if he looks like a wet dog there on your porch. Your dog, left outside in the rain for no reason at all except its owner’s whims…
“There is no other man,” he heaves, voice heavy with testosterone from his latest jealous streak.
“No.”
You stand before him like an effigy of calm, but inside, there’s tumult enough for a whole townful of people.
You wonder if this is how he looks like before he’s about to torch someone’s eyes out in some torture dungeon he drags his prisoners of war into. You wonder if those prisoners were ever as confused as you about getting water and food the next day… König means king in German; that’s what you looked up long ago. You never saw a literal ruler in him, though, only a man pretending to be a thousand things and then some more. Aren’t those kinds of people usually called fools instead of kings…? Still, you’re the last person on earth to call him that anymore.
Because how is it that this man looks both like a boy and a god? How can it be that your stomach turns with both disgust and awe when you look at him?
And how many more times do you have to disintegrate because of this relationship?
There’s a roguish glint in his eyes, malevolent and pleased, now that he’s caught on to your stupid little trick. You’re his—you always were—and he’s only here to claim what belongs to him. Aroused by the prospect of a good hard fuck, he can’t wait to get his hands on you. But first, he wants to savour this moment… The fear and wonder in your eyes, the woman that gave him an empty bone to chase just because she could.
You’re playing with fire—you can see it in his stare that you’re his dream girl, someone who almost outsmarted him for a while there. Threw him on the wrong trail while you prance and pout on the TV screen in revealing tops and flowy skirts, telling everyone how you want a dog to lick your cunt.
Oh yes, he must be hard already… Smile spreading on his face despite the rain because he knows he gets to rail you soon.
“You little fool,” he purrs—softly, so softly…
You look up at him with big, wide eyes, throat dry from all complaints.
There was no one indeed to pull an onslaught upon, no man to rape with his biggest knife for daring to lay a hand on you, and you know there’s nothing you can say to make him leave anymore. He knows you now, body and soul, so what’s the point of defence?
“Silly little… You tried to make me jealous?”
He tilts his head in curiosity, and that’s when you finally snap, slip and fall.
You can’t take it anymore: you can’t take that fucked up nose, those fucked up teeth, that creepy, fucked up smile.
So you rise onto your toes and kiss him.
It’s not a peck or a shy little kiss, no. It’s ravenous, voracious, so greedy that it leaves you both without air as you throw your arms around his neck and press yourself against him like the horniest slut.
He’s rendered completely silent at first, but then recuperates, fast, like a soldier who can’t afford to go into a shock. Strong arms go around you, smothering you as you’re lifted from your feet. He answers your kiss with such unbridled hunger that it easily drowns your own, but right now, it’s not about who devours who: it’s about what is even left of you both after you’re done.
The door never slams shut behind him—perhaps, you can’t really hear if it does or doesn’t. All you hear is the mutual panting as you try to gasp for tiny sips of air before returning to each other's mouths once more. His is rough and demanding, but so is yours, and t’s not saying, I missed you, it’s saying, What the everloving fuck took you so long?
You’re about to go insane if you don’t feel him inside you soon… Plugged in, bottomed out, so snug and close and tight that the both of you cease to exist.
“Fuck me,” you breathe in the middle of kissing him sloppy. “Fuck me, now–”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he pants into your mouth, voice already sucked dry.
He tries to compete with your greed as best as he can, but it’s no use. When you start to squirm in his grasp, he sets you down, only to march your back flush against a wall.
If your life was a movie, this would be the part where you get fucked nice and hard against it. If this was a movie, this would be the turning point of your whole life, a reconciliation followed by a happy ever after with the man who finally came to his senses and claimed the leading lady in the most romantic way.
But it’s not a movie.
This is real and cruel, and you fear that he’s back from a killing spree—still, your mouth never leaves his, not even when a body three times the size of yours forces all the air out of you. Envelops you, swathes you, traps you so that you can’t even grind yourself against him. He’s a dick and a torturer, just staples you there so that you can’t even breathe, tries to hump you with his clothes on like the moron that he is. Even worse are his attempts to kiss you back: it’s clumsy and pathetic, mediocre at best, and it only makes you more frustrated.
“König,” you sob. “Now.”
“Ssshit–Give me a fucking second–”
You try to rip the buttons of his pants open, but he brings his trembling hands over yours and shoos them away so he can do it himself more efficiently. Always the top dog, even if he’s an underdog in life, he won’t let you even yank his pants down without being an ass about it. The front door is still open because you can hear the rain; anyone can see how you’re about to get brutally fucked, but you don’t care. Who would go out into a hail?
Oh, yeah…
He would.
Drenched like a wet dog, the front of your dress is already soaked through from how wet his shirt is. The tiny hairs on the top of his head are only a few millimetres long and send a spritz of rain on your face when you run your hand through them. He’s positively trembling with anticipation, almost forgets to grope you back when he feels your fingers sweep across his scalp. You breathe a relieved laugh in his mouth when he finally pulls that monster of a cock out: grabbing it with eager hands, you push the foreskin back and relish the groan that leaves his throat.
“Gottverfickte…”
He cusses something thick and heady in German when the sensitive head of his cock is exposed, and something down your belly twitches when you hear it, that dense, involuntary curse pushed past his teeth.
It feels like dynamite in your hand, his cock: lean and long and so hot that it can only compare with his mouth. Teeth clashing against yours, he can’t believe that this is even happening: that he’s being kissed and groped by a girl who used to play hard to get, who used to be so fucking difficult. Now you’re behaving like a cock-hungry slut, moaning and giggling on his tongue while adjusting the grip on his dick.
“Careful with that,” he rasps, his usual baritone slightly off-pitch. “It might go off…”
“Already?” you huff a laugh, open his mouth with yours. “Bad dog...”
“Hah… Hah… Is that how princess wants to–”
“Shh.”
You don’t know who the fuck is talking with your mouth, but that somebody is reckless and doesn’t give a shit about consequences.
König however, couldn’t be more pleased…
He sounds like he can’t believe his good luck.
And it’s not exactly a king treatment he’s receiving here, but his back still turns to steel when you give him another lousy stroke. A dry whimper gets pushed from his throat when the back of your hand meets his balls; he once told you he’s sensitive down there, so of course your new bold self sweeps a palm to cup the ugly things. Weighs them in your hand as if to test how full they are, letting your jaw drop along with his broken sigh.
“Fuck, princess…”
You hum sweetly in his mouth, drunk by the effect a simple fondle has on him. You even test your luck and catch his lower lip between your teeth, suck and eventually bite it until he hisses and curses again, long strings of thick obscenities you don’t wish to even guess what they mean.
He never really shaves down there, which means a sweet but stale type of man sweat drifts up towards your nose. The hairs around his cock and balls prickle your skin, his abandoned dick jumping fiercely from the sudden love he’s getting all over.
Old, you think as you feel how loose the skin around his sacks is, even when the man is aroused.
Old and unloved…
“Gonna fucking cum if you keep doing that,” he groans with a clogged, burnt breath.
You laugh softly, and the cock is nothing but solid wood in your hand; it merely juts proud and thick in your grip, won’t come down at all.
Who knew this crazy mutt could be tamed with a soft touch and a kiss?
Some soft speech is all he ever wanted, a girl jerking him off slowly, agonizingly slowly.
Perhaps you should’ve known König isn’t picky, nor is he shy about a woman taking the reins for a while. In fact he begged it of you once when his face was stuffed between your legs. Apparently, it doesn’t make him any less of a man to be whining and leaking like a dog in heat here: this man is so sick he would do anything for a kind touch and a sweet kiss. Anything for any kind of attention, really.
But it’s not like he’s under your command now, no. He is only curious to the point of spitting seed all over your hand. Maybe he’s barked orders so much that a cute, frail lady trying to put him in his place tickles him just the right way. He could rip your dress in half and pin your hands over your head at any given moment; he could tear your underwear to shreds and split you open with his cock if he just so wanted.
But he won’t do so, not this time.
You’re fun when you’re a bit frightened of him; you’re even more fun when you’re trying to play this game. He only looks at you with a pleased glint in his otherwise dark eyes, the blue in them nearly swallowed by want. Dressed all in black like always, eyes rimmed red from all the sleepless nights, this crazy killer allows you to toy with him and only leaks love all over your dress as he does it.
You want to call him a pervert, an old, dirty mutt who shouldn’t be allowed near women at all… You want to show him your pussy and tell him he can only have a taste if he promises to behave. You want to get on your knees and edge him until he’s shaking and moaning about you being a dirty princess who should be fucked until she can’t walk straight.
You know how all those scenarios would end—with you covered in cum and love bites—and it only makes you dead sure that this man right here is the only one for you.
“What the hell took you so long,” you complain as if displeased, not thinking about the repercussions at all. “I thought you’d be here sooner...”
There’s a quick flash in his eyes, but you can’t deduce if it betrays wrath or excitement. He’s leering at you from above, his broken nose creasing from how good it feels to have a woman’s hand wrapped around his cock, a cute, soft hand far gentler than his own cruel paw.
“H–aah… You think this is a game, don’t you? Making me run around like that…”
You don’t know what to say to him, and he snorts out of spite, making it clear that you’re a fool if you think you have the upper hand here. Angling his face so that you’re trapped between his hot breaths and a cold, unfeeling wall, he rests his giant hand over the ivory paint next to your face. It’s a predatory move to surround and trap you, a supple yet effective way to say that he’s not the pooch you want him to be, not even if you decided to throw all your silly tricks and traps at him.
“You want to know how many corpses I left behind?”
The question is rumbling and seductive, swamped with mysteries no woman should ever come across. You swallow thickly and stop what you’re doing, the cock in your hand giving a nice, long pull when you take a fearful look at him.
“No,” you whisper.
“No…?”
He laughs and bends down to whisper the most haunting sentences in your ear.
“Little princess is a coward. Ach, it doesn’t matter... You’re worth every single kill.”
The world staggers, then reels.
You try to sob, but can’t—how many men are dead because of you? Probably countless, if not more…
God willing, he’s just toying with you, punishing you after finding out there’s no competition, at least, none his girl is enamoured with. He has some particularly nasty ways of getting the information he needs, some access to intel civilians could only dream of utilizing while stalking their crush. So why would he go on a killing spree when he saw there’s no action going on after all?
Then again, König is erratic and unpredictable, so much so that you’re not sure if you should be concerned for every man you’ve interacted with in the past few months. He might determine your male relatives a threat as far as you know; hell, he might’ve killed every single cousin and old classmate just in case.
He might be lying to you; he might be telling the truth. He might be teasing you just to see how you react. And as much as he must enjoy seeing your current frail expression, it’s not very noble of you not to want to know the damage you’ve possibly caused.
“I'm sorry,” a tear runs down your cheek, but König only chuckles.
“It's not me you should feel sorry for, princess.”
The hand that finds its way under your dress is shaky but swift. You do nothing as he yanks your panties down with sloppy impatience -- you just stand there, half-slumped against the wall in shocked silence as he goes for the main prize. When the fabric gets caught somewhere between your thighs, he finally roughs another hand down and tears the fabric apart like it's only made of cobweb.
That’s what finally makes you come alive: the sound of pretty, nice lace getting ripped apart.
“You always have to destroy something, don’t you? You fucking animal–”
Your weak insult gets claimed with a kiss, a rough mouth descending upon you to shut you up. You even feel a slimy tongue push past your teeth, almost tickling the back of your throat from how much he wants to maul your mouth, lose himself in you after his horrible deeds.
Love can make people crazy…
That’s what echoes in your head, his words from before, comforting and fully detached from reality. This is crazy, so insane, the need to have him so demanding that your knees are about to give in. He’s a full-on fucking murderer, which is hopefully why you’re still a bit too dry for him, so you sniffle in his mouth, try to babble something incoherent about lube. You need olive oil, something, anything, or it’s going to hurt.
He seems to ignore you at first, then withdraws just enough to spit on his palm. Rubs the drool on the head of his cock while you stare at him in bewildered awe, watch him treat his dick like it’s only a gun to be oiled.
It feels like love, that he doesn’t want to hurt you... It feels like queen treatment that he wants to ease the burn with his own spit. It’s barely enough, but you lift and spread your leg for him to enter, and enter he does: with a messy, slippery probe, a sudden invasive thrust that forces a shuddering breath out of you.
“Yeah,” he grunts on your face when he sees your shocked, wide stare. “Animal, eh?”
“S-Shut up and–”
“You shut up.”
He huffs a laugh and gathers your legs, lifts you up like you’re nothing but a fleshlight with limbs.
“Hah… You shut up…”
Your mouth is left gaping open, eyes wet and wide as you’re propped on his dick like a toy. Spread wide open and unable to move, your cunt is stuffed full with the thick length of him while your ass rests on his balls, now fat and pulled tight.
“You fucking…” he starts, then huffs the rest of it on your neck. “I hunted some imaginary man for weeks. Even took a leave from work…”
You fucking slut, is what you hear in your head, knowing that König would never call you that. Not out loud. He’s a gentleman in that respect; he has some actual goddamn principles in that field.
So is it pathetic of you, to adore him for not hurting you with slurs?
“You silly little–Could’ve spent it with you instead…”
He mutters rants on your skin, grunting through the first few thrusts. True to his old ways, he starts to fuck you against the wall, boots planting on the fine parquet as he takes a wider stance to better bully his cock inside you. The sloppy noise when he withdraws tells you both just how embarrassingly quickly you’re able to get wet for him. Even more lewd is the sound that comes when he glides himself back in, pleasure flickering in his eyes, something much more profound than just pure, simple sadism.
Moans spill from your mouth as you ease into his lap—you’re jello, and not only because he’s rutting you like he owns you. Sharp, pedantic thrusts that make it clear you’re his to love and explore, he jams himself home, over and over again. Your dog is both gentle and not, most of all, needy, so overwhelmed with want that he’s about to crawl out of his skin. Like a machine sent here to punish you, only, the punishment is sugar-coated with lust, something so terrible it makes today’s storm feel like a light spring rain.
“Gonna fuck you senseless this time,” he pants softly. “You hear me? The full princess treatment…”
His immature threats have lost their power, especially when said a tad too affectionately. They’re more like love confessions to you now, and so you just cling to him, dangling from his neck, nothing but a heap of weak limbs trembling in his hold while he continues to impale you. More than anything, you’d like to know his real name so you could whisper it along with the sloppy sounds of your pussy. Claim him like he’s claimed you, clamp down on his cock and say his name out loud, bind him to you forever with a series of sighs.
A tight knot is already forming at your core, something so sweet it makes your whole body swim in pleasure, attach to him with a tighter grip. The pressure gathers somewhere beneath your navel: the lewd sounds of your hole taking the full brunt of his treatment somehow so sweet. He could fuck you like a sewing machine and it would only result in you singing like an angel of heaven.
“You like that, huh? You like to get fucked hard?”
Your heart flutters something awful and desperate, competing only with your cunt. He’s always at his most unhinged when he’s about to cum, but you can’t answer him, not with words. You can’t speak a thing when his mouth is still hovering over yours, claiming it every now and then when he forgets to be harsh. It’s only gasps and sobs that hit his tongue, your eyes squeezing shut from the pleasure – more than enough proof that you were in desperate need of this.
“It’s big, I know,” he brags, now delirious and out of breath. “Big fucking cock… You’re gonna feel me for weeks…”
Damp puffs hit your face, the brief mocking flare in his voice telling you that he doesn’t wish to be appreciated only for his dick—what kind of a man ultimately would? But some childish need is taking place here, a need to be wanted, a wish to be included and most of all, picked, the despair manifesting as a grown man blurting out the praise you can’t provide him even if you wanted to.
“Girls like you always need a big one,” he snarls. “Is that right?”
It’s a vicious, scornful slur that makes your stomach tighten even more. No matter how horrible he is, no matter how many people he has killed, he’s still just a lonely soul trying to find his way home...
Not even this carnal display he wants to put you through for the sake of proving a point is enough to make you hate him anymore. Not even the fact that it still burns when he rams his cock past your lips and into the squishy spot at the core of you is enough to douse the raw intimacy here. Even your cunt seems to weep from the need to tell him that he’s more to you than just a nice, big cock.
“I just…want you,” you breathe out into the open. “I just want…y-you…”
“You want me,” he repeats after you, borderline perplexed.
Your hands are somewhere around his neck, suddenly conscious of how slick his skin is, how it’s starting to sweat. There’s nowhere to escape now, and something is happening, something miraculous and awful…
You’re becoming aware, so wonderfully, horribly aware.
The clinking of his belt as he fucks you, the squeak of his rubber soles on the floor. Your fingertips grazing the baby hairs of his neck; his clogged panting on your skin as he tries to search for something to hold power over, finding only your soft, pleading stare.
The moment crystallizes right then and there: the darkness of the living room behind him, the lights that you left on in the kitchen… The girth of him invading you as he rails you like a fuck toy: all of it, as you realize that you’re in love with him.
Gold seeps into your stomach the moment when everything shifts: you simply stare into his gaping pit of a soul, your own now irreversibly thrown off its axis. It’s different from the want, the fear, different from any other emotion on earth because it is so pure. Nothing else shoots you full of gold like this, nothing in this world compares.
You wonder if he knows… If he can feel it, if he can somehow read it from the way your fingers twitch and settle against him again. That something in the air between you has changed, that you touch him differently, that this is it now. You’re a woman down; he finally won.
“Don’t stop,” you whisper, skin shooting full of goosebumps from love and dread. “Please never stop… Please please, please…”
The shields are gone, dropped, evaporated: every single one has now been destroyed as you bring your hands to his face and sweep his tears away with your thumbs. The invisible ones, the ones he cried long ago, perhaps, or the ones he never even shed…
And he can't take it.
He can’t stand it.
A loving stare and a woman cupping his face is too much; the pull of your cunt hellish as your lips part to quiver before a deafening orgasm. He looks at you with that same brokenness of the first night, that unadulterated yearning you briefly saw when he proposed to you. But now, there’s confusion in there, too. Even suspicion. Want. Hunger, so fathomless that it makes even him afraid.
And he’s not afraid of anything.
“I told you,” he spits weak malice at your pleas, eyes full of pain and chaos. “I fucking told you…”
There will come a time when you’ll beg me to never stop…
You quiver the last sigh, and close your eyes, cum eventually.
He remains the same man he ever was: selfish and impatient, a bit too happy about what he managed to do to you, watching your fucked-out face with a half-lidded victory stare as you break into tiny little pieces before him. But when he cums, not much after you, he sounds like an injured boy rather than a man who kills his foes by the thousands. Rain beats the porch as he comes undone with a choked moan and some broken whines that send more molten fire into your gut.
Balls slap tight against your sopping cunt a few times more before he pins you to the wall with his torso alone, sweaty and shaking, panting like a beaten dog between your collarbones. Still seated on his cock, you can feel it pulse: thick, fat swells inside you while your cunt squeezes him tight. You allow yourself to caress the back of his neck once, maybe twice... As if it was only an accident, absent-minded.
Then you start to cry. Your body is flooded with hormones, with sorrow, with so much yearning, the bittersweet new reality where you don’t have to fight against your feelings anymore. He reaches for your hand and brings it next to your face, buries his own into your neck while holding you like a pinned butterfly on the wall. Sighs at your chest pushing out tears, squeezes your hand with silent pity. It’s a little heartbreaking how much this man wants to hold your hand during or after sex, and you squeeze his fingers back just for the sake of that.
And then he says it…
Not the pathetic I love you whimper, but something much better and far worse.
“I want to marry you.”
He makes a hawking noise and swallows, continues with his panting as if this was the most necessary fuck of his life. Then he turns his head, his lips brushing the back of your ear now. You sip some air and try to keep it cool even if your heart is being pierced by a knife, your fingers flexing from hope.
“Would you marry me?”
“...No.”
“Why not?” He withdraws and looks at your face, up and down to determine the reason for another refusal. “I’m a loser?”
“Stop repeating that stupid word…”
There’s too much to take in here as it is, and you start to squirm in his hold. He lets you go, thinking you must be back at playing hard to get. That all you want from him is money and some cock, some entertainment when you feel bored. You doubt he would even believe you if you told him that you’re in love with him... Nice and pretty, with your appealing eyes guided up—he would probably laugh at you and your new fresh tricks. Women can’t be trusted, but he comes back to you, even if only for the sake of crumbs. More tears try to push out, but not before you push them back down—this is not the fucking time nor the place.
He looms there over you, watching, forever watching, and you turn your gaze away out of sudden shyness, demure bashfulness born from a huge crush bordering on love. Pull your skirt down before his seed gushes out and stains your thighs—it’s a bit useless, you know because he has a runny sort of cum that always oozes through even the hardiest cotton underwear no matter what you do, and currently, you don’t even have that as a barrier. The easiest thing to do would be to go take a shower, but you don’t know if you can stand König’s naked presence there right now.
He looks ridiculously hot with his pants open and his feet planted wide, still wearing his boots and insisting on wearing tactical pants even among civilians. Any other man would look out of place with his cock out like that, but he only looks like it’s his natural state, to look like he just killed and fucked someone.
He tucks his cock back in and buckles his belt while you continue to stare at the floor, his sex-addled brain probably pleased about your current state. You're a woman fucked mute and tame so everything is just as it should be in his world. You even press your thighs together under your dress, making it obvious that you're back to being shy when just a moment ago, you were moaning like a whore. He must like his women like this: both the suffering Madonna and a woman nasty and defiled, both a lap to come home to and a pussy to milk him good.
“Are you hungry?” You ask, eyes on the floor still.
“Always.”
You turn and stroll into the kitchen with him on your heels, pulling out some cold lasagna from the fridge. He doesn’t even care to reheat it, just scoops big chunks of food on the plate you hand him. You sit at the opposite end of the table and watch him eat, distant, motherly feelings arising as you see him gobble it up like he has never even seen food. He finishes it in record time, takes more, eats, and takes some more until there’s nothing left. Licks his lips after he’s done and looks at you like you’re his naughty, saving angel.
“If you keep feeding me like this…”
It’s a full-blown compliment, the highest praise you’ve ever received on your food. The warm feelings spread now like wildfire: you feel so accomplished for giving this man some cunt and food, for satiating a few of his basic needs. You still can’t believe you’ve stooped so low, that you actually want to take care of this man. But it’s just so easy that you’re over the top hooked.
If a good old hatefuck topped with lasagna makes him this happy, what would happen if you really put your back into it?
“Are you alright, Schatzi?”
“No,” you turn to look at the dirty dishes between you, trying to escape his searing stare. “I… I feel a little confused.”
“Hm. Perhaps those meds are not good for you.”
“Perhaps... The doctor said I could try this other–”
“I meant, perhaps you should ditch that shit entirely and see what happens.”
You raise your eyes at him; he’s looking back with a calm, overbearing stare. You can’t tell if he’s being serious or not, but that look on his face is somewhat unsettling.
“I can’t just quit my medicine like that,” you try to explain.
“I quit mine,” he shrugs back.
You stare at him for a moment, simply stare, because you’re not sure if you heard him right.
“Wow,” you blurt without thinking.
“What?”
“...Nothing.”
You don’t know what he’s been on, but whatever it was, you reckon he would’ve really, really benefited from it. He’s the same man as he ever was to you, and still, you look him up and down in the light of this new information. It explains a lot, perhaps… And then again, is it really a surprise that someone caught up with his mental health problems and shoved this man some pills? Even less of a shock is that he dropped them out of some silly masculine survival whim.
You can be crazy in the army, but you can’t be crazy on paper... For the first time in your life, you feel sickeningly entitled: for being someone who’s socially allowed to pop pills for sadness, to go to therapy and actually talk about your feelings. You’re allowed to cry and have sick leaves, you’re allowed to say it hurts to be alive sometimes.
Men like König, however…
Your eyes must convey your pity, something a soldier like him must hate. But König only leans back in his seat, this time looking like someone who’s incredibly proud to have secrets others know nothing about.
“I know who you’ve been talking to.”
A change of subject, so sudden that you forget to breathe for a moment. Your heart can’t catch a break, it seems: it gives one good thud in your chest before seemingly stopping to beat altogether.
“Please don’t hurt her,” you beg with a whisper.
“I could never hurt a woman,” he declares, then halts to squint at an old memory. “Also... If she’s unarmed.”
You shiver at the thought of him slicing some woman’s throat because she’s an enemy or an obstacle to getting what he wants. You suppose König would do even that with gentle, swift violence, maybe caress the girl’s cheek afterwards… Hold her head in his lap as he whispers comforting words to the corpse of the weaker, prettier sex, always finding a way to feel superior to everyone he meets.
“Heh. She did piss herself when she saw me,” he continues with a pleased smile, chuckling to himself as he crosses his arms over his chest.
That was sweet, his grin seems to say. He even looks down at the empty plate as if delighted to recall this fond memory. You don’t even dare to think why on earth you would feel jealous of something like this—of a trembling woman peeing her pants from fear.
“Why didn’t you piss yourself the first time we met? Would’ve been cute…”
“What did you do to her,” you demand to know, mentally brushing off how adorable indeed König would consider you if he made you cry in your own pee.
“Nothing,” he shrugs again as if insulted by being accused like this. “I talked to her.”
He sweeps a hand over the tablecloth, straightening an imaginary wrinkle there.
“Poor lady wants to change careers. It’s for the best, no?”
You bite your lip when seeing him so visibly entertained by scaring the shit out of some poor innocent woman.
In a way, you feel like you’ve made him worse: back when you two met, he was somewhat… less careless. Now he’s a loose cannon, taking what he wants, when he wants, treating every new problem like a target to be destroyed. You remember him being gentle and kind, speaking soft words to you before you went to sleep. He used to be playful, he just wanted to be with you, he was capable of tenderness.
Now it’s all spit and blood and cum and tears, a neverending rampage that you stoked with gallons of gasoline and a pack of matches. Even your love comes too late: any kind words and soothing kisses have arrived far too late.
“You’re mean,” you whisper from the other end of the table.
“Liebling. They know nothing about life. You know it, I know it.”
“What are you talking about…? ”
“Oh du... They can’t help people like us.”
“Us…? ” You whisper. “We’re hardly the same…”
He laughs dryly. The side eye he gives you from over the table is that of a father, a scolding patriarch of the family.
“Pretty little thing… I know better than to give you a gun.”
You blink at him basically telling you you’re fucking crazy, an insane civilian who just happens to cover it well. An ill type of feeling arises in your gut, bile about to swoop up and out of your throat and cover the already grimy floors with truth.
König doesn’t seem to give a fuck about whether you’re sane or not; if anything, he seems to be content with the fact that you’re a bit cuckoo. He even winks at you, a filthy grin flashed to tell you he finds you endearing and sexy just the way you are.
“The point is,” he casually continues, “You shouldn’t trouble your head with all that nonsense.”
“It’s not ‘nonsense’. It’s supposed to help me.”
He dismisses the topic with a single raised eyebrow that shuts your jaw nice, pretty and tight. It’s not a threat, only a sign that tells you this case is closed.
“No one will take you away from me,” he warns with a warm, dark tone. “You better remember that.”
Your lower lip twitches a bit, wants to try and steal a tremble. But instead of crumbling into a crying, whimpering mess, you only nod. It’s an agreement, a seal to your doom that already happened in the hallway of your peaceful little house, the abode you paid for with this man’s money.
König returns to business as usual, happy with your silent promise to drop out of therapy. He leans forward to see if there’s anything left to eat, some tiny crumb he forgot to fish out somewhere, and you watch him with a twisting heart that cries for mercy. You’re a woman who’d do anything for some empathy, and now when you’re head over heels in love with him, he suddenly seems distant: now when there’s no groping and teasing and cuddling every hour of every day, you feel like you’ve walked past your happiness without even knowing it.
“I know what will cheer you up,” he says while scraping out the last burnt bits of lasagna. “You need a holiday. How about… Bahamas?”
“...How about Austria?”
He stops to look up at you, suspicion tight and thick in his eyes.
“No,” he thwarts the idea before it even has the chance to grow. “Germany, maybe. Maybe.”
He gets back to scraping the pan, then sighs and throws the spoon inside the kitchenware, appetite mysteriously gone.
“Why the fuck would you…”
He sighs again, and you get even more curious. You figured long ago that he’s from Austria: the username, the Jagdkommando, the shady Austrian company… His reaction only proves he has some serious ties there, if not only the good kind.
“I want to get married in Austria,” you announce, and watch him get thoroughly flustered for the first time.
He actually gets some colour on his cheeks, a faint little blush. It’s incredibly adorable, even if it’s born from annoyance and confusion.
“I can’t go to Austria,” he finally declares, eyes on the dishes too to evade your stare.
“Why not?”
“I have a criminal record there.”
There’s a stunned silence on your part as he proceeds to turn to stone, waiting for your judging response, perhaps. You realize the man is ashamed, he’s fucking embarrassed and tries to cover it. He doesn’t want you to think him a crooked bad man, a criminal who can’t even return to his own country. It’s so absurd that an unruly little snicker pushes through your lips: it turns into a giggle, then a proper laugh, especially when you try to bite your lip and prevent it from happening.
“Ja. Very funny,” he gives you a brief, annoyed glance.
“Did you rape women there too?”
…Shit.
Shit.
Shit…
Your mouth is horrible sometimes. Slips out things that should be kept in. But you reckon that the elephant in the room, never discussed, would ram itself to daylight one day. So why not today? The day you fell in love.
The air could be sliced with a knife; there’s silence so impending that you can feel its weight on your shoulders. Your innocent question hangs in the air only a moment longer before König drags a quick breath in.
“Now wait a minute,” he says. “I didn’t rape you.”
He looks at you, and you look back, fiddling with the tablecloth while both of your breathing grows shallow, his more panicky than yours. His eyes are full of shieldless horror as he struggles to take in your accusation, then it gets shoved down, back to the abyss where it came from as he pushes himself out and off the chair.
“You wanted it the whole time. You were wet. Always. You fucking came the first time…!”
You blink at the sudden spit flying through the air, your body frozen in time. Yet again, you’re an immobile object rather than a living human being while he’s pointing his finger at you, fists clenched and ready for a fight, his whole body absurdly tall in your solemn little kitchen.
“Fuck…” he turns his gorgon gaze away, presuming that you’re mute because you’re afraid. Or probably because he realizes what he’s done. Paces around the room, away from you, then back, shooting helpless, freaked-out glances at you while you sit and wait for the sky to fall down on you.
“You really think I’d…?”
He leaves the beg of a question hanging in the air, and you never answer it. You just look back at the tablecloth, then helplessly at him. There’s no anger, nothing, not a single thing left inside you anymore as you let him see the real reason why you’ve been so difficult. Even now, as your lips draw into a thin sad line, as your eyes betray all your despair, you don’t feel sorry for yourself. You feel sorry for him having to finally face the consequences of his actions and shoulder this world of pain with you.
And he truly breathes with his mouth open, looking like he just got punched in the gut. His eyes don’t seem to focus; they just wander around the walls and the floor. He can’t even look at you, his lower lip starting to tremble before he clenches his jaw tight and swallows again. Wrath and denial arise, but it’s no good anymore, so he turns away and takes hold of the fridge, with two hands before kicking it so hard it trembles in his hold.
“Fuck. Fuck…! ”
He kicks the fridge, kicks and kicks and kicks like it’s his arch-enemy, long despised and now seized. He kicks it until there’s a hollow dent on the door, then turns to punch the wall.
Your hands fly over your mouth as you hear the bone crack: mighty as he is, the wall is built of stronger material than him. You gather he knows it, and that’s why he did it: the punch was meant as a punishment for himself anyway. The self-hate you witness in this room is so thick your chest is nothing but a gaping crevice, an open wound nothing can soothe let alone mend.
You want to dart to him and get on your knees, grab his belt and beg for him to stop, tell him that you can’t bear to see him hurt himself like this. But you’re glued to the chair, watching this horror show unfold before you, watching him punch that wall again although a knuckle or two must be already broken.
“Calm down,” you beg, but your voice is as tight as a violin string. You’re not built for situations like this, to soothe a hurricane of self-hate seven feet tall. You just sound like you’re irritated that he fucked up your kitchen, no doubt making him hate himself even more.
“What’s the record for?” You try next, try to guide his attention away from the wall and away from beating himself up for something you, eventually, grew to love.
He turns his head and drops the hand by his side; you can see it’s already red with running blood. The stare in his eyes is wild, guided somewhere far away from here as he tries to desperately avoid the pain.
“Killed someone,” he says, voice breathless from the panic attack about to arrive. “Or… a bunch of people. Old schoolmates.”
He turns to face you, and the emptiness, the psychotic, listless hate in his stare makes you momentarily recoil. It compels you to make yourself smaller on that chair out of fear he’ll punch you next, but it’s only because you’ve never seen so much hate.
So much hate, a million swords, all pointed towards himself…
“You want to know why?”
You try to focus on your breaths: in and out, in and out. You have no courage to nod or shake your head, so he continues.
“They thought I was a loser, so they–”
He stops, takes a look at his hand. It’s trembling, as is his jaw, so hard you fear it will dislocate soon. The hate bleeds out of him slowly, so slowly, but when it eventually leaves him, this man like a typhoon looks weaker than ever.
“Nevermind.”
His shoulders slump, his stance still wide as he looks at the damage he’s done. Not to the wall, or to your fridge, not even to you. He just looks at his hand, bleeding and bruised, two knuckles caved in and unable to straighten the last two fingers. It’s shaking, too: out of anxiety or pain, you can’t tell. He looks at his hand as if he isn’t quite sure how the damage happened, as if this sort of craziness tends to happen occasionally without his notice or approval.
At that moment, you don’t really give a fuck about what he did to you. You know you should, but you have no strength or interest in such a thing anymore. All you see is a broken man, someone so tortured that even the hell he put you through is nothing compared to this.
Love…
My love.
That’s what you said to him in your mind once when you were lying together in the silent sea of midnight. When he was holding you, already asleep, that’s when you had the courage to speak to him. Snoring like a bull, he never loosened his grip on you, and you smiled to yourself as you finally said it out loud.
“Love.”
You said it to his chest, right there where his heart was thumping against your lips. Softly, quietly, so that he wouldn’t hear it, and he just kept on snoring so he never knew you practically confessed your feelings for him that night.
You part your lips to say it now, your eyes already filled with tears.
“König–”
“I didn’t rape you,” he cuts in, like he always does.
Hands drop into your lap, your own cold hands which you look at as the tears start to fall. They fill your eyes like a flood and hazen your gaze, making your skirt and wrists wet. You cry for him and how lost he is, you cry for yourself, too.
Your one true love takes a hesitant step, then another, then walks to you with his knuckles bleeding, his hands still shaking.
“I would never hurt you,” he assures you—ever so softly now. Your tears always bring his softer side roaring forth, now more than ever.
He kneels beside you, raises that bloodied hand on top of yours, unsure of if he’s allowed to touch you. Trying to pet you with a broken hand, he only leaves you crying more profusely, weeping in audible, wrenching sobs as your body tries to throw up all the pain.
“You’re all I have,” he insists with a broken pitch when you just won’t stop weeping, now sounding so desperate that you know for sure he doesn’t even understand you’re crying for him and not for what he did to you. You wonder if anyone has ever cried for him at all, if he even knows such a thing can be done…
Sliding down to the floor between his thighs, you throw your arms around his neck. Attaching yourself there, you cry like a child as his arms close around you. He starts to rock you side to side as he always does when he thinks you need the same treatment as bawling babies do.
You cry his neck and shirt wet, some sorrow drool and snot there too as he cradles you in his arms, strong thighs spread around yours. When the catharsis is done, you turn your head and sigh, sob a few times while laying your head on your own spit and tears. König won’t stop rocking you, not even when you’ve cried your fill, but as he finally lulls you to a gentle halt, his voice comes out surprisingly hopeful.
“You really want to get married…?”
Chapter 13
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
He carries you upstairs when you won’t move from the kitchen floor.
He simply gathers your limbs into his lap when you refuse to let go of him, picks you up in a bridal carry and takes you to the bedroom—dark, as is every other room in your house at this hour. But the darkness feels like a womb now, not a threatening void in which you’re about to get fucked and devoured.
You won’t release the grip around his neck, not even when he lowers you down on the bed. It must be weird to him to have someone so furiously attached to him; usually, you’re either sluggish or outright dismissive of him being so close. Even on the best days, you hardly have one arm around him when he cuddles you.
Now you’re like a koala who won’t let go of her precious home tree, and so the tree has no other choice but to fall down with you, right on top as gently as he can to prevent you from getting crushed. And when he climbs in there, boots and drenched clothes still on and all, you pull his head straight towards your breasts—practically force it there because you want this man to feel cradled for once.
Well, you don’t exactly have to force him... He follows your eager pull without complaints, shoves his face into your tits and sighs, then turns to rest his head on your chest like a weary child.
“We should get you to a hospital,” you whisper somewhere to the top of his head.
“Not a fucking chance.”
He’s mumbling, already sleepy from getting to spend time in the safety of your tits.
In fact, he sounds exhausted... With this conversation, maybe with life in general—probably both, and you can’t blame him. Manhunts, broken bones and difficult girlfriends could make any man weary. You just told him he fucked you up mentally and physically, that he hurt you in the worst way a man can hurt a woman, that he traumatized you, and he answered these charges by punching his hand to bits.
You wonder why that is—is it because he thinks he failed? As a man and a protector, as a provider of some sort?
After all, it means the night of his dreams was a fraud, a total nightmare to you, even if you came. Maybe he’s afraid this means you never wanted him, that only some biological must have made it so that you were able to get wet for him. Talk about receiving a blow to your ego…
Or is it simply because he doesn’t want to see you hurt? Maybe he doesn’t want to think of himself as someone who hurts you. That no matter how crazy your relationship is, he always meant for it to stay on the cute kind of crazy.
…Is he even capable of these kinds of thoughts?
You look at the hand by your side, the right one that’s now broken and bloody. He deemed it more necessary to bring you to bed than to clean and treat it; he moved you with a fractured hand, carried you around like a doll even when his knuckles were out of place. Some other guy would’ve simply told you to fuck off because you’re not worth the trouble anymore, but he calmed down after seeing your tears, even carried you in here like some forlorn, heartbroken princess…
“König…” you sigh. “Your hand is broken.”
“I’ll set that shit myself,” he mutters. “Takes two minutes…”
Your fingers settle into his short, bristling hair, and the way he’s lying halfway on top of you, hand around your middle and head safely tucked between your tits, is more than adorable.
He looks like a soldier who just returned from a thousand-year war, collapsed all over his beloved, now finally getting the warmth and love he needs. Your heart is filled with gold again, so much sunshine that you fear you’re not strong enough to take it.
“I’ll help you,” you whisper, not sure how the fuck you’re supposed to do that.
You wouldn’t be surprised if he knew how to treat wounds, and you reckon König has seen a lot worse, gaping holes and spilt guts, shotgun wounds that leave men without a head. A few broken knuckles are a papercut to him, so what are you supposed to do, hold his uninjured hand? Be in the way while he huffs and grunts and puts his fingers back in place?
It will only end up in you gawking at him playing the part of some dark alley butcher who treats joints and flesh and bone like they’re mere clogs in a machine. You suppose he’d only love that, to have some gasping princess at his feet while he forces the tendons back in order with a few cracks and a violent curse…
You bite your lip at the image and squeeze him a little tighter against your chest because the mere vision makes your head spin.
“If you want…?”
There’s a silence that follows your proposal, but then he rumbles.
A permission to accompany him to the butcher’s lair, then.
“There’s painkillers in the drawer,” you try with renewed hope, but he won’t budge any further.
“I’m fine,” he mutters, now positively embarrassed by your overly protective care.
Neither of us is fine, you want to whisper to the crown of his head, but choose to stay silent instead. He’s already confused enough by the lack of hisses and spits normally directed at him.
“Kurt… Can I call you Kurt?”
No rumbling this time.
Only steady breathing, ears that are listening acutely.
“What was the medication for…?”
“...The meds I quit?”
“Yeah.”
“Some anxiety shit.”
You play with his hair, or what’s left of it, anyway.
Some anxiety shit sounds like something a teenage boy would say—your brave, mythical warrior is not interested in the least in what his diagnosis—diagnoses—might be.
“Were you on Benzos…?” you try gently.
There’s a pause, and you wonder if this is a sensitive subject for him. It’s ridiculous, really: he can talk about piss and shit and killing and fucking with no trouble at all, can imply that he’s your daddy and you’re his pussy, can say you’re tight as fuck and that he wants to try that pretty little ass one day. But when faced with a real-life issue, his own mental health, everything turns to ice and withdraws like a wind that was never even there.
“Antipsychotics?” you try next when he won’t answer.
“I don’t remember.”
He hisses it past softly gritted teeth; sounding a bit too much like he’s seething, but you know him enough to tell he’s mainly just tired.
Stifles the attempt to probe his medical history by not even discussing it, and you can’t help but wonder if he stopped using the meds for some other reasons than just social stigma. Maybe his mouth got too dry; maybe his dick stopped working… Maybe it made him less effective on the field, or maybe he got depressed instead and began to think about things a little too much.
Something made him quit those meds.
It’s a sensitive subject indeed, and you’re talking to a feral, wild tiger here... One wrong word, and he might think you’re ridiculing him, laughing at him, that you don’t see him capable or masculine enough—a ridiculous thought when you’re talking to a guy who’s about ten feet tall and has his dick up at least twenty times a day.
“Did you ever go to therapy?”
“No.”
“Why not…?”
“I don’t know,” he sighs into your tits. “I told them to shove it up their Arsch.”
“...Why?”
His head is starting to feel hot there on your chest, his cheeks probably ablaze from this mortifying topic. Men shouldn’t talk about their feelings, men should never cry—you could almost wager that if you were to travel back in time to see what his upbringing was like, these are the exact statements you’d find.
“Would you ever consider going back to therapy…?”
No answer.
He has turned to stone in your lap, a hot, embarrassed stone that tries to appear smaller than he is. A challenging thing to do when he’s the biggest man you’ve ever met, with the most prominent breaths and the most twitchy hands whenever he gets a bit too emotional.
And he must be pretty fucking emotional, downright disturbed right now.
“König…” you coax, ever so softly. “You’ve obviously been bullied, and you have anxiety, and a criminal past… And the place you work for… It sounds pretty rough?”
“Ja. I’m rotten. I know.”
A tiny pause, then:
“But I didn’t rape you.”
He’s sullen. Sulking.
Brooding…
A teenage boy, in a grown man’s body.
“König… Uh, Kurt,” you start. “You stalked and harassed me. You forced me to send you a picture of my–mh. You came into my house and forced me to take my clothes off. You–”
“Ja, I know.”
More brooding. A soft, rising ire there too. But your voice only turns more and more soft.
“Don’t you feel bad? Like, at all…?”
He tries to evade the reckoning to the very end, and you pet him, pet him, pet him.
You do it almost absent-mindedly: thread your palm through his hair, then back up after rubbing his scalp and the back of his neck a little; the muscles there are so tense you feel sorry for him. You do everything in your power to appear soft and inviting, to prevent him from bolting.
A sad thought when 99% of the time, this man has fought both heaven and hell to get to you…
But it makes it less likely for him to get nasty if you caress him, so you keep touching him gently, make it known that everything’s okay even if you’re having an uncomfortable conversation. Softness is the way to open all the doors and locks; your tender words and gentle touch are something he can’t rise his fist against. It’s the sweetest surrender, when he finally succumbs to it. Eases into the pain of having hurt you and being on the softest trial for it.
He sighs again into your breasts, adjusts his grip on you a little. His jaw clenches and unclenches, a compulsive ritual when something doesn’t go the way he wants. Then his body lets go of some of the tension you didn’t even know was there, even if he’s been twitching occasionally for minutes now, a poor, massive victim to his tics.
“I thought you wanted it too,” he mutters with simple, rough sorrow.
A pause follows, and with it, another sigh.
Give it some time…
One, two, three–
“I thought you’d want me if…”
“If…?”
“If I was… assertive. I don’t know. I just wanted you. You looked like you wanted me too. I got a little crazy, so what?”
His defences are back up, but they’re adorably frail now. He’s trying to escape to indifference and brush it off like it’s not a big deal, which is no surprise. Your therapist would call it gaslighting or god knows what else, but you only see a boy who got scolded for accidentally breaking the only toy he ever wanted.
Finally, you’re speaking about the unspeakable, finally, you’ve breached the walls and sneaked past the eternal shields, only to see that he’s childish.
But you already knew that... You just didn’t think he would be this harmless.
“You can’t do shit like that.” you point out gently.
“Shit like what?”
“Harass women. Stalk them. Order them to spread their legs for you…”
“That’s how I got you.”
Ouch.
As awful as it is, you have to grant it to him that he’s right. You’re fucked up, and he just told you that... And what’s more, his voice is drenched in heavy want when he starts to lay out his new defence.
“Your pussy was fucking wet when I–”
“Don’t. I don’t want you to treat me like that.”
He rises: slowly, just a few inches, just to get a good look at you.
“Then show me how to treat you right.”
You look into his eyes, now veritably pleading to tell him what to do. Silently begging to not throw him out in the rain again, to let him stay by your side even if he fucked up.
He just looks so adorable when he’s looking at you like that… Harmless and a little lost, stripped of all his colours and masks, and god, that you love him. It’s even worse that he doesn’t seem to know just how big of a puddle he makes you every time he whips out that broken, begging puppy face.
Any other person would probably scream that it’s not your job to show this man how to treat a girl so that the relationship doesn’t end up being a rollercoaster ride of tears and screams. If he doesn’t know how to make you happy and purring by now, if he can’t tell the difference between a woman aroused and a woman afraid, then he should throw himself off a fucking cliff. You know you could have a decent man by your side if you only took a good, hard look at your standards. Just… Find someone who doesn’t fuck and love you like it’s the end of the world out there.
But you know you can’t do that anymore.
In all honesty, you couldn’t palate it for one second.
“I’ll be a good dog,” he promises, long pale lashes batting once as if to punctuate that vow.
You sigh—that cute, weary puppy stare should not be allowed; it should be banned from use because it’s an illegal weapon, far more dangerous than the ones he carries at his stupid work.
“I don’t want a dog. I want a man.”
His lids drop to cover his blues and the utter disappointment in himself when he realizes you want something he can’t give you. Out of all the things he would and could offer you, being a human being isn’t sadly on the list.
"I'm past that point,” he mutters without ever even looking you in the eye.
The stupid, rough mercenary charade is far away on business, and you briefly see the man behind the mask, someone who got cornered a long time ago. Surprisingly, it’s also someone who’s not driven by hate, love or lust… It’s someone who’s just tired. So goddamn tired, weary to the bones.
You bring a palm to his cheek and watch him slightly recoil – you know by now that he's gone through so much violence that the first reaction to a touch, even a soft one, is an instinctual flinch. It's unbearable to see that the human in him was beaten up and away before it even had a chance to flourish and grow.
It's barely there anymore, the ghost of a man he was supposed to be, someone who's only here now to remind him to cower away before a punch lands.
"No, you are not."
You sweep a thumb over his cheekbone, watch him drink it in with the softest strangled grunt. The eyes that rise to yours are wreathed with slow pain, weak madness and fury he can't unleash.
Don't fucking give me hope, that stare seems to say.
Don't fucking trust me… Don't you dare pretend to fucking love me.
Don't take me in just to feed me scraps. You'll just end up getting hurt, ripped apart, even.
It's the look of someone who has accepted the fact that they're unlovable, long ago and down to the core. And here you thought you were having a hard time with life and self-love…
You always knew there was something horrible buried deep within this man, and you're still unsure if you're brave enough to unearth it. Even when you know you'll never love another like you love him, there’s too much darkness... About three hundred pounds too much.
He sighs as his head drops back into your tits, his forehead brushing your chest as he hangs his head there between his shoulders.
“I want to fuck you,” he mutters. “I want you so much it hurts…”
He sounds like he’s about to cry, gnashing his teeth together and huffing hot, frustrated breaths between your tits. You would laugh if you weren’t so gripped by compassion and grief—this guy is so utterly lost that even dogs at the shelter look like czars compared to this self-proclaimed king.
“You’re so fucking cute,” he continues to complain as if it’s some kind of a tragedy. As if it’s your fault he can’t keep it in his pants…
It’s not an excuse for his actions, and yet you want to pardon him for those broken, bare little whispers alone. He speaks all kinds of dumb, deprived shit without any kind of filter, but this time does it so softly that your stomach gets filled with tiny sparkles.
You need a fucking break, but he won’t give it to you: in fact, when he looks back up at you, there’s nothing but blind dedication in his stare.
“I would lick your ass if you wanted,” he blurts, so serious that even the tiny shocked gasp dies on your lips.
Without warning, he shoves his hand between your legs and cups your pussy like it’s an object to be owned—next up comes a stern vow, a gruff statement that makes your heart flip.
“I would die for this,” he vows, so fiercely that your walls clench a bit when you hear it.
“That’s because you’re crazy,” you whisper back, your whole body thrumming now with love.
He looks at you and frowns, but when he sees that you’re not ridiculing him this time, that this is not a game to either of you anymore, he relaxes a bit. His face settles back into a devoted, half-lidded stare before his lips spread into a grin—he’s fucking proud that you called him crazy; he even laughs. It’s a different kind of laugh, a genuine cascade of mirth that rises from the back of his throat and makes the glowy tingles in your gut spread like flames.
“What’s so funny…?”
“You’re a little crazy too,” he says with a smug, pitched voice—it reminds you of a boy who just put a cockroach in her sister’s bed. “Admit it… You’re crazy. Just like me.”
“No one is as crazy as you.”
“Vielleicht. But you’re special.”
“That’s just another word for crazy.”
He laughs again and crawls next to you, takes you in his arms with a broken hand and an eager heart. You let him clutch you without any kind of disgust in your system: your insides only squeal from joy when he handles you like his most beloved plaything, your hands now awkwardly smushed between you two.
“Smart... I like that in a woman,” he babbles with a stupid, flirtatious tone.
“No you don’t.”
“No. I don’t. But you’re an exception.”
He coaxes your head up with his index finger and thumb, the undamaged hand even clumsier than his right one.
You must own the most devoted pair of eyes he’s ever seen because that dense, doting stare of his breaks a little. He actually looks at you like people look at their loved ones in movies, and it’s not even an act… Your insides shiver as he hovers closer as if meaning to kiss you, and you wait for it, wait so eagerly that your lips are only a second away from quivering.
“I’ll treat you right,” he murmurs. “I’ll show you. I’ll get you more roses…”
“I hate roses,” you point out, eyes completely defenceless, voice equally weak.
“What kind of a woman hates roses?”
“I don’t know. The rose-hating kind?”
He looks at you curiously, like an alien species he finds fascinating, if a bit weird.
The conversation is lightweight but intimate, like a fresh breeze that clears the heart, and he looks… jolly, far too human in your eyes when at the bar where you first saw this man, he seemed like some state torturer and world-class fighter combined. The cruel features have long since smoothed in your eyes, the broken nose and split lip only a testimony of his tortured past. Even his hand on your hip translates to safety in your system, not the thrilling threat it used to be.
Even his offering—no, his wish—to lick your butt sends a trickle of want down your gut. The image of his tongue sweeping past your asshole, flattening against it with a harsh, guttural moan, is not as appalling as you thought it would be. As it should be.
What has become of you, you don’t know, but those tired puppy eyes paired with that weather-beaten, abused face is a bit too much for you to bear. It’s not your fault that you possess a heart; it’s not your fucking fault if it chooses to love this abandoned dog. He should’ve been put down long ago, out of simple mercy, but nobody did that so he came to howl at your door.
And it’s not roses and gadgets and clothes you want from him in return.
It’s just… this, and more. So much more.
“König,” you whisper with a dry throat. “I want you too. So much it hurts…”
His eyes dilate even more, if possible, those pretty black pupils shot wide as he looks at you. The smile slowly leaves his lips: his face is only inches away from yours as he withdraws minimally as if you intended to strike him soon.
“I wanted you that night…”
You leak it all out, a revelation in the darkness.
You say it to him because it’s true, you say it because you’re tired of hating yourself for it.
“Long before that,” you correct absent-mindedly, and he looks even more freaked out.
Both of your angels and demons are watching, gathered there around your bed, as you confess it all to him, soul light as a feather. There’s a fleeting pity in his eyes, the blue in them grey and sad in the darkness of this womb.
He knows a part of you wanted him, he’s not entirely stupid, but it’s a different thing to moan it while he’s mindlessly fucking you than to say it right to his fucking face. That there was indeed some grey area there when he took you again and again; your mouth might’ve said no, but your eyes said yes... Even your soul quivered from want while the rest of you was scared, both of him and of falling into a tar pit of the darkest love you’ve ever known.
In a way, he’s the most authentic person you’ve ever met. There’s no theatrics whatsoever to him. Even at his most dramatic, he’s laughably bare with his emotional outbursts and true needs, which paradoxically makes him one of the most honest people you’ve known. Perplexingly enough, it’s his most lovable trait—a quirk, really, which you’ve grown to adore.
“You just scared the shit out of me. You’re kinda scary, you know…?”
He doesn’t even dare to blink, his little peanut brain calculating if this is just another trick, and if it is, what you could possibly benefit from it.
The intimacy is more palpable than it ever was when he was fucking you sloppy style. Maybe he has haunted women, maybe he has fucked them raw, but he has never, ever lain with a girl like this... On the bed, staring each other in the eye, getting intimate, vulnerable and weak.
“Are you scared now?” he finally asks, like a goddamn robot.
“No.”
The muscles on his cheek twitch, relax, and twitch again. A hazy cloud appears over his eyes, a doting, doped stare that regards you with cautious longing.
Then he places his hand over the dip of your waist. It easily covers half of the curve, making you feel small—insignificant, even, but that’s a welcome sensation after all those hours on afternoon TV.
He doesn’t blink, not even when his hand travels further down. It gathers the hem of your skirt in a fist and lifts it up, up, up until your pussy meets cold air, all bare since he robbed you of your panties downstairs. The hunger is right there in his eyes, but he doesn’t act on it. Discipline makes his moves mechanical; even his hand is cold when it comes to pet your mound.
It’s not erotic in any sense of the word, mostly only adorable, but you keep looking into his eyes with clear, endless trust.
“Am I doing it right?” he asks, the question bristled in his throat. “You want this…?”
“Yes, this feels nice…”
“Gut. I’ll try to be a man for you.”
He doesn’t smile: he’s as serious as a stone sculpture, eyes almost furious in their stare, wholly focused on you. White lashes bat only once as he lets his stare fall to your lips, watching intently as you continue to breathe when he cannot.
Consent feels like a bore after all the things he’s done to you, but the barely concealed horror in his stare sparks your curiosity.
…Is this what makes him afraid?
A trusting, consenting woman?
There must be something truly fucked up in his past if that is so, but this is not the time or the place to ask who the fuck hurt him… Or whom he inherited his distorted views from.
And then you remember that he has barely touched you there with his hands. He has only ever been at your cunt with his cock and his mouth, and those times have been messy as hell. Needy, selfish and raw… Now he’s trying to approach you with a lighter than lightest touch, perturbed and confused with what he should do to you. It’s like you’re dealing with a virgin here, which is ridiculous, a ludicrous thought when you know he’s the worst pervert on earth.
But in a way, he might be a virgin when it comes to touching a woman like this… Maybe that’s why he looks like he’s about to march into a war he cannot win.
His horrified face makes you want to burst into laughter, which is not a good idea, so you reach a hand down to guide him.
Together, you arrive at your folds, fingers entwined; explore them together as you softly dip his middle finger between them. There’s not much moisture there, mainly the traces of his cum that greet him and you. He keeps looking at you like you’re Medusa or something, both beautiful and terrifying as his fingers plunge softly between your folds. A blush, slick sound wakes him up from his coma, a gleam of lust crossing his eyes before he leans in to get more where that came from.
“Gently…” you whisper, and he stops, breathes with his mouth open while taking your wetness in.
The now open flux between your eyes feels something akin to trust, and you spread your thighs more, press him further in, steer his fingers across your slit until his mouth opens a bit: a mirror reaction to your own.
You hold him captive with a simple stare and one soft hand, and it makes your thighs steal to tremble already. That there’s a big big man in your bed with his big big hand studying your pussy... Someone who’s used to handling guns and metal and gasoline probably, who blows up tanks and waterboards prisoners and pisses on the floor if he can’t find a urinal. Someone who hasn’t been all that nice to you is now touching you like it’s his first time.
Damned 80’s Madonna almost starts to play in your head, and you breathe a little smile, eyes exploring his face and that numbed, shieldless stare.
He’s so pure: gentle and raw at the same time, both clueless and attuned to you as he samples the slick softness pulsing between your legs. You don’t know what it is you want: for him to play with your clit until you break or for him to explore your leaking hole, cram it full with a finger or two. Not a word is spoken between your lips, but he gets the hint when your brows helplessly twitch, silently asking for something more than this.
He makes the choice for you and finds your entrance without lewd remarks. Slips one finger in, all the way down to the third knuckle, pushing a silent sob through your lips.
“Mh…”
His eyes fly to your mouth and the reward he just got. Greed, thick as syrup, so dense that it can only be called animalistic, pours from him to you. Pure pristine instinct as he understands that this is what he’s supposed to do.
Your walls start to squeeze him softly, they mould around him in a hug, and finally, he breathes.
“Feel that…?”
The corner of his eye twitches upon hearing that drowsy, droopy question, but he nods. Curtly, like a soldier.
Never mommy your man, you remember one of your friends once said—but you can’t help yourself when he’s studying female anatomy with you like this, looking like a fierce, excited puppy while doing it.
“Now… kiss me.”
He dives right in like a dumb mutt, then slows down just before he reaches your mouth. Plants his lips there eventually like you’re some Snow White he needs to wake from slumber, then opens his jaw for a more grown-up kind of kiss.
You taste desperation and marjoram, traces of grim hunger, but when you continue to lay there before him, thighs, cunt and mouth lovingly spread open, he starts to move. Pulls the finger out only to bury himself back in, this time with two digits. It’s far from the crude, selfish ownership you’ve grown used to, but he does own you still.
A cute little leash from him to you, nearly strangling you both…
Now it’s dangling in the air, or lying on the ground, even, unnecessary and forgotten. You don’t know if the sounds your mouths make are sloppier than those that arise from your cunt, but it’s a cute kiss, cute and hot and earnest, so much so that he breaks away from it with a broken breath.
“This is romantic as fuck,” he pants all over your face like a dog, or maybe like a flushed man about to drown.
Trying to find your clit with a trembling thumb, he wants to kiss you again and again, some weird old fantasy now lived in real-time as you pull him back to your lips with soft eyes and actual hunger. He takes in your every breath, every laugh, every tremble of your walls that try to suck him in. The only thing that breaks the sweet, delicate moment is him—of course—because, in the end, he’s not very smart.
“Liebling. I’m sorry. We can’t get married in Austria... They’ll arrest me at the airport–”
“Shut up, silly…”
Apparently, he is capable of saying the words “I’m sorry”, but it’s not the kind of apology you wanted, not exactly the thing you hoped he would apologize to you for. His most recent fear is that he can’t give his future bride what she wants: a princess wedding in his stupid fucking home country he can’t return to…
You can’t believe he’s foolish enough to think you were serious about getting married, and in Austria, of all places. It’s another knife to the heart to notice that he took your words as truth, maybe because he wants them to be true so much. If he wills it enough, anything can become a reality: everything can be bent and curved in a way that allows him to believe he gets the girl at the end of the day.
And because you’re crazy, just like he said, you actually want to be that girl.
But even you’re not crazy enough to marry this dog…
Maybe later, but not today. Not tomorrow, not even next month. You can’t even begin to imagine what a disaster it would be to get tied to him legally, let alone invite your family and friends to the horror show that is your wedding.
Still, you find yourself shushing him, kissing his chin and his nose, pulling him back to your lips with eyes that tell him he’s the most lovable idiot in the whole wide world.
Even then, he won’t be consoled: he only squeezes his eyes shut and, all in all, looks like a kicked dog while answering your kiss. Perhaps he knows in his heart of hearts that you’re lying and he’s delusional, so rattled that he descends back to your mouth with a strangled moan, trying to desperately push his tongue and fingers deeper than they can go.
Your old dog sniffles and sighs, and that’s when you open your dress, simply out of pity. You open it while he’s kissing you, undo the tiny buttons on the front to reveal your breasts. With a soft breath of “Please”, you have his attention, your nipples stiff little peaks as he finds his new treat and angles down to gobble it too.
The distraction works like a charm.
He doesn’t know what to taste first, so much of you on offer here now and in such a sweet package. Your dress cutely hiked up to expose your soft little cunt, your breasts spilt right there before him, surrounded only by some fabric angels tend to wear. Your lips just waiting to be kissed, your nipples demanding bites and licks now more than ever before. Your pussy, sloppy and wet for him, just for him...
Right now, this is more than enough, even for a mad dog like him. This is both his pen and his heaven, to study how you respond to a touch that worships you into pleasure rather than rams you there with a mallet.
Hot, searing sweeps of a tongue lather the underside of your breasts before he stops to bite you there, soft flesh yielding between his teeth until you cry out in pain. He lets go immediately and licks it better, rasps a rough laugh on your skin before attacking you once more. Lips hot as hell claim your nipples; they suck and nibble and pluck until your fingers find his hair, trying to grab something that isn’t there.
“Ah… Why did you have to cut your hair…” you mourn with your head thrown back.
“You, ah–... don’t like…?”
“I love it,” you sigh. “It’s just that now I can’t… I can’t… Oh God–”
He laughs.
In between the kisses and nibs, he laughs.
“You can’t pull my hair,” he rasps. “Is that it…?”
It’s fairly obvious that this seems to be the problem, that this is the pea in the princess’s bed, which is why him speaking it out loud feels like danger of the sweetest kind.
“Princess says she wants a man,” he gives your mauled skin a softer, sweeter kiss. “But I know better…”
You hear yourself sob, feel how he adds a third finger to the two, making a crowd in your pussy as your back starts to arch for him. Hands try to helplessly hold on to a mountain of muscle that is, his back, you suppose: he leans forward to cover you in shadows, always the top dog, always the big gun.
“Princess wants to be licked… Princess wants to be fucked,” he bares his teeth over the column of your throat, laughing more horrible truths on your skin.
For some embarrassing reason, his rough, amused barks force a few tears out of you. And that, in turn, brings out the demon: if you’re crying while he’s fucking you, you must be in need of some good, hard culling.
“She wants to play with dogs,” he growls into your ear. “Little princess wants to put them on a leash…”
“No…” you whisper, voice pure innocence but thoughts racing lewd.
“No?”
He stops while you’re hovering on the precipice of the cutest orgasm, annoyingly sheepish with your drowsy eyes and hiccup breaths. His fingers rest deep within you, your walls now throbbing around him when he refuses to give you the desired friction.
It’s you who’s panting this time, chest heaving against the stone wall of his chest, fingers clutching the cotton of his shirt.
“Komm schon… Say it again,” he speaks, gently now. “Say you want a man. Say it like you mean it...”
You squirm in shame and frustration, more tiny tears escaping your lashline and diving into your hair when he still won’t move. Your nipples resemble tight little cherries, thoroughly abused, but he only grins when you try to grab his hair and make him stop.
Old dogs and new tricks—you know very well what they say about those... But most of all, you’re stripped of your weapons, every single one. There’s nothing but the truth left, and truth condemns you to speak.
“...I, I want…”
“Yes?”
He withdraws a little to look into your eyes, lips grazing yours but infuriatingly refusing to kiss them.
“I want you,” you repeat with a trembling mouth for the second time today. “I don’t care if… If you… I just… want you…”
Just you…
Just you.
You close your eyes in reckless bliss, and accept it that things simply have to be this way. You can ask him to be gentle; you can try and train him. But he will always be exactly what he is… A stray beast you started to feed out of pity and despair.
Dog or a man, you want him and only him… Leash or no leash, it will be you and him, from this day on until eternity.
You speak more nonsense upon his lips, eyes barely locked into his blues as you let him see just how pathetic you are.
“No leash,” you whisper while tears run down your temples. “I promise… No l–leash… If you play nice… Please…”
He’s speechless.
For the first time, probably in his fucking life, he’s completely speechless.
His girl, formerly either mute or spitting curses at him, is now bartering with him, bargaining for her pussy and her life. Babbling softly about how he can stay just as he is and be a little nasty as a treat… If he only leaves his claws on the doorstep, he can ruin her peace of mind. Sleep on her bed, mark her and mate with her, leave muddy, dirty paw prints all over her pretty girl house. Just leave some of it intact, and she’ll refrain from putting a shock collar on him… Even after all he’s done, she won’t use cruelty and pain to try and train him.
“Schatz…”
The gentleness in his eyes doesn’t fit the character of a dog, a wolf, a beast at all. For others, it’s a crumb, barely even a speck, but to you, it’s an entire feast. A royal pardon, mercy for the both of you to arrive fully naked here like this. There’s an understanding between you, something that eludes all words, terms and definitions. You give each other permission, and with it, all the arms; you surrender all the weapons, knowing they’re too deadly to be used. At that moment, even a simple I love you feels too shallow a thing to say.
When he closes the tiny remaining gap between you and claims your mouth with a kiss, it’s an agreement of sorts, an armistice.
You’re his, and he is yours, just like in that dumb fantasy TV show you binged back when your depression was only starting. There were not many nice sex scenes in that production, mostly just raping and torture, but the ones that were romantic were so much so that your heart felt nothing but grief. And so it is now, with him: the moment is so sweet it can only be compared to despair.
He doesn’t care about himself or his vicious dick anymore, no doubt throbbing and leaking in his pants. He only cares about your mewls and sobs, how pretty he can make you with his weaker hand. Something better than orgasm already arrived, but when you eventually climax, he has three of his fingers deep inside you and his filthy mouth pressed upon your ear. The words that pour out of those jaws are softer than anything you’ve ever heard or known.
“That’s it… Ah… My pretty little princess. You’re too fucking cute... That’s what I always said... Too fucking cute…”
You swim somewhere far away in black, bleeding pleasure, and at the same time, you float there in his arms, arise like stars in pitch-black darkness as he whispers words of love in your ear. Some babbling that sounds foolish when a veteran killer blathers it, but even then, he doesn’t seem to see himself as someone utterly vile and silly at all.
Even then, he probably sees himself as the knight who saves you rather than the dragon who guards its stolen hoard; even then, he still promises things you both know he can’t give.
“That’s it, angel… One day I will lick your ass. Promise I’ll treat you right… Hmm? I’ll be a good… A good… Ah… For you. Just for you, Schatzi.
Just for you…”
Notes:
I know some of you are pining to know more about König’s backstory <3 I promise it will be revealed in due time before this story is done! ^^
Thank you for the comments as always, they give me life! 💕
Chapter Text
You watch him sleep.
He’s naked, as always: he has slept with his clothes a few times and sometimes forgets his socks on. Usually, he strips off all his clothes before climbing into the bed with you, and you suppose it’s because he finds clothes a bit… annoying. Restricting.
Nighttime is for freedom and comfort, the only comfort in his life, probably.
He has thrown the covers away, the white sheets now barely covering his shins. There are a few stains of blood on the fabric, specks and sweeps of red made by his battered hand. You treated it in the bathroom last night after he set the knuckles back to where they used to be. You taped his fingers together according to his instructions to keep them immobilized, and when you stressed about whether they would heal properly and asked him how he could shoot with a hand like this, he told you he doesn’t need all his fingers to operate a gun. Sure, it might throw his aim off a little, it might be a bit annoying to handle guns for a few months, but it wouldn’t be a big deal. Kneeled there on the bathroom floor, you received a loving stroke to the head and a caress of your cheek as a reward for taking care of him so well.
You watch him sleep and steal more than half of the bed while he does it.
There was a time when you feared he’d have nightmares… About fighting and whatnot, soldier’s trauma type of stuff. You used to be afraid that you’d be strangled in your sleep, receive the occasional fist or get to shush a groaning, sweating man in the grip of his night terrors.
But the only thing that’s mainly bothered you is that König made himself a bit too at home here in your house.
More often than not, he almost pushed you out of bed in his sleep, huge body sprawled all over your princess bed that should fit two people without effort. Even now, he’s lying there without a care in the world so that the slice left to you is barely enough to sleep on your side. He’s used to sleeping alone, perhaps, and is extremely comfortable when granted a soft, large bed like this. Sometimes, he remembers you’re there, too, and turns around to snuggle you in his sleep. Due to his size and strength, there is no other option but to succumb to being a plush toy for this snoring war veteran, something soft and squishy to cuddle and drool on.
Light filters through the shutters, making your whole bedroom swim in a husky morning light, and it makes his skin look even paler than it is. He resembles a lost member of some giant, extinct species, the hair on his body getting an almost sickly, milk-white hue in sunlight.
He’s covered in brown freckles, a few dimples here and there, some moles you’d love to poke with your finger. The muscles on his body are sinewy, forced to come into existence during long hours on the street and at some godawful old gym, and you haven’t exactly taken a thorough look at his body, not in a gawking manner, at least. Most times, you’ve seen him in the darkness of your bedroom or in the dim bathroom lighting, soap and broad hands obscuring the view when you tried to steal a peek at him.
This morning, the sun offers no such mercy: it reveals the scars, the whole history of violence done to his body. His thighs have suffered the least from it, but his abs, his pecs, his forearms and his throat reveal a map of torture and hate. He has cut himself a few times, maybe, or then caught a blade a few times, neatly just so with his arm. A few round holes under his ribs mark the spots where he’s been shot; slashes, cuts and burns all across his sides and chest give the impression that he’s tried to get out of a burning house only to be stabbed at the front door.
And the way his dick is up even when he sleeps shouldn’t be a surprise...
But this particular morning, you take a good, hard look at it.
You stare at it like a hungry slut, actually.
Every man is built differently, and cocks are not among the things you’d count as particularly pretty. His is by far the ugliest you’ve ever seen: abused, long and pale as it is, the bulged tip of it rose-coloured and hideous. The sacs hang low between his legs, finally at rest even if the pillar is up.
‘Pretty’ is the last thing you’d call it, and still, your mouth waters at the sight…
You feel like the most innocent pervert in the world, watching him like this. You even risk to run your fingertips down along the side of his thigh.
The cock jumps up immediately, but otherwise, König keeps on snoring softly.
The sight is simply adorable: the mad dog who used to torment you is now getting groped in his sleep… He would probably wag his tail from joy were he awake, jump on the bed and make a fool of himself. Which is why the nagging voice in your head that tells you it’s not ok to touch someone while they sleep shuts down and marches into a corner to mope. If there’s something you know about this man, it’s that he will only die from happiness as soon as he wakes up to this.
When you slowly bring your fingertips to his shaft and skate them up towards the tip, his cock jumps up again. This time, there’s a soft grunt, too. You lean forward to wrap your hand around his base, and take the head of him in your mouth: it all results in another soft groan, some heavy breathing and a slowly stirring, happy-sounding beast.
“Sshit…”
You roll your tongue around his tip, the engorged slit on the top now pushing out a tiny bead of fluid. Crystal clear and bright, like a happy tear. Precum to let you know that he would bleed for you, kill for you, die for you if you need him to... A punched-out grunt ensues when you repeat the motion, more slowly this time.
“Was machst du,” he mutters drowsily, utterly disinterested in doing anything about the situation he finds himself in.
“Good morning,” you speak to the smooth, velvet tip in front of you, then get back to what you were doing as if it’s all just business as usual.
He tries to catch his breath on the bed, thighs bunching with vigour as you lather him with saliva, giving the bulged head of his cock an innocent little suck.
“Fucking amazing morning…”
They’re the words of a teen, living precisely the kind of life he always dreamed about. You know he’s feeling like a superhero when you finally have his dick in your mouth, willingly, of all things. You are only just beginning, and he’s already melting like chocolate in the sun… Another rich lather brings out more noises, and of course he’s noisy. If a nice, hard fuck makes him blather stupid nonsense in your ear, then a cute blowjob in the morning should naturally make him forget words entirely.
He tastes of soft mornings and brine and his usual loser musk, something you find oddly endearing. Were you any less decent you’d rub your face in his balls because that’s the place where the scent seems to stem from—you know he’d only love that, to have your pretty princess nose up his sacs, sniffing them like glue.
“Ja… Genau so… That’s a good girl…”
He cheers you on as soon as he gets more oxygen in his lungs. Talks to you like you’re both starring in some porn movie he no doubt watched in heaps as a teen. You withdraw from his cock just enough to give him a warning, the first of many to come, you suspect.
“Don’t call me that.”
He laughs huskily on the bed, cock jutting thick and demanding in the weak grasp of your hand.
“If you take my dick in your mouth I will call you whatever I want...”
“And I’ll bite you if you call me that again,” you give him another warning, but he only laughs.
Happily.
“Is that a promise…”
He laughs again on the bed—he sounds so happy with his joke, with himself, with you. He sounds so jolly that you reward him with another slow suck. In fact, you suckle at the tip of his cock like a tease, punishing him for being so rude.
He’s so awful…
He’s so perfect.
You shed another annoyed glance his way and climb between his spread legs, wanting to get into a better position to thoroughly wreck this man. He knows what this manoeuvring means and looks at you with drowsy, dreamy eyes from amidst the pillows, stare dark like summer’s night. The eye contact is intimate, and causes you to stagger a little. So what else can you do but make him hiss by taking him back in your mouth as far as you can go?
“Fuck… How can you be so perfect,” he says, this time with a weaker tone.
You almost drop him upon hearing him speak your exact thoughts from earlier. It’s haunting, really, how attuned you seem to be to each other, how it’s been that way from the start. And it’s not just the result of his stalking; it’s the way he seems to know what’s going on in your head, how he agrees with it.
The soft, ecstatic babbling turns more rowdy after a while when he starts to thoroughly wake up to a new day. It must be a winner-like feeling to stir to this, to both pain and pleasure, to find a girl sucking his dick after she treated his wounds. A nice, lazy morning filled with sunlight, a girl licking and sucking his cock, his knuckles taped together after an “eventful” night: these are a few of his favourite things, and he’s making it known by spreading his legs even more, giving some space to his balls. They have work to do, after all.
And no matter how hard you try, you can’t get the whole of his length in your mouth.
“Too big for you eh? It’s ok… It’s ok…”
Another attempt to compliment his own size when you refuse to do so, and you could roll your eyes. Talk about being a dick when you have your dick inside someone’s mouth… He just never learns how to speak to women, or have a little tact with a girl who gracefully tries to make him feel good for fucking once.
And yet you can’t be angry at him. After all, this is what you’re left with—this is what the wind brought in. He’s a bad-mannered pet, but he’s yours, and you have to take care of him.
You can’t deepthroat him without puking, so you choose to tease him in other ways. You were planning on being efficient and neat, but his cock turns you into a brainless, greedy maw: you just want to slurp him like a lollipop, experiment what happens if you nib at his base and give him a little bite, see what kind of moans you can pull out of him if you bring your fingertips to his testicles. Your poor dog whines weakly on the bed, thighs bunching on both sides as he grips the sheet, then releases it.
“Not the fucking…balls…I told you–oh f-ffuck–”
Your taste buds catch salt, something awful desperate on your tongue. His toes must be curling already, his balls pulling further up to prepare the most awful cumshot of the decade. He doesn’t even try to shove his cock deeper up your throat or anything brutal like that, which means things must be truly out of his control this time.
“Careful… C-careful, love…”
If lapping at his slit makes him weak, massaging his balls turns him into a choking, whimpering mess. He doesn’t sound like himself at all… The power from his voice is gone, the deep tone lost somewhere in the thick sea of lust. When you flatten your tongue over the underside of his dick, he sounds like he’s about to beg for mercy for the first time in his life. You have him by the balls, literally, but it’s not a threat, nor is it power play. You just love him… Which is why he gets another gentle squeeze and a good, slow suck from root to tip. You even call him a ‘big boy’, ask if he’s about to cum.
He can’t take it at all, starts to quiver and shake like he’s having a fever, choking on the air he tries to madly huff in. You have to shush him back to some kind of peace, your heart squeezing to bits from seeing how easy it is to destroy him with a few soft words. You swear you can hear a sob, immediately followed by a rough cough—you file the information away discreetly and with an inner ache, watching how he draws closer to the orgasm simply from the hushed praise alone.
“Say… Say it again,” he begs, already in the grips of his climax.
“What,” you sigh to the tip of his gaping slit. “That you’re too big…?”
It’s enough to shoot him into the sun.
He goes completely still, every muscle in his body pulled taut. A rough, confused laugh and a few weak Fuck’s pushed past his teeth, and he’s gone. You pull away just in time to see the eruption, milk-white seed shooting from his cock in long, aggressive squirts. Were you off those pills, this man would’ve impregnated you a long time ago – you count the spurts with your mouth open and feel a gush of wetness stain your panties down below.
All of this has been shot into your womb earlier… Nice and far, and with such determination that it makes your cheeks heat up. The man groans as he cums, weak, so pathetically weak when he’s the one lying down and having his soul sucked away. The cock in your hand twitches a few more times until the last drops are pushed out, running down his shaft and over your fingers as he comes down from the high.
“You… didn’t swallow,” he slowly recovers to take a look at the mess, somewhat disappointed.
It makes your cheeks feel even hotter that he’s chastising you for not making it perfect for him. He shakes his head as he looks at the pool of cum on his stomach, the obscene amount of semen now coating his abs when he apparently imagined you to choke on it.
“Good girls always swallow,” he informs, still looking at the running cum about to stain the sheets.
“I’m not a good girl.”
“Hah…! You’re everything but, aren’t you?”
He gives you a flash of his teeth, the glint in his eyes visible as he speaks. He smiles with that trademark grin that always means mischief; looks at you from under his brows like you’re an indecent creature who’s asking for it.
“You’re a naughty girl…”
“Stop it. I hate it when you talk like that.”
“No you don’t,” he rules immediately.
You guess he’s right, as always, but he doesn’t need to know that. Which means you continue to sulk on the bed, nose wrinkling from the way he wants to make a great deal out of this stupid thing.
“I just… wish you were a little kinder,” you say with your hands in your lap, the fingers of your right hand still coated in thick, sticky seed. It’s a yes and a no all at once, and your sudden, timid demeanour makes him laugh an ugly laugh.
“Kinder? If the boys heard the way I talk to you they would shoot me in the head…”
You stare at him in horror – what kind of morons does he have as friends? Or workmates or… whatever.
“That’s awful.”
“Heh… It would be a mercy,” he says. “To put me out of my misery. You’ve made me soft, princess...”
The lewd, seductive tone is back, and the grin plastered on his face reminds you of imps and other creatures escaped from hell. If this is him being soft, you shudder to think what he’s normally like... You suppose you should be happy that at least he doesn’t call you ‘Muschi’ anymore.
“Shit… That’s a big load,” he returns to the earlier topic, mourning at the mess you just made. “I’ll just have to make you swallow next time…”
“No. We just talked about this last night.”
Jesus Christ, it’s like talking to an unruly dog…
The mutt in question moves forward, some sudden need to get close to you sparked inside him. He seizes you by the waist and pulls you into an uncomfortable, demanding side hug, nuzzling his nose closer to your ear. When you give him a soft little huff all thanks to him squeezing you like a toy, he growls, then whines.
“I want to shoot it in your mouth,” he tries to bargain, lips tightly pressed against your ear. When you refuse to budge, he squeezes you again and makes a frustrated, helpless noise.
“...Please?”
“Perhaps some day,” you finally suggest with a soft smile playing on your lips.
He huffs the frustration out: if anything, your half-promise makes him even more annoyed.
“You drive me fucking crazy,” he gruffs into your ear. “Every day. All day...”
“Good,” you say softly, so softly it could almost be counted as teasing.
It earns you an entire dog attack as his weight presses down on you. You’re forced to lie on your back as a wide hand roughs its way up and down your ribs, squeezes your hips and breasts, every soft spot it can find. Your ear gets bitten, as does your neck, your throat swallowed by hungry jaws as he uses teeth to keep you in place for him. You laugh and squirm because mostly, it just tickles — a few months ago, you would’ve been catatonic and taken this sort of treatment as foreplay to some new horrible catastrophe.
“You want me to fuck you…? Lick you?”
“...No,” you say while caressing his back. “I’m good. But thanks for asking.”
You can’t believe he just asked you that; asked if you want to be pleasured. It was an actual question concerning consent—not sexy, not ravishing, but you appreciate the effort all the same. And before that, he whined a heartfelt “please?” into your ear...
It’s usually one step forward and two steps back with him, but today, you feel like you’ve taken a hundred steps to the sun. Does it mean you have to take two hundred steps back?
You hope not, because the kiss that follows is lightweight and easy. Something out of a corny movie still, but all in all, you feel less like getting mauled here. The rest of the morning consists of cuddles and kisses, wiping the cum off of him with his shirt. Of comparing hands, and laughing at how tiny yours is next to his. After a while, König starts to look a little ill at ease, and when you simply lie there and stare at him with slow adoration, he finally asks if you meant it when you said that he’s too big.
It’s a bit of a farce when you have to convince him that he’s the biggest man you’ve ever seen. You want to purse your lips and raise your eyebrows at him, but instead, you give him more veiled praise to make the jealousy from his eyes go away. After telling him how you were afraid he wouldn’t fit inside you, König finally leans back, a bit more pleased. The man looks nothing short of smug when you tell him he should give you more time to adjust when you’re making love, that it’s no joke or a laughing matter.
When he continues to lie on the bed, apparently in no hurry to get anywhere, you ask the question that has been bugging your mind ever since some of your stuff went missing.
“König… Where’s my lip gloss?”
“How should I know?”
Right…
“What about my panties?”
“What about your panties,” he grins.
“The black ones with lace and a bow and a pearl on them. They’ve gone missing.”
When he still continues to smile on the bed, you cross your arms over your chest accusingly.
“You took them, didn’t you.”
“...And a few photos.”
Wait.
What?
Your mind tries to think: you have a few old photos in your drawer, true, some of them years and years old. He’s been at your drawers, then, gone through your stuff, maybe raided your entire house…
Isn’t it enough that he’s drooled all over your pics on Instagram? Probably took a few screenshots, too. So what would he do with some silly old photos?
“Which photos,” you ask, and fight the urge to frown.
“The one where you are sitting on a couch and smiling,” he starts to list without struggle. “I liked that. And then… the one where you wear a bikini.”
His grin widens at the end of the sentence, making it known that it was his utmost favourite, the ultimate treasure, neatly plucked and taken to safety while you were away. You imagine he keeps the bikini picture somewhere in the pocket of his pants, always at ready for his down days. Perhaps he tucked it there before you two had even fucked, decided that you were his girlfriend already... Maybe he smiled that dumb smile of his when he found it, maybe he showed it to the sickos he works with. Maybe he saved it for quick fapping sessions at some dirty building where he couldn’t access your Instagram, the photo of you smiling under the sun sending him to a brief moment of bliss.
And the other picture… Perhaps that’s somewhere in his room, slapped on some wall where he can always glance at it when he needs to regulate his emotions.
You know you’ll never see those photos again, and the files and films have long since been destroyed. You just have to accept the fact that they’re casualties of war, nothing but plunder for this crazy dog. No doubt they give him more pleasure at his barracks or wherever he resides than in some forgotten stash of yours…
Still, your expression melts into something akin to disgust—what else has he sniffed and snooped and stolen?
“What?” he looks at you like you just told him he can’t have ice cream for breakfast. “Every soldier has a picture of a girl in their pocket.”
“Yes, pictures of their girlfriends and wives, not of strangers…”
“But you’re not a stranger. You are my future wife. Right?”
He crawls back to you and snatches you into another brutal hug.
“We are in love…”
He says it so sweetly that you can do nothing but huff. You fall back on the bed, with him, for him, and succumb to the treatment solely reserved for the girlfriend of a horny veteran.
“Wanting a woman to swallow your cum isn’t the same thing as being in love with her,” you sigh—König is apparently trying to make a new hickey necklace on your neck, which is just what you need when it’s summer and you should wear something else than turtlenecks to the studio.
“To me it is,” he insists, then stops to give it a more detailed thought. “What’s the difference? If you love me too, you’ll swallow. Right?”
You don’t even know what to say to that. His logic is so stale, his thoughts so banal that you never know if he’s joking or not. This time, the twinkle in his eyes might very well indicate that he’s trying to be morbidly funny.
“You just need more practice… Start slowly until you can take it all. Hmm?”
“You’re hopeless,” you tell him while looking straight into those roguish, happy eyes.
He gives you another flash of his teeth, a smile that tells you he got the joke, even if the joker sounded tired. It’s not that simple when the man takes everything seriously, but today, the mouth that finds your throat is smooth and supple.
“Don’t worry. I love you, even if you don’t swallow.”
“What a lucky girl I am.”
“Ja? And I’m a lucky man,” he smiles right over your thickening pulse. “The luckiest man in the world...”
It’s rare for him to be gentle like this, and you start to suspect that he’s not as addicted to your throat as he is addicted to the sounds he gets out of it. You only get him to stop by complaining that you can’t wear anything nice on TV if he keeps biting you like this. He starts to fuss about it, and tries to kiss it better—a fool for a man, or then the most cunning lover there ever was. You leave his hungry arms all shaky and soft, and try to set an example for him: show that usually people get out of bed after 10 AM.
“You owe me a pair of panties,” you declare while picking your outfit for the day, noticing your dog is still lounging on the bed like a king.
“We can go shopping anytime you want.”
You can see through the mirror how he’s playing with his cock, tugging the foreskin back and forth in a manner that can’t be quite described as masturbating. He’s just stimming or something, playing with the funny, loose skin while you’re getting dressed. One would think there’s nothing he can do to shock you anymore, but those absent-minded tugs mess with your head more than they should.
“I’m not taking you to a lingerie store,” you mutter as you sweep some mascara over your lashes.
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t behave.”
“Heh… It’s their fault for making them so pretty.”
You give him another glare through the looking glass—why does he always have to destroy pretty things?—and he finally leaves the comfort of the bed to stroll to you. A stubbled face comes to rest on your shoulder while he hugs you from behind, rocks you side to side like husbands do.
“I’ll buy you anything you want, princess,” he murmurs into your hair. “But you won’t get my credit card. If that’s what you’re after.”
“...I’m not after your credit card,” you try to turn around, but his arms keep you planted to where you stand.
“König–”
He leans over your shoulder to claim your lips, and kisses them silent before you can tell him you’re not with him because of his money.
…
You choose lingerie from an online store with him and find out that König has a lot of opinions on what you’re supposed to wear. He wants more strings, more garments that are see-through. No push-ups, no neon colours, just dainty, lacy things that look incredibly uncomfortable to wear. He wants panties with a slit in the middle, some white crotchless strings that have lace like angel wings on the front. It drives it home for you that he really, truly views your pussy as some kind of heaven.
“Can I choose some too?” you ask when there are nearly 20 pieces in the basket, and you haven’t had a single say in what has been put there.
“Sure,” he shrugs. “If I don’t like something I’ll just rip it apart.”
When you turn to give him a weighted stare, he simply looks at you from above with eyes that say Don’t tell me you wouldn’t like that.
That cockiness takes a 180 degree turn when he tries to bring up the matter of the ring before he leaves. Your bloodhound becomes the saddest big puppy when you won’t get engaged with him, and you’re sad too that you have to let him down. You try to explain with a heavy heart that you need more time. You barely know each other; you haven’t even met his parents. The conversation ends abruptly there when he says that you don’t want to meet his parents. That he doesn’t understand why you would even want to, it’s him you’re marrying, not them.
He goes back to work, sulking, so you send him an unboxing video when the lingerie arrives. When that doesn’t work as a peace offering, you send him more videos, this time with you wearing them. Even a naughty little 10-second clip where you touch yourself wearing only, and only, the crotchless lace thingy.
It doesn’t shock you anymore when he sends you a husky voice text in which he tells you he wants to lick your cunt in those. There’s some odd clinking and whirring noise in the background of the message, and you realize he just said it while being surrounded by his comrades because there comes a gruff “Save that shit for later, wank,” before the voice message ends.
Pity floods your heart so fast that you can’t help but ask about it later when he calls. He just says it’s normal, that men talk like that to each other every day. Hah, didn’t you know? Then he laughs and says they’re all just jealous. He doesn’t sound hurt in the least, only proud that his friends insult and belittle him because he happens to have a girl to return to. Even more pleased he seems to be that you have such concern for his feelings.
You tell yourself it’s not pity that makes you open your legs for him these days.
It’s only true, honest love that makes you try all these new positions. Front and back, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, 69…
You even let him fuck you in the ass.
He starts by touching it softly when you’re on top: some sneaky, greedy hands drifting down and probing at your hole when you cum. He pets it like it’s the sweetest thing. Before long, licks it, just like he promised. And before another leave has passed, you ask if he could put it in.
It’s the most gentle he’s ever been: both of you are all nerves when he gets at it.
Fear and thrill adance in his eyes as he makes it his new mission to fit his whole length inside your tighter hole. For reasons unknown, he’s intent on spreading your thighs into an awkward half split, claiming that he can get it in better this way. You suspect he only wants to watch how your ass gets stretched: men are visual creatures, König even more so than the rest.
Lube and shaky hands equal a cock dripping sticky fluid all over your thighs, and it would be hilarious, the way you both work as a team to get it in. You trust him completely, although you know you shouldn’t, watching him with one leg up in the sky and mute yearning in your eyes as he huffs and tries to force it in as gently as he can. You want to peep something about prepping but the manic focus in his eyes prevents you from ruining the beautiful moment. He’s both clumsy and careful, patient and impatient when he pushes the first few inches in, the mushroom tip of his bulge stretching you so much it forces a poor little cry out of you.
He shoots a feverish glance your way, and starts to fuss about it after that. Asks, does it hurt does it hurt does it hurt?
And fuck…
You’re even tighter down here…
He looks at you apologetically—as if he’s sorry that he has to do this to you. The trust in your eyes must be blatant because he starts to babble at you like the most encouraging coach. Or the most gentle sadist...
He says he’s gonna make you feel so, so good. Do you trust him…? You trust him, don’t you, sweet princess, you always trust him… He would never do you harm…
But your pussy looks so lonely... It looks so lonely and cute without a cock inside it, it’s about to break his heart, he can’t take it... Can you take it?
No, of course you can’t. Princesses shouldn’t be treated like this… But he’ll help you, don’t worry. Let him help you, sweet angel…
You stare at him with an open mouth, your nipples hard and ass stretched, as he dips his tongue inside his mouth and brings it to your pussy. You can only gasp when he slips it in, his fingers fanning over your mound as the rest of his cock is pushed into your poor, tight ass. You’ve never, ever been so filled—his balls come to rest on your butt as he stops to stare at his good work, every thick inch of his long, pale cock now buried tight and deep inside of you.
And it’s not painful… Only uncomfortable, something strange and forbidden in the act you decided to do as a team. Your cunt tries to squeeze the smaller equivalent while he glides his thick member in and out with shallow, slow thrusts, stubbled chin hanging open from pure awe. It’s not every day he gets to fuck pretty angels in the ass, and you being wet and defenseless for him is truly a memory he needs to file away with care... He needs to record every thrust, every gasp, every desperate stare.
You give him more of those pathetic little noises as he looks down at you like an angel he just destroyed. Even your pussy grabs his thumb in a hug, your butthole clenching helplessly around his cock, and he groans. The sloppy sounds of lube and a wet cunt are enough to make your eyes roll inside your head as well—that’s when he starts to fuck you gently, carefully, his thumb still lodged inside you as your other hole gets the ride of his life.
And you never expected him to lose his mind while having his cock up your ass… At least, not quite like this.
The things he says can hardly be called nice, and yet, you feel like the most cherished girl on earth as you watch him go insane over you. Soft, careful rolls turn into full-on drags and glides, and ssshit, would you look at that... Look at that cute little Arsch. How can you be so perfect… Making a man weak like this, you enjoy making men weak?
Yes you do, you wanted me to do this the minute you saw me, don’t lie… No use in lying to me, little one… I’ve been inside your every hole now, you like that, don’t you? Don’t you? Yes, you like it, pretty one… Show me how much you like it, give me a little squeeze… That’s it, ah, fuck…! Y ou’re so fucking cute like this… You’re so fucking cute, if only you could fucking see yourself, princess… That’s it, shhh, I’m not gonna hurt you… Just a little bit more and we’re there, sweetness. It’s coming… Already coming. Balls are pulling tight–You feel that, princess? Feel how it’s gonna… I'm gonna…
“Gonna…cum…”
His balls get pressed tight against your flesh, sloppy and slick from the lube, your other hole now dripping honey around his thumb. You can feel the rush of warmth somewhere deep inside you, pooling love and sin as he claims yet another thing that used to belong to you. You can feel his cock pulse and throb there, unnaturally deep while your poor cunt only gets some shallow, slick loving. He doesn’t move much, just grinds back and forth to milk out all his cum, empty his sacs to the last drop. When he retreats, slowly and with a tight, panting chest, you feel like you’re forever left gaping open, vulnerable and hollow without him inside you. It’s a little too scary, so you try to sob and bring your legs together, but he won’t let you escape his stare.
“I want to see,” he says, greedy and utterly shameless.
He spreads you wide again after he’s done: his wet, half-hard dick resting on the inside of your thigh as he forces your thighs as far apart as possible. The way you’re flared open after he just destroyed your guts feels both like a violation and the most intimate, delicate worship. He admires your wreck with silent wonder, gawks at your plundered hole like a boy would gawk at a fly he just robbed of its wings. Then he starts to pump his thumb inside you until you shiver and throb: a filthy attempt to get the cum out faster when your thighs are already shaking.
“That’s beautiful… You’re fucking beautiful,” he says while you cry from pure love, spilling moans and semen all over the sheets.
His cum leaks out of you in a steady warm gush, and there’s nowhere to escape his stare; nothing you can do but sob and sniffle and cry. He’s usually so mean that the simple, blunt praise makes you ascend to heaven. He hasn’t been mean to you in a long time—if ever—and sometimes you wonder if you’ve always mistaken his comments as misogyny and hate. Tears flow down your cheeks in streams as you tremble on the bed, his thumb plumbing you in a slow, steady rhythm.
If anything, you feel like the most loved, well-treated woman on earth… A princess, about to shatter from all the love she’s getting.
“I’m going to cum,” you sob, face buried so deep in the pillow from embarrassment that it’s a miracle he makes any sense of the wail. “König… I’m about to…”
“Go on, princess,” he responds, surprisingly softly. “Show me what you got…”
Your heart clenches before your pussy does, his voice sending jolts of pleasure all over your body just seconds before you cum. Your cunt throbs around his thumb, both of your holes trying to grip him something fierce as you flutter there like a leaf, inside and out.
The sounds of it, the noise of his finger and your sex are enough to make your heart pound and rev, and you explode like a dying star, collapse inwards as you burrow your face deeper into the pillow. It’s the only place in this unholy shipwreck he can’t force under his gaze; it’s the only thing left for you to hide. Even those attempts are naive and futile because he can see everything: he can see you, all of you, as you slur and snivel on the bed, crying like a child who just lost both her parents.
“Fuck that you’re beautiful… Do you have any idea what you fucking do to me?”
His tone is a tad more menacing now. You’re too sweet for your own good… Men like him will eventually go crazy if you don’t cut them some slack.
But what can you do when he treats you this way? Turns you inside out and wrings you dry, talks to you softly after he’s done? Of course there will be tears to mix up with the cum, cries and sobs that mingle with your moans of pleasure. He takes it like a soldier, the most keen tormentor you’ve ever met as he looms over you, bends down to whisper more promises to your ear.
“Could do this all day, little one,” his lips brush your hair, planting a hungry kiss on your temple. “Fuck your pretty little brains out until you cry…”
After that, you start to shake in earnest. Salty, burning tears flow without any kind of barrier between them and his gaze anymore. You don’t even know why you’re crying: orgasms make people release suppressed emotions, sure, but this is different...
König doesn’t seem too surprised that you’re like this again, that his fairy queen cries after her cute little butt got wrecked, but his attempts at aftercare are not as clumsy as they used to be.
“Shhh… I love you, sweetheart. I love you. I love you...”
That sentence, repeated thrice, only sends you into a tornado of catharsis and bawling. It reminds you of your first night and how he collapsed on top of you after he was done, weak and bare and pathetic with his love confessions. Now, he sweeps a few hairs from your face with his battered knuckles, licks his thumb clean before brushing it past your nipple, making you jerk and whimper.
“Verdammt… Poor thing is all fucked out…”
You try to gasp for air, try to weakly tremble and cry—there’s no end to the tears, and he starts to get truly worried whether he broke you with his dick.
“Shh, shh… You’re safe now, princess,” he collects you in his arms, sighs when you won’t be consoled.
“Shit… Was I too rough? Angel, I didn’t mean–”
“I love you too,” you sob. “I love you, you crazy… So much…”
It takes a while before it sinks in, but when it does, he looks like a kid who just got told Santa Claus is real after all.
It’s somehow funny to you that two people can fuck like rabbits, literally be buried inside each other and share stares that speak of deep yearning, and yet, you have these three words… To express what both of your bodies have already told a lifetime ago.
“Little angel,” he laughs through something that looks like tears. “I should’ve fucked your pretty little ass a long time ago…”
He tries to speak cruel words to blot out the fact that there is an abyss moving in him. Tries to make it a joke that you say things like this only after he fucked you in the ass... But he can’t fool you. No matter what comes out of those lips, you can see it in his stare that he’s finally here, and shattering into pieces, a million little pieces while he tries to hold you intact. While you hold him intact…
“Don’t,” you whisper. “For once. Please, König.”
He swallows with a strenuous, audible little blob, sobers down immediately.
“Ok,” he promises. “Whatever you say, sweetness.”
He looks at you while he’s falling and ascending at the same time; someone who found the gate to paradise, he’s falling to and among the stars. You wonder if he feels like Lucifer, or Archangel Michael, perhaps... If those two had a son, this would be him, surely.
“I love you too,” he says while holding you like a vase that’s about to break if he doesn’t keep it together. “You know that, right…?”
“Yes,” you whisper back. “You already said that…”
Three times, actually.
Silly…
He knows that, perhaps even knows that he’s silly. Maybe that’s why his kiss is soft. Lingering.
You do nothing but kiss these days…
In the morning while lying lazily in the bed, in the evening before you go to sleep, the two of you entwined. During sex, after sex, before sex, and in the shower too… When he leaves to work, when he returns from work.
It’s all just kisses now, slow and tentative instead of manic and needy.
Trusting... Loving. Satisfying.
A toe-curling enjoyment instead of culling.
And just like that, jealousy flares, a fear that you’ve had a moment like this with someone else than him. His demons won’t leave him alone, and it’s about to kill him after he just experienced heaven for the first time in his life.
He doesn’t ask you, have you ever loved another man before. He doesn’t ask you if you’ve felt like this with anyone else in the past.
Instead, he asks, has anyone else been inside your ass?
You know better than to tell him anything other than the word no, and so the moment stays mostly unruined. König falls back into the sweet relief of knowing that no one else has fucked you until you squealed you loved them. He probably believes that it most definitely was his cock that finally forced those words out of your mouth... He just needed to fuck you in the ass to loosen those silly little love screws in your brain; women are mysterious creatures, after all.
“I really liked it,” you tell him, sweet and intimate while you’re tucked against his chest. “I liked that you were gentle…”
“You did…?”
“Yes. Very much.”
He sighs, squishing you against him occasionally, his trademark manner when he’s so in love it hurts. His body simply cannot take it, and neither can yours... Tears are still gushing down your face as you pull him down for a kiss.
“I want to be gentle,” he breathes as your lips part against each other. “I want to… I want to do everything with you.”
“Everything…?”
“Everything. Ganz alles.”
“I like it when you speak German,” you smile next.
The soft, sad glass in his eyes breaks before he drops his stare. Tries to escape your love somewhere; the trust, joy and sincerity in your eyes too much to take.
“Aah… You’re too fucking…” he sighs sadly. “Could we at least get engaged?”
The room smells of cheap lube and odd musk, some cum drops and tears and a bucketful of salt. He has proposed to you so many times now that you’ve lost count.
It should be illegal to love the way he loves, unabashedly and unapologetically, so fiercely that it burns the people involved to cinders.
It’s not healthy, and it’s not right.
People aren’t meant to be beacons… Hearts can take a lot, but they can’t take wildfires like this. He’s supposed to be a soldier, and yet he refuses to guard the most vital part of him, just throws it out to people like you to trample and spit on and maybe, pick up.
It brings more tears to your eyes, and you hear yourself whisper, “One day. I promise,” when in reality you thought you’d keep him on a leash for another year.
But there is no leash… Not anymore.
Sometimes, you wonder if he wants to get married partly because then he could tell his mad dogs that he nailed someone, that he has a girl waiting for him at home these days, actually, she’s his wife. That some amazing woman sucks his cock and lets him fuck her in the ass and likes him so much she’s willing to marry him. That yes, there is someone who wants him. Someone who loves him. He’s taken: someone took him by his paw and slid a ring on it. Isn’t that amazing…? Aren’t you all now jealous of him? He’s the one who gets to go home now; he’s the one who gets to march into the arms of his missus. He has a home and a woman to call his own. Imagine that, eh?
That’s what you think must be going through his delusion-ridden brain: some silly fantasies where he’s capable, desirable and normal. Some aspects of decent, even.
He starts to coo at you, as he usually does when he’s a bit too happy with you.
He talks about how he’ll get you the most beautiful wedding dress: Princess Diana would be jealous if she saw. A pretty princess wedding, just for you. No roses… But a big cake, maybe Sacher? You could feed it to him, he could feed it to you… He wouldn’t lick it off your fingers, he would behave. No bad guys would be invited to the ceremony. All his friends are dogs, so maybe… There would only be guests from your side of the family. That way, there would be no bloodshed and… Yeah. You don’t need to know what they’re like.
There would be no dogs there, not a single one... He gives you his word. Just a giant wedding cake, you in your cute princess dress, your mom and dad so they can see you’re getting married to a good man. They’ll see he can take care of you, that they needn’t be afraid… Yes?
You get the prettiest dress, he’ll make sure of that. Oh, he already said that? Hm… But dresses are important, eh?
He’s silent for a moment, falls into his thoughts, smiling at the image he just depicted. Silence arrives, and he speaks to the ceiling after a while, changing the subject so fast your heart skips a beat.
“No one’s ever told me they love me,” he smiles at the lifeless paint above, white summer sun dancing on his cheeks. He says it as a matter of factly, some horrible truth that shouldn’t be told in such a calm, devil-may-care tone.
Then he turns those tired, hopeful eyes to you.
“...Could you say it again?”
Chapter 15
Notes:
Hello <3 and sorry for the mini hiatus! I absolutely meant to finish this fic before summer but alas, school and irl stuff got the best of me. BUT we’re so back and the fluff is really getting out of hand in this chapter… ^^ Enjoy!
Chapter Text
You become the perfect girlfriend.
Out of pity and terrible love, you rush down the stairs and jump into his arms whenever he comes home. You drown him in kisses while wearing one of his black t-shirts, your feet dangling in the air as he holds you like a doll and kisses you back, swimming in your love. He can do nothing but stare at you with sparkles in his eyes when you tell him you made him his favourite dish. It’s a sure-shot way straight into his heart, which you occupied already, but only as his skittish cat.
Now, you’re relatively sure this man would do anything for you without a moment’s notice. If you told him to jump off a bridge, he would ask which one with devotion and trust in his eyes.
It’s scary to hold that kind of power over someone.
It’s equally as frightening to notice he holds the same kind of power over you.
And if you’re the perfect girlfriend, he’s the perfect boyfriend.
He’s the perfect man.
“Little angel is waking up to a new day,” he says in the mornings as he caresses your cheek. Gone are the days when he used to force his cock between your thighs first thing at dawn; now he’s the gentlest knight as he softly cuddles you awake, cooing questions into your ear about what his princess would like to do today.
He’s the wallet to your whimsy dinner plans and carries the groceries back to the house like a loyal servant; he’s your guy when you curse the grime attached in the seams of your bathroom tiles. You catch him scrubbing them clean before you can say Clorox, and he’s there when you need to vacuum under the sofa, when you need to change a tyre, when you need to get your pussy wrecked.
He licks you so sweet it makes your chest want to collapse in on itself: he’s slow, confident, and purposeful, a man who finally knows what he’s doing and therefore takes his sweet time with it.
“You look so pretty when I fuck you like this,” he breathes into your cunt with a smooth, low voice.
Then he licks you, sluggishly, filling the air with audible, slick sounds of a wet tongue sweeping past an even wetter slit.
“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Lick.
Lick.
Lick.
“I won’t let anyone else have you.”
Lick…
You tremble and swallow down the lump in your throat, your thighs stealing into a tremble.
You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me – who says things like this while eating a pussy? If anything, he happened to you. And you still don’t know if he’s the best or the worst thing…
“You understand me?”
“Yes,” you sob, wishing he would give you that last, fat lick that will send you to your freedom.
He’s been at your pussy for what seems like hours, and dares to act merciful and kind, even if he’s been mean to you for the better half of an afternoon. He always withdraws when you start to sound like you’re about to weep, but eventually, a hot, wet tongue is pressed flat against your folds as he laughs. It curls to find the sweet spot that leads within, and you scream, your thighs falling to each side as you spiral headfirst into bliss.
Afterwards, when he crawls next to you with his chin glazed with your wet, he takes you in his arms because you’re still sobbing. The love inside your chest is unbearable; the rush of good feelings in your body exquisitely painful. You know it’s just oxytocin and Mother Nature doing its thing, but you’re really beginning to feel like this man lives inside your rib cage nowadays, occupying it with an invincible army of one. He sighs as you weep against his chest and says that every time you cry, it makes him hard.
He’s still selfish, but not in a way that tries to get his needs met by suffocating you. He simply follows you around like a puppy, the bathroom being the only place you get to go to alone, and even that happens after a brief play fight and a chase. If you make dinner, he’s there; not to help but to sit and stare at you like some adoring, big kid. If you say you need to run to the store, he drives you there and looms over you while you pick the bread or try to decide which pasta brand has the best mouthfeel when cooked al dente.
There are some things that make you feel like you’re rehabilitating a criminal back to society, however. You have to teach him to put the bowls into the dishwashing machine instead of just rinsing them and setting them aside to dry. You have to teach him how to eat with a fork and a knife instead of a simple spoon. You teach him to take care of his poor, battered, atopic skin even if he mocks the “beauty products” you get him from the store. You bring him a simple lotion and he ridicules it, but doesn’t utter a single complaint when you apply it on his skin, and of course he doesn’t. He would give his right arm for attention, especially when the attention comes from you.
He’s a dilemma when it comes to rules and routines: he’s very strict on his personal hygiene and considers clothes dirty after wearing them for an hour, but at the same time, finds no shame in driving his nose up under your dress for a sniff at your panties. He can cum all over you and your sheets and doesn’t deem it nasty; he thinks it’s ok to use the same toothbrush he just scrubbed the floors with after disinfecting it with booze, but wearing the same t-shirt twice during one day is a no-go.
He won’t use the latest technology and blatantly refuses to wear clothes that would betray the wealth he’s got piled up in some foreign account. At the same time, he spoils you like it’s the only thing in life that matters. The attention you get is starting to resemble some type of worship: after you started to play nice, obedient and sweet, he’s had stars in his eyes 24/7. You sometimes notice that the man is staring at you when you wake up, and he always demands to be entwined with you when you go to bed. You know for a fact that he’s a killer, and yet he dotes on you like a lovesick dog who has finally found a worthy pack leader to adore and follow.
You don’t feel like a leader, though. You feel like an impostor and a prisoner at the same time.
One time, you recite some nonsense poem for kids while drawing circles on his palm, and give his every finger a pinch. It’s a silly, whimsical thing to do to a grown man, but that song was playing in your head nonstop and you wanted to get rid of it. König, however, looks at you like you’re the most miraculous, wondrous being he’s ever seen. He also looks at you like you’ve just gone crazy, and you realize from that look alone that no one ever did these things to him as a kid. He understands the concept but never had the experience, not until now.
You suspect that there is a part of him that’s still alive to recognize how fucked up this is. That there’s something majorly wrong here, that your relationship is not normal, only unbearably sick and cute.
He doesn’t give that part any air, though.
“Say that you love me,” he roughs at the other end of the phone one night, and the only thing you can do is sigh.
“König, it doesn’t work that way.”
There’s a brief silence, some brooding and an even rougher tone as he tries to get you to say those words as desperately as you said them the first time when he fucked you in the ass.
“Say it.”
It’s followed by a thick, quick “Please”, and you know that he’s not only itching but in fact, dying to hear it.
Your heart hurts, and your stomach wants to strangle itself, but it’s not fear that makes you say those words. It’s not even pity, or so you hope, because he’s just so helpless that you don’t even feel like you’re being controlled and manipulated over here. This man is just… hungry.
“I love you.”
There’s another pause as he lets it sink in. He swims in those words, washing away the pain. Or an ounce of it, at least…
Then, a voice comes, so soft and smooth you almost believe it belongs to a man instead of a biting, barking dog.
“I love you too.”
This is what your conversations are like when he’s out there: intimate and brief, soft-voiced and saccharine. Sometimes it seems like he calls you only to soothe the demons raging inside him.
“You love me?” he asks.
“Yes, I love you. Silly man,” you reply.
“You’re silly.”
He’s not joking here. He’s serious, dead serious. A bit insulted that you called him silly, but he lets it pass. And you let it pass that he’s the dumbest moron on earth. Dumbest, sexiest, most lovable moron…
The texts follow mainly the same pattern as your phone calls do. Mostly it’s just him initiating the conversation to see if you’re still real and if you still care about him.
Or then it’s something urgent, some horny business he wants you to help him with when the time between his missions grows too dull. He wants to play a game where you tell each other what you’ll do to one another when you meet again, and so it’s a lover’s conversation, a mutual teasing competition where everybody wants to win.
Sometimes, the conversation has to be continued with a call. It’s mostly him who masturbates to the sound of your voice and your hushed giggling. He loves it when you giggle... He adores it when you say nice things to him. He goes crazy if you get flustered, and when he goes crazy, he also cums hard. But then there are times such as these: when you get a little too soft with him, so much so that it nearly kills his erection.
“What things?” he rasps when you pick up the phone.
“Things like… You’re sweet,” you start with a gentle, shy smile. “And big. And cute…”
A tiny grunt reaches your ear, the surge of want gathering up his throat impossible to be stifled. This man’s praise kink is common knowledge to you these days, and you’ve started to use it filthily to your advantage. If there’s a way to disarm this man, it’s through sweet, succulent praise, a soft feminine voice that whispers him stories about how nice and big he is.
“And handsome… And silly. And big…”
There’s more grunting, accompanied by few weak whines now. You know he’s already stroking his cock, imagining it was your hand fapping him slowly, your teasing voice speaking soothing words into his ear.
“I’d tell you you have an amazing cock. And that I wanted to blow you the minute I saw you...”
You bite your lip when you hear a slick sound from the line: he’s already leaking precum all over his foreskin, making the wank slippery and sweet. You continue listing things you like about him, but just when you’re about to get to the part where he starts to pant in bursts, there comes a shaky, disrupted sigh. Usually, a nice, gentle “I love you” would have finished him off, but this time, he’s having obvious trouble with something.
“...König?”
He breathes through his nose and sniffles once. The sound of fapping has receded, and there’s only a sad, yearning man speaking on the other end.
“I don’t want to do it without you.”
“Oh, sweetie…”
You shut it completely after slipping the pet name off your tongue — what must he think of you? Then again, you should always expect the unexpected with König. He just might like it… And you kind of liked it that you just called him ‘sweetie’ after his dick apparently just broke.
No amount of frenzied fapping could ever replace what you two have, but this is still a situation that strokes your ego way more than is healthy. To you, it’s the highest compliment that he’s so obsessed with your cunt, so conditioned to it that his own calloused hand only makes him sad.
“Um. When will you be back…?”
“Next week.”
“Let’s do it then,” you propose. “Together.”
“Together,” he repeats like a lovelorn robot.
…
It’s like a honeymoon.
You do everything together: not just cooking and cooing and cuddling, not just insane, mind-blowing sex, but a few outside ventures too.
He takes you to a circus and shows off his shooting skills at the local summer fair, making a kid cry because he managed to win the biggest trophy. Some plushie that’s half the size of you, and König looks smug, downright amused when he passes the bawling boy while the big bear is stuffed under his armpit. Later on, he shoves it to you and says it’s a gift for his lady. When you tell him he should’ve let the kid have it because he wanted it so much, König only scoffs.
“Ja, gewiss... I know you’re gonna hug that thing when I’m away.”
That comment immediately shuts you up. It’s like he’s saying you need that huge plushie more than some poor, crying kid does, and everybody knows it. You only notice you’re squeezing the bear against your chest already when he asks if you want to ride the Ferris wheel with him since he never did that as a kid.
He also takes you to a local casino and makes you sit on his lap while he gambles. You get to be bounced on his knee while he waits for the other players to call or fold. You get to blow on his dice but the sad thing is, he’s terrible at gambling. Not exactly inexperienced, but armed with such a bad luck that it leaves him without the massive victories necessary for his ego. He loses a terrible amount of money in that place, and you receive a wave of disturbed looks for making out in a public place. He always was a bad kisser, what with trying to drive his tongue inside your mouth and thinking it’s hot when you try to fight him. Or making out with your whole face when he’s too eager.
Some woman who looks like she hasn’t been dicked down in ages says that there are children here, and people are trying to eat. You’ve tried your best to make him stop already, so it’s a bit annoying that the words are directed solely at you. As if it’s your fault that your man is foul and unhinged. Funnily enough, this lady has more in common with König than she would probably like to admit: both stay grounded in the opinion that you made your bed, so you should now lie in it.
Boys will be boys, and this big kid never grew up: you realize König only wanted to play out some fantasy, to show you around and show you how much money he has. Women don’t favour him, Lady Luck least of all, and you have to distract him when you get home so that he doesn’t take it out on you and destroy your guts for the umpteenth time this week. You’ve noticed that the more you kiss and hug and cuddle him, the least likely it is for you to get fucked nasty style. Or try to be coerced to swallow a putrid load… You’ve made mental notes every time you’ve managed to calm him down with pets and caresses, and so you get attached to his hip when he goes to grab a beer, and give him ample kisses until he sets the bottle aside. You end up straddling him when he’s lying on the sofa, and kiss his face all over to make him forget the loss — he laughs with his eyes squeezed shut and his nose all wrinkled up and tells you to stop, saying he gets goosebumps and feels too fucking funny in the head.
And the thing you never expected him to do is to take you to a grove.
He says that he wants you to see the birds and bees, and you think it’s a euphemism to imply he wants to bend you over at the ditch of some jogging route and destroy your pussy but instead, he insists you walk hand in hand and admire the trees. He points his finger at the golden light filtering through them, he points at the white dandelion seeds floating in the air, and runs his hand over tree bark as if it’s the most magical thing.
And it is.
He wants to lie down on the moss, and says it’s perfectly safe and dry when you tell him you’re scared of ants and whatnot. He says you can use him as a picnic blanket, and you’ve never seen him so soft: his walls are completely down as he reaches for a wood sorrel and plucks it for you. Says it’s perfectly safe to eat, and shakes it in front of your nose until you open your mouth like a good girl so that he can place the clover-like leaf on your tongue.
It tastes of sour salt and oxalate, but the crispy explosion on your palate is surprisingly nice. He laughs at the face you make and gives you another one, saying you look cute when you eat grass. You try to lightly smack him in the head but he catches your wrist, laughing even more as he brings both of your hands up above his head, forcing you down to his lips.
You wonder how you taste to his tongue – of sour sorrels and woodland fairies, maybe?
After a lazy little play wrestle, you settle there on top of him and lay your head on his chest. His heart beats fast but strong, and settles into a soft thump as he brings his hands to your hips. You only notice you’re about to nod off when he starts snoring, stirring you from your sleep with a soft, half-snorting rumble. You smile while attending to his nap, and listen to the birds in the trees, some odd cricket or two chirping in the hay, a few bees occasionally buzzing by.
It’s the first moment in a long, long time that you’ve felt happy.
Veritably, truly happy, down to the bones and to your very core. Safe and good and loved, mouth full of summer crisp and your heart pressed against a sleeping giant, your thrumming body too small a blanket to his form.
For whatever odd reason, you still find it difficult to say these things right to his face. To wake him up and confess that he makes you happy. But you don’t need to tell him: he sees the happiness written on your face when he wakes up. Something about the way his lips draw into a thin line, so bittersweet and bare, tells you that he’s been waiting for this day even more than the day you told him you love him.
He gives you a soft squeeze, brushes away a lock of hair, but doesn’t say a thing. For the first time ever, he keeps his mouth shut about I told you so’s.
…
You swallow one night.
You almost puke too, and there are a few tears on your lashline by the time he takes you in his arms.
“Da sind Sie ja… You were so brave. Didn’t spill a drop.”
His abrasive praise should not make you feel so accomplished, and yet you look at him like the most people-pleasing student who just got an A in a class. He makes it sound like you just did some heroic deed, or better yet, took your medicine without complaining, and you go through a strenuous mental exercise to force your body to keep the load in your stomach where it belongs.
“Oh, you are pouting. Was it so horrible?”
You realise that there’s indeed a slightly repulsed expression on your face, and so the only option is to nod. The salty treat is trying to creep back up your throat so you have to keep your mouth tightly shut — you really ought to feed this man pineapple or something to cut down the bitter taste. Maybe a Thai-style stir fry chicken would do the trick… Some watermelon slices left on the kitchen table where he could easily find them and eat them without permission…
“But you swallowed it still. Such a good, good girl…”
“Stop calling me that.”
He raises an eyebrow at you and your attitude. Haven’t you ever heard of positive reinforcement?
“I need to praise you so you will do it again,” he explains the situation to you like you’re a total simpleton.
Then he carries you to bed because apparently, you can’t walk there yourself. Or maybe he deems it necessary to give you the princess treatment after what you just did; you can have a little white knight action as a treat. It’s just that his concept of princess treatment is taking your clothes off and folding you like a lawn chair.
“You’re unbelievable,” you whisper as he starts to undress you.
He takes off your jeans, your shirt, and your socks like the most valiant knight indeed, then robs you of your panties and bra as if it’s just a coincidence that his cock is swelling back to its full glory as you speak. And because he knows you a little too well by now, he can guess that you’re already wet after giving him the most pathetic blowjob of his life. Only a man like König would find it hot that a girl gags and pouts at the taste of his cum.
“What you just did was unbelievable,” he rumbles with smug delight. “I’m a lucky, lucky man...”
You let out a shy whimper as he collects your legs and hikes them up for mating press: a position he loves to do when he’s in a particularly nasty mood and wants to see his woman utterly, completely weak. There is a tremendous vulnerability in this position, something inescapably lewd about the way you’re so exposed, your poor, puffed-up pussy simply on display for him. Your hole clenches already at the prospect of what’s about to come, and he gives you a little tsk at the sight — as if you’re the pervert here for throbbing from the prospect of getting plowed like a hentai girl.
“Tight pussy, tight ass, and swallows too… You’re every man’s dream,” he says approvingly while hovering above you with that terribly long cock twitching between his legs.
You want to slap and kiss him for the things he just said, but as always, his dick steals the show. When the tight head of it meets your clit, you swallow; when it drops back along your slit and gets caught on your fluttering entrance, you mewl and squirm. It’s throbbing, probing, slowly stealing its way in, and the helpless sounds you make only guide his sadistic stare back to your eyes, now concentrating solely on your weak angel gaze.
“Is… that… all it takes…?”
You barely get to breathe out the words before his cock sinks inside your hole, all the way until he bottoms out.
“König–”
“Shh. You think too much, Liebling.”
Your heart always panics when he settles inside you, his long, thick cock buried deep into your depths. You’re always afraid it won’t fit, and yet, it somehow always fits. The stretch, the pressure, the tightness gathering at the pit of your stomach is always present when he makes himself at home in your pussy, his loose balls coming to rest on your plump, upturned ass like it’s only a supportive rack for them.
Your heart tries to escape your chest every time he feeds himself all the way in, and yet you never hurt or tear. You never split in half. You just swallow every inch of him and grip him like it’s just another hungry mouth down there, wanting to suck and milk him dry.
And you kind of want to hate yourself for turning into a brainless mess every time he treats you like this. The sight of him looking so damn pleased with you for simply taking it every single time shouldn’t make you feel so good. But your pussy only wants him to move, to thrust, to use you any way he likes.
It takes him an eternity to pull out, and another one to thrust back in, but you sigh from relief when he does that. The soft slapping of flesh against flesh rises like a heavenly crescendo as you let him do all the work, but you realise it’s not just you who’s training him here. He’s conditioning you too, but for what, you don’t know. Maybe to become his obedient wife or something; you’re far too blissed out to care.
And then, just when you think this is the first relatively normal fuck you’ve had, he starts to babble about how cute it would be to put you in a basement. He owns one, you know. There’s a cage your size down there. It’s not too dirty, he has kept it clean for his dream girl, his angel…
He could bring you food, fuck you through the bars if you try to pull some foolish shit again. Sleep with you if you’ve been nice; put a little bell around your neck so that he can hear you if you try to escape.
…Would you like that?
Your pussy gives him a slow, adoring pull, and he hisses, throws his head back.
Ja, you would like that…
His Muschi would love that.
Pretty little cage with a pretty little bowl, a cute little bell and a nice pink collar, that’s what you would love to have…
“I don’t want to go into a dark basement,” you peep under him, a bit too into this silly little fantasy he wants to share.
“It’s not dark. There’s a small window.”
The dopey smile dies on your lips as you realize you were not playing along with his fantasies; you were not talking about kinky shit in theory.
There’s an actual basement somewhere.
With a cage your size…
“König…”
If you only wanted, he would put that collar on you, watch how you eat from a bowl. Open the cage only when he brings you food or wants to fuck you or wash you. Or then he could always force you to suck his cock through the bars…
You swallow and stare at him with wide eyes while he looks back down at you with the most gentle, enamored stare. He’s looking at you softly, trusting that his princess would only squee from happiness when she gets to skitter into some nasty, ugly cellar. Yes, he’s probably thinking how that little bell around your neck would jingle with every thrust he gives you…
“I… I really don’t want to.”
“Why not? It would be cute…”
“No. Please don’t put me there.”
“Ok,” he says a bit sadly to your ear.
The slow pace of his cock sinking into you cannot suppress the sudden jealousy about to arise. It’s searing its way through your insides, the image of him fucking some “dream girl” he drugged and dragged into his basement–wherever the fuck that is–scalding you like burning oil. The knowledge of him having a human-sized cage stuffed inside some cold, damp cellar will never leave you alone now. No: it will drive you mad in only a matter of days.
Of course he has a cage for women, of course he wants to put little bells around their necks…
You think about him sinking into a crouch and sliding a bowl of food between the bars to some poor, shaking creature; you think about him tucking their hair behind their ears as he watches them eat. You think about him carrying them to a bathtub for a wash, you think about him scrubbing their tits and pussies and buttholes clean, making them cry with slow, supple glides of his dick. He has probably soothed them afterwards with dumb words and tender hugs, just like he always did to you.
You know you’re being petty again, but the envy is so all-encompassing that you almost wail that you want him to take you there after all. And not just that, but chain you to the wall as well… Maybe fuck your brains out and give you a good wash. Maybe that would stop the hellish overthinking, once and for all.
Stupid man with his stupid basement and his stupid cages for poor, innocent women…
The steady plap plap plap is about to drive you crazy too, it makes your vision go bleak before you’ve even closed your eyes. The building pleasure is so relentless you wish you could dig your nails into his flesh: to spur him on so that you could get your release — and with that, a moment of peace from your thoughts.
“Just like that, angel,” he pants on your face, thrilled to see your broken, defenceless stare. “Pretend it’s your wedding night. Pretend that I’m your… h-ah…”
He’s drowning in his own delusions while you’re about to cry from frustration. You can’t even reach his ass, so you have to settle for prying at his thighs, your arms neatly trapped under yours while your toes point straight into the air. The anguish in your eyes must be visible because he turns even softer while he’s plowing you: the more you look like you’re about to lose it because of him, the more he looks like he’s about to confess his undying love for you.
“I’ll give it to you,” he huffs promises on your skin, “I’ll give it to you angel… Don’t you worry…”
He continues to drill into you with quick, steady pumps until your whimpers die a natural death. There’s nothing left of you but a wretched puddle, a shivering mouth, eyes that gaze into nothingness. A fluttering and clenching hole, a heart that beats so alive and free and yet, so irreversibly shackled to him.
You eventually cum with gritted teeth and a painful moan, your eyes rolling back into your head because you can’t bear to see that adoring stare in his eyes. He must be thinking that his stupid wedding night talk was the thing that drove you over the edge, and, to top it off, he dares to open his mouth again when you’re at your weakest.
“There we go... Always have to fuck you dumb…”
The sound of his balls slapping against your arse is a crude backdrop to what he just said, as is the squelching noise that comes from your sopping, fucked out cunt. Weak mewls are punched out of you with every spearing of his cock, and you can’t seem to get enough oxygen in your lungs, not with the way he’s pushing your legs against your chest with every thrust. Some shrill voice inside your head screams you to shut your mouth before he thinks he actually fucked your brains out this time. It’s the last parcel of your dignity that warns you he’ll pat himself on the back forever if you don’t shut it and shut it now.
And then…
“I used to dream of a girl like you. Ever since I was a kid.”
There are wolf eyes greeting you when you finally come back for air, and they’re startlingly affectionate.
Curious…
Reverent.
Domestic.
“Are you a dream?”
Just when you get a hold of your breath, he steals it away. You used to hate it when he searched for your eyes during sex, you used to loathe him for being so needy and pathetic. Now you’re the one who’s in over her head, your heart melting all over the place like a pool in summer rain.
“Oh, sweetie…” you blurt without thinking, and it's like winning a jackpot at a slot machine.
“Hah.. Hah…Fuck–...”
His back arches, he buries himself as deep as he can, causing you to wince. The head of his cock is prodding at your cervix, making you nauseous, and it doesn’t really help that you know there’s a flood coming up. You can’t really feel the actual spurts, but the knowledge of them is enough: he’s shooting thick loads of cum with every roll of his hips, with every jagged moan passing through his lips. He used to look so droopy and insane when he came, but nowadays, he just looks like a man, beautifully in pain. The intensity has switched to reveling, all the sensations of the orgasm relished to the full, as they should.
He crumbles on top of you like any other male would after a nice, fat orgasm, but the panting never stops.
“Sweetie’, eh…?”
He chuckles happily after calming down a bit, and you bite yourself in the cheek from embarrassment. You’ve been promoted from pussy to princess and now, ‘angel’, but that doesn’t mean you have to start using tacky pet names for him in return... You have to pay the price for it now because he doesn’t seem to deem it necessary to move and therefore, let you out of this fucked up yoga position. Even when you allow yourself a tiny little sob, his balls sit tight against your ass for a moment or two, his cock steals another throb before he finally decides to grant you mercy and pull out.
You know how your pussy must look right now: the usually thin slit now gaping open like a round, thoroughly used hole after his visit. He only admires his good work like it’s some sort of an accomplishment to wreck innocent ladies with his dick. A torture tool, it should be called, that massive thing between his legs…
Later on, when you lie there in each other’s arms for some cuddling and nesting behavior, you finally gather your strength to ask the first question about his past. There are at least a thousand about to roll off your tongue, but you start with the most important, frightening one.
“König–uh, Kurt…?”
“Mm.”
“How many women have you had?”
There’s a long silence as he plays with your hair. The heart beneath your cheek beats nice and strong, all his trembles and panic now gone. His voice is surprisingly steady and proud when he answers.
“Just one.”
Your mind tries to grasp what he just said: what he’s telling you right now.
Just one—
But that would mean…
That would…
“You mean…”
“You were my first,” he says.
He shifts a little to the side, leaning on his elbow as he strokes your cheek. The smile on his face is saint-like and drowsy.
“...and you are my last.”
There’s nothing wrong with your ears, and still, you’re doubting if you heard him right.
You fast forward all the things this man has said or done: you replay every single detail that should’ve given you the cue to the impossible.
“Clean as can be,” he said when you grilled him about STIs.
“Never heard a girl cum like that,” he told you when you said you didn’t know if you liked him to be a nasty, dominating asshole in bed.
Turns out he’s never heard a girl cum at all… Not off a porn tape, at least.
But he couldn’t be a virgin.
Or could he?
How?
“But I thought… The way you talked…”
“You think too much, that’s what I always say.”
The truth is so jaw-dropping, heart-stopping, that you can only lie there in stillness and silence.
All his high talk of other women, his mad obsession with sex… The cage, the bragging, the happy teasing whenever he saw you were acting jealous…
And now he’s telling you he was a virgin when he…
You flinch as he suddenly jumps from the bed and goes to his clothes. You continue to stare at him and try to comprehend how the man who just fucked you like a pornstar is actually loudly inexperienced compared to most of the guys his age.
Isn’t he, like, pushing 40? From what you can tell, the guy’s at least 35, if not older…
And now he’s telling you that everything was a first time for him. The incredible, horrible first night, the anal sex, the time he went down on you and came all over your rug, the time when you woke him up with a blowjob… His first blowjob ever, and you initiated it while he was still sleeping. God…
You thought he had a body count three miles high, that he’d bought women just to fuck them, that he’d had his fun with anyone kind enough to look past all the red flags.
How is it even possible for a virgin to prey upon you like that?
You’re still trying to gather your thoughts as he rummages through his clothes, searching for something. You can barely even move as you try to think about the way with which he always fucked you like a horny teenage boy. It brings to mind porn and what it does to people — if his experiences with women and sexuality is based on porn, it would perhaps explain why he did what he did. Why he needed you so helpless that night, why he needed himself to be cruel and dominating.
Maybe that’s why your first time together was so gruesome: perhaps he tried to recreate a porn scene, an act of love that, on screen, is just that: an act. You always found most of the professional, even some of the amateur porn a bit off-putting. The woman was always too scared and the man too sweaty with the need to prove himself, all those people trying to fake intimacy by getting overstimulated, using each other as a way to masturbate.
Maybe he thought that this is how it’s done… If a girl looks at him in a certain way, extremely helpless and scared while they’re wet downstairs, then he’s doing it right. That this is what two people who love each other do.
You’re still staring off into space when he comes back with a faint blush on his cheeks. You notice there’s a shiny, tiny object between his long, agile fingers — it must be the wedding ring his mother used to wear, and your stomach just won’t stop dropping.
“Are you ready?”
“No. No, I’m not ready.”
He drops to one knee without ever even acknowledging your words, and presents the ring to you with a shy little smile — he doesn’t seem to think it odd at all to be in this situation again, butt naked and his cock still swinging between his legs.
“My love. Will you be my wife?”
You stare at the tiny white pearl fitted into a thin silver ring and feel the insides of your cheeks slowly suck towards your teeth. It looks old and pretty, antique of some sort perchance. Not the kind of extravagant rock some women would expect, maybe even demand from a guy of his wealth. The fact that he even has his mother’s old wedding ring in his possession forms a tight knot inside your stomach, and when you refuse to throw your hands around his neck and bawl your eyes out with a thousand yes’s shrieked into his ear, he slowly furrows his brows.
“I promised I would take care of you,” he reminds you as you try to shield yourself with a crumpled sheet.
“...Why do we even have to get married?”
“To tell everyone you’re mine,” he replies right away, then corrects his answer when he notices it was a little too honest a reason to give to the love of his life. “There’s tons of reasons why.”
You’re still getting bad vibes from this, more and more when you see how eagerly he wants to put that unpolished silver ring on your finger. You don’t even dare ask where his mother is and why she isn't wearing her wedding ring anymore. It’s like you’re a doe again, some prey animal who can smell danger, the fur and drool of a prowling wolf nearby. The said wolf gets more frustrated by the minute, probably upset about the situation; a proud man like him forced to stay on one knee for so long. Good girls should dangle from a man’s neck and cry tears of joy when a devoted, decent man is proposing to them, so what the hell is wrong with you?
“Look,” he raises the ring an inch or two. “A pearl. You like pearls, right?”
You almost expect him to shake it a little like a toy is shaken to draw a cat’s attention. As pretty as it is, it now looks like a piece of junk he fished from some kid’s candy machine. You know it’s his mother’s wedding ring, and yet it looks like he scoured it from a bin somewhere down the alley, brought it here between his teeth and now expects a reward.
“König… I don’t even know your name.”
“Fritz Andreas.”
You stare back at him in thick, gathering silence.
“...Fritz?”
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing.”
The mystery is gone, the veil lifted, and you can only stare in stupefied silence as you let it sink in that your lover and tormentor has the most boyish, generic German name imaginable.
It doesn’t suit him at all, to be honest: a man of his stature and size, a towering mass of muscle and piercing stares simply shouldn’t be called Fritz. He must think so too because he does his everything to not look put out about it. You’ve tapped into another one of his insecurities, and swear to yourself you will not make him feel like a loser again, even if it’s the last thing you do.
“What does your name mean…?”
“Peaceful man. Or something like that.”
You raise a hand to your mouth to cover up the smile that’s creeping up your lips. He must’ve had an issue with it, the name adding to his multiple trials, and peaceful is the last thing anyone who knows him would call him… Perhaps he has battled to prove that name wrong his whole life — maybe the cute, innocent name is to blame for this man’s cruelty.
“You are laughing,” he points out with poorly veiled hurt. You straighten your face immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
It doesn’t escape you that he chose not to reveal his surname; another red flag to add to the long list of his toxic traits, but you let it pass for now. It would be nice to know it someday, considering that he’s trying to tempt you to take it along with his mother’s old ring. You never assumed you’d get to keep your maiden name were you ever to be wed to this guy. He seems extremely traditional when it comes to these things.
“What do I have to do to get you?”
His question is innocent and honest, if also a bit annoyed. Had he asked that question with those hurt puppy eyes when he arrived at your door the first time, you would have probably been too disarmed to respond. Now, you slowly lower the sheet from in front of your chest, and look at him with compassion.
“Nothing. You already have me.”
He looks down to the floor, then to the knotted threads of your rug.
“Are you still punishing me,” he asks. “For what I did.”
“What? No…”
You realise you’re sounding like a rusty old door. Or the worst liar on earth… But the truth is, the question caught you wholly off guard. His moments of self-awareness always come out of left field, and you can’t tell if he’s being genuine or manipulative. Is he actually feeling remorse, or is he just peeved that you’re denying him access to you simply because “he got a little crazy” one night?
“Just… Give me some time. Ok? Marriage is a big thing.”
He swallows and turns to look up at you, his big puppy eyes swallowed with love as the Adam’s apple on his throat gives a cute little blob.
“I want to do big things with you.”
God, this man…
You’re confronted with a well of bottomless want, those normally glacial eyes now black pools of endless hunger. At the same time, he manages to look innocent and sweet, like a boy who never did anyone any harm. Who only asks to be loved. Are you a bad person for not giving him this one thing that he wants? Or are you just being guilt-tripped by an abusive man who’ll never change?
He’s laying siege on you with new weapons and it’s not fair.
You slowly climb from the bed, and approach his ring with hesitant steps. He still looks at you like you’re some sort of holy vision which is partly why you take the ring from him and slide the thin bond of pearl on the ring finger of your right hand.
“Let’s put it here for now. What do you say?”
He looks at the ring with heart-wrenching sadness, then shrugs.
“It looks like it was made for you.”
Your dog accepts every crumb he can get, and you can feel your heart bleed dry, drop by drop inside your chest. The silver piece of jewelry feels like a shackle, even on your right hand, but you ignore the cold grip of it by cupping your lover’s face.
“Sometimes you say the sweetest things,” you say as you brush a thumb over his blossoming cheek.
Your blushing knight is still naked and a bit sweaty from your recent activities, and wobbles a little as he rises to his feet. The cock between his thighs looks relatively harmless now, and his hands don’t shake as much as they used to. He looks a bit lost there with his junk just hanging there between his legs, and you want to praise him for being so good to you lately. You can’t thank a man for giving you the bare minimum, you remind yourself as you rise on your toes instead and wrap your hands around his neck.
It’s just that his words and touch don’t feel like the bare minimum…
They feel like an endless tidal wave of love, especially when he hugs you back with soft sadness.
“They say I’ve become soft,” he mutters in your neck while slouching just to get closer to you.
“Who…?”
“At work. Ever since I met you I have become soft. That’s what they say.”
You can’t see his face when you’re embracing each other like this, but you can feel the heartbeat on his throat. It’s a tad fluttery, a bit more agitated than it used to be, a rapid pulse of Will I ever be enough.
“Is that so bad…?”
“They’re just jealous,” he shrugs off with a stiff jerk. “They said you’re out of my league…”
His words sound like they’re coming from underwater, and you realise that the man might be two seconds shy from crying. His shoulder blades pull themselves back together, his back stiffens as he tries to gather his composure. Big boys don’t cry, and so on and so forth, but it just might be that women are not the only creatures who feel a bit emotional after good sex.
“I just want to kill them all,” he declares, now sounding like he’s on the verge of starting a ten year war.
You keep petting him while he goes through whatever mood swing this is. Some petty part of you would pay good money to watch this guy go to a therapist and tell all the reasons why he’s such a mess. But the woman in you, the girlfriend in you, just wants to make him feel better no matter what. The tiny pearl on your right hand stares at you accusingly every time you bring your hand to the back of his neck; it seems to slip off your finger every time you give him a caress.
“Sorry,” he mutters next, trying to bury his face deeper into your shoulder even when it’s basically impossible to do that.
“For what?”
“For crying on your shoulder.”
“König, you… haven’t even cried,” you gently point out as you release the hold around his neck.
You hear him immediately swallow against your chin, and when you pull back to take a good look at him, he avoids your stare.
He’s embarrassed…
So embarrassed, and at the same time, so so desperate to share these things with you. It’s not much, maybe, to normal people. But to you, it’s an entire breakthrough.
“This is normal,” you tell him. “To share your thoughts and fears and dreams. It’s normal.”
His lip twitches, his eyes deceive nothing except the usual hawk-like emptiness. Then his mouth tugs upwards a bit, just before he drops his stare to the floor.
“The head of the command is impressed.”
You watch him share another detail of his life you know practically nothing about. He’s so shy when it comes to telling you what he wants in his heart of hearts: to further his career and get a nice girl, even if she’s out of his league.
“What do you mean…?”
“They said I’m even more effective when I have a clear head,” he mutters, still too ashamed to look you in the eye. “That I could lead some day.”
“Baby. I’m proud of you.”
It only occurs to you after his nostrils flare that he might not like to be called a baby. He’s so conscious about his size and getting compliments on that, it’s perhaps not the best idea to refer to him as a child.
“Don’t get mad. It’s just a pet name–”
He shoots an exhilarated glare at you from under his brows, an excited, shy smile playing on his lips. Then, as gracefully as a rhino, he closes the gap between you and kisses you until you float off your feet.
He kisses and kisses and kisses you until it’s made clear that he fucking loves it when you call him that.
Chapter 16
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“I don't want your love unless you know I am repulsive, and love me even as you know it.”
— Georges Bataille
You start to leave him little notes.
You tuck them into his pockets, trying not to let your smile give you away when he kisses you goodbye. There’s nothing important hidden down there, mainly whimsical scribbles like “Don’t forget that I love you” or “Did you know you’re cute?” Sometimes it’s just a simple oversized heart drawn on a pink post-it note, a little surprise you hope he’ll discover during a tedious briefing.
You feel like a 13-year-old kid in love with the boy next door, but you know mountains are being moved here. You can’t change him, but at least you can remind him that there’s kindness and love waiting for him when he comes home. You want to be his home, you want to be a part of his world, all the worlds he walks in. You want a 30-, 40-something-year-old man to never feel abandoned and unloved again.
This is the real reason you need therapy, but you suppose you’re beyond such help as you catch yourself calling him baby and sweetie more often than not. He’s always pleased when he hears you use those endearment terms, and once, you have to scroll back to the first messages he sent you to check if he really told you he could “be your daddy”.
It’s not that simple to see him become more and more gentle with you. “Spread your legs or I’ll spread them for you” echoes in your mind when he hugs you from behind and presses soft kisses on your neck. The more tender he gets, the more on edge you feel: it always seems like there’s a storm brewing in the distance, that something awful is going to happen when you least expect it.
But nothing ever happens. If anything, he starts to close off a little, and tones down the craziness to a point where you start to miss his abusive barks a little bit.
Sickening or no, you watch him change from a hound to a man with wobbly unease. In exchange for the notes and all the other silly things you do, he brings you breakfast in bed once: something he made all by himself. The porridge is too thick and smells a bit burnt, the apricots he picked are still raw, the toast is topped with three slices of cheese and nothing else, and there’s only a shy drop of milk in the coffee. The attempt would’ve made the old you roll her eyes with contempt, but now his shy efforts only make your heart throb. He has even placed a tiny wildflower on the tray, and another one in a glass of water: dandelions, of all things, basically weeds. Something he probably stole from an unsuspecting neighbor’s yard rather than risk bringing you more roses from the store.
“You’re so sweet,” you say as you look at the tray full of silly little things.
He’s embarrassed by the praise, just stands in front of you like an awkward giant kid. Everytime you give him a token of pure, authentic affection, he turns into a child who’s a little confused; even a tiny, warm glance sends his stare to the floor, making his jaw clench and unclench.
“You’re sweeter,” he mutters as if rehearsed.
But it’s not. He’s just so stiff with things like this that it sounds a bit silly. Too tentative, too frail. An honest try at emotional intimacy, and you can feel your guts explode into fast, bleeding fireworks.
“Come here,” you pat the bed, and he moves like a golem compelled.
He sits on the edge but doesn’t dare to bring himself to touch you. You’re examined with shy intensity, every bite and sip witnessed like there’s some hawk there on your bed trying to calculate whether you enjoy his offerings. There are four apricots that try to roll off the tray even as it’s placed on your bed – four apricots, cement-like porridge and coffee that would shoot your socks off were you wearing them… What kind of a silly person considers this as breakfast?
“You want some?” you ask when you take a bite of the raw fruit, trying to ignore the bitter taste in your mouth.
“I brought them for you.”
“Yes, König. That was sweet of you. But I think I’ll survive with three if you want one.”
“...Ok.”
He doesn’t eat it, just juggles it between his hands when you give one to him. He looks so sweet and harmless, a man who’s a little lost when he’s finally succeeding in life and, out of all things, love. He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself or you, what to do with all the trust that’s suddenly granted to him as easily as oxygen.
“You want a hug as well…?”
He gives a little half-shrug, and you crawl over to him and pull him into a soft side hug. He leans towards you and gracefully allows you to pet his head, and you wonder what he’s thinking about, being so awfully contemplative this morning. Perhaps he’s not thinking about anything – God knows this man hasn’t been blessed with too many brain cells. He’s basically a huge dog being cuddled by a child here, and dogs only think about when they’re going to get their next meal or if they should go gnaw at a toy.
And you find yourself wondering if you should marry him after all: if this is what life is like with him, then would it truly be that bad? He’s more than civil these days, almost temperate. You’re getting a whole lot of attention, cuddles, good sex and adventures... You wouldn’t have to worry about finances ever again. You could pursue your dreams, concentrate on your other goals, and get a loving, utterly devoted husband on top of it all. And you can’t override the fact that you’re actually in love with him…
But marriage isn’t just about love. It’s about commitment and companionship, and it can’t be found solely on lust or even love.
You have to admit that it would be the most awkward thing to announce to your family and friends that this is your choice for a husband. Even if you dressed him nicely and somehow got him to not blurt something sadistic, moronic or cruel in front of them, it would someday be revealed that this man is not ok in the head. All your relatives and friends would come to know that you’ve married some kind of a freak.
And then there would be worry and anxiety and well-meant advice... More disturbed stares, more ugly rumors and gossip. You couldn’t just flaunt your happiness all over social media, and you would have to watch your every step, watch his every step. You’d go crazy eventually.
Unless…
Unless you just accepted the fact that he’s crazy. That you’re crazy. That you’re both insane… That not every relationship has to be a walk in the park and that you cannot continue to act like your life is picture perfect anymore. That you’re not a cute, sweet woman, that you’re far from a harmless girl chef. actually. That you’re a force to be reckoned with, and you have wants and needs outside the conventional. That you have a dark side.
“What am I going to do with you,” you sigh out loud, and he shrugs again, awkward and mute and no doubt horribly pleased with your warm hug and motherly musing.
You can’t seem to get over the puzzle this man constantly poses – how can someone destroy your life, your home, your pussy and your sanity, and then come to you with silly gifts and a softly wagging tail? You sigh again, and hold his head, and he still doesn’t voice a single complaint.
“Perhaps we should put the collar on you,” you mutter, and it’s a rare thing: to see him grow hard and not do anything about it.
He just swallows against your chest, starts to sweat a little from his head. The weight of it feels hot and bothered and disturbingly content. Even the cruel words and stupid jokes evaporate into thin air in your embrace, and so you continue your suggestions, now completely sure he’s not going to tear open your throat for speaking such nonsense.
“And a little tag to let everyone know who you belong to…”
You pet him some more, plant a kiss on the top of his head when he still doesn’t speak or move.
“Would you like that…?”
You could swear that the cock in his pants just gave a shy pull or two because a spasm goes through his arm as he hugs you back. It’s a 100 % yes during a rare time when your dog can’t say anything out of confused bewilderment. Your laugh is gentle and amused, and finally, he huffs into your collarbones, hellbent on hiding his face.
“Gonna cum in my pants if you keep talking shit like that.”
…
They say that people start to share deep things when staring at a fire, but his tongue loosens when you simply ask him the questions you’ve always wanted to ask while you two are stargazing.
His Jeep is parked a few hundred meters away, and you lie on the dark grass while a plethora of constellations is spread out before you. The dark, wild space has never felt as compelling as it does now when he shares his story, a story that started out with a simple question of “König… What was your childhood like?”
You learn, first of all, that he was an only child.
His story starts somewhere in the middle, when he was already in school, and it only later pops into your head that he might be too traumatized to remember the earliest years. He only remembers that they never had any guests, and there was always silence in the house, at least during the day. His Dad was away a lot, and he never knew where he went, but Mom was impossible to get to when father wasn’t there. She stayed in her own world while he played outside, a game of hide-and-seek with himself. Yeah, sounds funny, doesn’t it?
You don’t find yourself laughing because the horror of his childhood home starts to reveal itself in full despite the nonchalant, fragmented way in which König chooses to tell the tale.
The only times his father showed his mother some love was when he forced himself upon her. Or that’s what you gather from the information he tells you: that his dad used to fuck her in the middle of the night without warning and tell all the things he would do to her to get himself off. He heard it all the way to his room, what happened behind that wall, how his mother whimpered and cried like a tired animal. You don’t have to ask whether he ever got hard listening to that because he morbidly tells you himself that he did. He only stares at the stars and shrugs, telling you he “can’t control it.” And the tale gets sadder still.
His classmates laughed at him from day one. It becomes appatent that he was heavily bullied because he was scrawny, awkward and tall. He never had the right-sized clothes; the legs of his pants were always too short, showing his ankles and socks, and the shirts given to him couldn’t hold his growing shoulders or his chest when he started doing sports. Everyone in school called him names, and his main tormentors, a boy group of three, would wait at the gate every morning for him to show up to school.
He never just stood there and took it. He always fought back. But three against one was tough odds back then. He tried to get over it by thinking he looked cool with a black eye and bruised ribs, and that at least girls would like him more when he looked a little scary.
But they didn’t really. He realized he looked like he had lost his every fight, and on top of that, the leader of the group always found out which girl he fancied and, soon enough, kissed her with tongue right in front of him. The girls at the school always looked up at this jock with starry eyes, and the so-called henchmen would shove dog shit into his mother’s mailbox: his father had long since stopped caring because he had found some young bird he wanted to bully with his cock and was away more often than he was home.
They were poor, so poor that he didn’t have a meal to take with him to school. At night, he scoured trash bins with his mom to find something to eat: bread with mould in it, some old stale fish if they were lucky, a few cupcakes gone bad. That was his supper, and he also snitched magazines from the local gym, plastered his walls with images of Arnold Schwarzenegger and some Austrian female celebrities. It wasn’t all that bad... He helped his mother by staying away as much as he could – she once started crying when she saw his broken nose and… yeah. He roamed the woods a lot and went swimming during summertime. Summer was the best season in his opinion: there was no school, no bullies, just lakes and woods and silence.
And then it just so happened that he fell in love with his history teacher.
She had a nice rack, and she wore these tight little skirts, pencil skirts, you know? She had a soft voice, just like you do… She looked a little lost sometimes, just like you do. She had pink nail polish, and she was smart as a whip, too.
He became an expert in history, asked a lot of questions and got good grades, and his bullies mocked him even more. His obvious crush became the laughing stock of the whole school; girls snickered and boys whistled when the teacher walked into the class, the poor lady confused as to what was happening and why. His bullies said he had something to say to her, and when she asked him to stand up and say what he needed to say, everyone could see his erection. They howled and giggled, everyone laughed except her: she just turned red as a beet and fled the class.
He had masturbated since he was 11, but now the sessions turned compulsory, almost obsessive. He masturbated first thing in the morning when he woke up, he masturbated at school, in the woods on the way home, and in the bathroom when he got back. His father caught him at it once and shoved money in his hand, telling him to go fuck a hole instead of beating his fist like that. He made a big deal out of it and yelled that if he ever finds out he’s been fapping at home, he’ll throw him out of the house. Mom said nothing, pretending she didn’t hear what they were even talking about, and so off into the night he went.
The woman she picked from the street laughed when he couldn’t get it up right away, so he left her and the money and never went back. Dad was proud of him when he lied that he fucked the whore until she begged for more. He was 16 at the time.
And then… No girl ever stayed long enough for things to go there. It’s not like he didn’t try. His first paychecks went to buying them gifts and stuff, and still, no one wanted to go out with him after the first date. He kind of hated them for that. There was this one girl who allowed him to grope her breasts but then never wanted to see him again, and he couldn’t understand what he did wrong. She was willing to kiss him one minute and then tried to squirm away the next... Was he supposed to just let her go and risk the possibility of her thinking he didn’t want her?
So when his father left the family for good, he went out to the streets to fight, just to feel something. Tried to become a sniper, and that’s when you gather his mental health issues probably surfaced because the bursts of violence that followed almost got him kicked out of the army. They said he was talented but lacked discipline and control, and he had big plans to remedy that, but then everything went straight to shit.
Because somewhere around that time, his mom killed herself.
He always knew he shouldn’t have left her there alone with her sadness and her bills, and the neighbors found her after she’d been dead for a week because he was in a boot camp in the Alps and couldn’t call her that often. He was just… trying to become something so that he could take better care of her. There was so much blood on the bathroom floor, they said, that it would be a good idea to renovate it if he chose to sell the property. That’s when he knew she had slit her wrists: there’s usually a lot of blood if you do that shit.
He used every penny he had to get her the nicest coffin he could find. The best priest, the prettiest flowers. Dad never showed up at the funeral; had that fucking coward walked in, he would’ve smashed his face in and dumped his lousy corpse into a ditch.
So, there was no one to return to after that, not even a home because they had to sell their old house at an auction. He got into more fights in the Jagdkommando and gave some free nose jobs to few jerks in the mess hall; that’s when he got kicked out of the army for good and started those meds. He also got tangled in some money laundering shit when one of his friends talked him into doing the dirty work: bodyguard stuff, things like that. He was promised plenty of money, whores, whatever he wanted. One night, they were partying, and this beautiful girl came to straddle his lap; he knew she was a whore, but it didn’t matter at the time. The only thing that mattered was that she was pretty, and he couldn’t get it up. Again. He was supposed to fuck her in front of all his friends, to have a good time, for fucking once… But it ended up being a big fucking catastrophe. He became a bit depressed after that, and somehow got himself in jail again for breaking a man’s jaw and stabbing him or something. He would’ve done far worse had he not been on those meds.
In prison, he met this guy, some guru who told him he could survive without meds and without pussy. He said that these things only clouded his mind, that he could get rid of both if he concentrated his mind on himself and his new self, on trainingto become a better man in mind, body and soul. He exercised a lot and read his first books ever; he even quit his porn addiction. He could go without masturbating for weeks and weeks, and it made his senses sharp as a razor. He did ruin the prison sheets during his sleep a few times but that didn’t count, he was told. It only meant that his body was healthy and working as it should. It lasted for about a year until he found out that his guru didn’t stay clear of women because he was enlightened and free. He stayed away from them because he fancied cock instead. The only thing keeping him from starting up some shit was that he didn’t want to prolong his own sentence.
When he got out of jail he got back to his old ways, brawling and gambling and shoving money at whores, this time online, so he wouldn’t get into any… embarrassing situations. He spent thousands and thousands on camgirls and whatnot, but it always felt a little too shallow. None of them wanted to go out with him, and all of them always talked to other men. He wanted a real girlfriend... A real fucking woman, someone to call his own. The last straw was when he saw his old bully sipping lattes with his former history teacher. That woman, still fine, even when aged, was on a date with a younger man that should’ve been fucking him. She didn’t even recognize him, not even when his bully told her this was the big odd wanker from class ’87.
So he killed them all. The whole gang, one by one.
Not in front of her, of course… She doesn’t know to this day what hit her young lover.
He had to flee the country, naturally, but there was nothing for him there anyway. At the airport, there were men waiting for him, not to arrest him but to make him an offer. His current employee had headhunted him for those killings and praised his infil tactics, knifework and professionalism. He wasn’t clean by any means, but they weren’t looking for a clean guy anyway. His revenge served as his resume for a new job, which he drowned himself in.
Years flew by as he finally found the place where he truly belonged. Other fucked up guys working as operators for a private military contractor he could get along with, and the pay was good. Extremely good. There was no fuss, no useless rules, no need to play it clean or by the book. There was only business, loadouts and targets. They didn’t need his skills as a half-trained sniper, but they did like it that he was impatient and big. He was their human battering ram, but they soon found out he should not be allowed to talk to civilians, which he and the boys found super funny. The girls he saved from a human trafficking cell were more scared of him than they were scared of the men who held them captive – or maybe it was just the hood, who knows.
He even wiggled himself back into the army after being demoted to the rank of sergeant. He was mainly used as a trainer, but he didn’t teach them how to move quietly or camouflage themselves in different terrains, nor did he train them to use long-range rifles like he would’ve wanted to. Instead, he taught them how to burst through doors and be loud and fucking scary. He taught them how to throw back a grenade that had just landed on their feet, he taught them how to use explosives and shotguns, to draw the fire on themselves rather than the first team.
It was work, work, work, maybe some bought pictures of pussy or a few hours on PornHub before he went to sleep. No tears, no void even, just nothing.
Until one day, he saw you on the TV.
You were not a girl who stripped for strangers online; you were not someone who shared photos of her destroyed cunt for money.
You were a real woman.
Girlfriend material – no, fucking wife material.
You cooked and everything… Dressed nice, spoke cute. Looked a little lost and sad. Looked a little fucked up, like a cute cat who might do something stupid at any given moment. He wanted to smother you in a hug right then and there... Maybe fuck you until you squirt and cry, help you let all that stupid fucking sadness out.
He admits he got a little obsessed…
You were just so pretty and sweet; your show was the high point of his day, something nice and warm to go to after a blood-red day. If he was out on a long, tough mission, he dreamed of binge-streaming your show when he gets back. You were like Christmas and Easter in one package, something to wait for with a wet mouth and a hard dick.
It was only a matter of time before he found out who you were and where you lived. He learned that you were not taken – a tragedy in his opinion, but then again, had you been married, it would’ve made it more difficult for him to come and get you. And when you acted so silly and played so hard to get, unlike all those other women who appeared bored on the screen and only wanted his money, when you looked like you were kinda wet for fucking real… He almost lost his fucking mind.
He just had to have you.
Your threats and silly texts only spurred him on: usually, women just pretended that he didn’t exist.
But you didn’t do that at all.
You were angry and cute and you begged and you cried and you touched yourself and you looked like you’d faint when he came to see you in the pub. Maybe he ruined it a little by being so impatient – he meant to play with you a little longer, but he just couldn’t help himself. And then you watched that video he sent you at least ten times, didn’t you, and then needed to touch your pussy right after... So what was he supposed to do, leave you alone when you clearly wanted him to come and give it to you? Every time he left you to your own devices, you started to act up and became fucking miserable. What kind of a man would he have been, leaving you alone to cry yourself to sleep like that? Where would you even be right now if he hadn’t come to your rescue back then?
You were so silly and so sad and he knew he could make you happy if you’d only give him a chance. For a moment there he hesitated if you really wanted him as much as he wanted you, but then you watched that video, over and over again… Hah. He isn’t stupid, you know.
And you made him really fucking work for it, it’s true, but he enjoyed every single minute of it. Even the bodyguard you hired felt like an early birthday present, a perfect little gift just for him, and he wondered if you somehow knew him, already to his core... Putting some stupid jerk between him and your pussy only made his heart ache for you more. It was a high-class seduction move, better than anything he’d ever seen those girls do online. He was half-hard when he came to your door, and when you opened it, you looked like heaven, so beautiful and sweet. He doesn’t even have the words for it... No other woman could compare to you ever again, that was all. You were the best thing that’s ever happened to him; he knew it from the minute he met you.
And your first time…
Fuck, it was so fucking sweet. You were crying so pretty, looking up at him like only he could save you. You moaned and clenched around him and he swears he busted so hard his balls hurt a week after. You came fucking hard too, and it drove him insane, seeing you like that, feeling you like that… It felt like you were there, all around him. Inside him. Holding him... He almost cried too.
He never even knew what love was before he met you...
You were so silly, so crazy, so cute and so fucking incredible that his mates started to call him a dickhead just for looking like a soppy, wet dick at work. Always happy, smiling to himself like a moron who had just jacked off. Everybody knew he had a girl, just from that stupid look on his face. And he didn’t care. He didn’t give a fuck about what others thought anymore. He only thought about you: what you were doing, what you were wearing, whether you were touching yourself to the thoughts of him. He was jerking it every day to the thoughts of you for sure.
He couldn’t even watch other women anymore, it just felt so stupid and wrong. That’s how much he was in love with you, right from the start, don’t you see? Now he can’t even watch porn because of you… And you were like a little pet he could come home to, always playing difficult with him, but when he fucked you nice and hard you always turned soft, started purring in his lap like a little wet cat. It felt like his heart was going to explode, and when he noticed you were a little jealous, he wanted to hug you so hard he feared he might break your bones. No girl had ever behaved as insane, as cute as you. Even that silly little chase you put him through… It felt like love. When he found out there was no other man, he cried and laughed at the same time because he was so happy.
It just all made sense: that you were the one for him. Someone, somewhere, had made you perfect just for him. You’ve danced this dance before… In some other life, no, a million other lives, you’ve made him run around like a mad dog before. You’ve made him work for it, fight for it before. He’s licked your cunt before… He’s made you cum and cry before. That’s why you opened the door. That’s why you let him in... You know him, and he knows you. You recognized each other. Forever and ever, even when the stars are all dead, you will be together because you belong together. The teacher, the bullies, the prison, his work: it all happened so that he could be with you. He understands that now.
He quits his speech with a silly smile, a quick huff towards the sky.
He looks like a boy who just made a wish upon the star: innocent, dreamy, alive. So delusional, and happy with so little... Even the crumbs and the abuse you put him through turn into precious specks of gold in his story.
You lie beside him with your heart utterly and irreversibly broken. All your former intrusive thoughts stand still, your endless inner monologue now eternally silenced. A knowing sets into the marrow of your bones, an instinct that tells you you won’t make it out alive if you ever tell him you want your paths to separate. He will simply kill you and himself if he finds out you don’t want to be with him; he will only smile sadly as he cocks the gun. If he can’t have you, no one can.
It’s a simple truth, a knowing in your spine. This is just the way things are.
So it’s a good thing that you want to be with him.
It’s a good thing.
…
Softly, quietly, you put the ring on your other finger.
It feels odd and cold and kind of wrong there, an object out of place. You don’t feel the type of overjoyed relief and happiness you’d thought would overwhelm you the day you finally got engaged, and now that you know who it belonged to – a dead woman cursed with depression, poverty and abusive marriage – you mainly feel dread about having this particular object embracing your skin. But you guess it’s love, too: to do something you don’t like, that doesn’t quite feel right, for the one you care for.
Instead of leaving you alone, his story grows inside your heart until you find yourself crying on the bathroom floor, clutching his shirt you were supposed to throw into the laundry machine. It smells of cruelty, loneliness and promises that were broken, of wintry nights and summer skies and desperate trails that lead you to him, always to him. You wonder if you’re the first girl he got it up with or if you’re simply the first girl who he got it up with that matters.
There’s no way of knowing if anything he told you is true because his understanding of reality is more than a little distorted. His views on women have been conditioned through porn and his father, that much is true, and he has never had a serious conversation with a woman, of that you are sure. How could he, when the only girl he’s groped before you fled his lap, probably with tears in her eyes? The women he “met” afterwards showed up consistently only when he threw money at them, and none of them wanted to commit. Even you sent him a picture of your pussy for half a mil because you wanted the money. But you also wanted his approval, his lust, his gaze... Perhaps you’re not any better than the women he despises, but he knows you enough to understand why you did it.
You realize you’ve somehow escaped his regular categories of Madonna and whore; you’re both the hot, smart history teacher he wanted to fuck and the lethargic, abused mother he wanted to save, you’re all the online girls combined but you’re also something more.
This man’s sexuality is a mess, but what’s interesting to you is that instead of watching some dull porn live-streamed to hundreds, maybe thousands of viewers, he suddenly decided to watch your cooking show. Your stupid, innocent show was the high point of his day, a comfort and a refuge. A depressed TV chef was someone he could go to after a challenging day; you were someone he could feel safe with, someone who briefly felt like home. Instead of adrenaline, he now chose comfort.
And he was the one who sent you pics and videos, he was the one being watched. It must’ve felt incredibly compelling to know that there’s a secret, erotic exchange between you two that no one knows anything about. It must’ve been intoxicating to hear and see a woman lose herself so utterly because of him when before, women had only been objects – bored, inauthentic people with no reciprocity. Holes to fuck, effigies to throw money at, teachers who weren’t that smart after all... Dumb creatures who picked the wrong guy, over and over and over again. A girl touching herself to the pictures and videos of his cock must’ve been a maddening thought, a complete anomaly in his world.
You became real; so real that it was only a matter of time before he had to come scratching at your door.
But what is truly groundbreaking was that he became real too. He wanted to become real through your eyes, step into existence through you.
And if you’re vital to his existence, if you’re his new home, he continues to be a man you cannot hate: a remnant of his cruel, sadistic father and the lonely young pup who played peek-a-boo with his delusions because no one else was there to play with him.
His loneliness is, in fact, the most horrific thing in this whole mess.
No one was ever there for him.
No one was there, not ever.
It’s enough to make anyone cry, but you’ve barely seen him do that. The only time you’ve seen him with his eyes red was when you said you loved him – and when you called him a fucking loser.
You didn’t know what you know now, but maybe you should’ve known – anyone who acts like that does not have a happy childhood, it’s like… the first rule of psychology or something.
You’ve had a peek inside the mind of an abusive man, a lonely man, and now that you’ve seen how they are made, you want to unsee it all. The little girl in you wants to run and hide, it wants to make it all better. It wants to go back to a time and place when the world was how she knew it: boring, depressive, and safe. The grown woman in you, however, sets the shirt in the laundry machine, rises to her feet, and goes about her day.
When his 37th birthday approaches, you tell him you want to throw him a party. It's an odd number, but you still want to celebrate it accordingly.
To your misery, König can’t leave work, but after a mysterious silence at the other end of the phone, he suggests you come to see him. A party for two in his new office, how about it, huh?
You know better than to ask him what he wants for a birthday present, but your king shares his thoughts with you anyway. He tells you he wants to fuck your pretty tight ass on his new desk as a birthday gift, then lick your cunt until you squirt on all the stupid paperwork he has to do. He wants his new office christened; you could touch some of his favourite guns too, bless them, you know? So that the bullets find their way to his enemies’ hearts. A woman’s blessing would make him invincible.
You tell him you’re drawing the line at blessing any weapons of his before he gets too excited about it. You don’t want any part in his guns and his violence, but you promise to wear something nice and bring him a gift and give him lots of kisses. Your dog actually pants a little at the other end before breaking into a hot, excited laugh.
“You do that, princess… I’ll be waiting.”
You bake him cupcakes, proper princess style, and sprinkle them with tiny pink hearts when they’re done. To your misfortune, your period starts the night before you’re supposed to be at your cutest and most fuckable. You were supposed to announce to him that you’re finally engaged, let him do all that crazy stuff to you he spoke of on the phone… But instead of being nice and juicy, you’re bloated, moody and tired, and just wish someone would come and hold you while you crawl into a dark, deep den.
The driving instructions you receive are vague, and there’s a car waiting for you about an hour’s drive away from the base. The windows on it are black and you can’t even see who’s driving because the front compartment is protected by a panel. With the first day of the period upon you, you feel like a lamb taken to slaughter, and it doesn’t help that König is nowhere to be seen when you finally get out of the car.
The base is smaller than you imagined and mostly looks like a weirdly designed office building. Large pines rustle in the wind above your head, but otherwise, everything’s quiet and chill. The only thing making it clear that you’re about to step into a private military area is the high-security fence and a handful of soldiers preparing to let a civilian inside their compound. They perform their rituals and make sure you are who you say you are, and before long, the masked men decide that you’re innocent enough to be allowed in. It’s made evident that everyone knows who you are and why you’re here, but you get the feeling that they want to frighten women for fun and drag this out to have their power play.
And they succeed because by the time someone yells orders from the other side of the fence, you feel completely abandoned and misplaced. Your white summer dress flaps against your shins with a gust of wind, and your heart pounds inside your chest. König is still nowhere to be seen.
The gate is noisy when it opens, the anti-climbing wire standing some 8 feet above you. You finally recognise him from the other men by his height: everyone walks with a balaclava on, but this giant man in the middle of the yard has a whole goddamn hood over his head. An executioner in his own right, even the skin around his eyes is smudged with black paint, making his blues shine like cold little beacons inside all that darkness. His narrow waist is hugged by a belt, and the shirts he wears here are tight, so tight you can see the muscles on his arms. The prominent pecs of his chest look like slabs of marble, and the tactical gloves he has on make your skin itch.
He looks so… competent and huge; even the looks he gives you feel more weighty here. There’s a big black knife strapped to his thigh, and the camos he wears leave far too little to the imagination. You know he’s not wearing any protective gear down there: why would he? It’s all him, the curved bulge packed between his legs, making a mouthwatering sight for a woman on the vulnerable first day of her period. He looks so stunning it’s unfair, and in a way you feel like your roles have changed. You have an absurd amount of butterflies in your stomach and can’t help but stare at how gorgeous he is in his military gear, the dress you picked a raging contrast to this place and his towering, imposing form. Where once he was the horny dog, begging for a crumb or two, you feel like you’re now the one who’s melting like butter over here.
He doesn’t show you the same intimacy he showers you with when he gets home, but those eyes leave no doubts about what he would do to you if there were no other men here to see. You know you must look like a literal doll in your pompous summer dress – there’s more fabric on the flowy skirt than is necessary, and the top part hugs your breasts just right. Your hair and nails are on mint, and you even put on some lipstick, knowing that it sends his loins throbbing when you wear red. You wonder if you’ve finally abandoned yourself completely for dressing up like this just to make him horny and proud, but when he gives you a filthy once-over and nods, when he doesn’t even bother to punch some older soldier’s teeth in for daring to breathe out “Damn…” next to him, you know you couldn’t be more pleased with yourself.
And it’s some sort of a peacock ritual, walking you around at the base, down the corridors and around as many corners as he can so that as many people as possible can see you. Their eyes follow you everywhere: one guy even starts to rub the barrel of his rifle when you walk by. The lust is so thick it nearly smothers you, and König does nothing to stop these men from drooling after you. On the contrary, he seems to enjoy showing you off.
He walks ahead of you in long strides, his boots surprisingly muted on the linoleum floor. You find yourself staring at his hips, swaying from side to side, and realize you’re no better than a man. But the option is to stare at the slaughterhouse and its inhabitants, and that just won’t do… You catch only a few women, some of their faces concealed like everyone else’s, some of them having heavy eye-makeup, some looking like they only just woke up. But mostly, it’s just men: men and sweat and metal and the stench of storage and grease, of cocks and balls and a thousand push-ups.
It’s a different world from where you live. People here are packed with brute strength and an observational silence topped with the occasional barking laughter or a sly, cruel joke. You wouldn’t last 3 minutes in an environment like this; you wouldn’t last a second in the world they throw these people in. Having it rubbed in your face makes you feel like a little girl made of silk and whipped cream, your depression now feeling like a needy beg for attention, a princess’s mood swing because she happened to have too much time in her hands. These people are real: they’re relics of an old world and the heralds of a new one, knowing what’s eternal in a world of chaos. They’re mainly in this for money, and a few people here probably have someplace to call home, a loved one or two they pretend to defend from “evil” by working in a place like this, but mostly, their world is condensed down to these truths: that all men bleed and all pussies need to be fucked.
When he takes the final turn and leads you to what you suppose is a break room for his fellow dogs, you feel like your knees are about to give in. There are at least ten people in that room, all male, all dressed in camos, boots, tactical shirts and barking, heartless laughs. Some of them wear masks, and the ones who don’t look only relatively more human. Everything’s thick: the stench in the room, the smell of burnt coffee, the stares, the laughter, the jokes. You’ve never seen so many jacked men crammed inside the same space, and you for sure have never, ever stood in front of them in a whimsical summer dress with a Tupperware box in hand.
All eyes turn to you when you enter their domain, and the chatter subsides a bit. Someone walks past with coffee to go, even if there are clean mugs aplenty next to the sink. Another man chews what appears to be a slice of dry, week-old cake, the cheapest kind you can find from the store. Yellow crumbs drop all across the floor as he stares at you with his mouth open, and squints as if he’s trying to see your breasts better.
“What’s that,” he points at the box you hold between your hands, knuckles white.
There are no introductions, no welcomes, no nothing. You’re just a pretty civilian girl carrying something, and once they’ve scanned your whole body through and deemed it fuckable, they want to know what’s inside your silly box.
“I–I made you something,” you direct your speech at König.
The bastard only looks at you with fond amusement in his eyes, no doubt finding it incredibly entertaining to see you so out of your element here. Something rebellious arises in your chest, making you straighten your back and pull out your most charming, seductive tone. If he wants to put on a show, then let’s put on a show – if he wants you to act like a trophy wife in front of all these ridiculous dicks then so be it.
“Happy birthday, love,” you purr as you offer the cupcakes to him, and the silence that falls inside the room then is heady and profound.
Someone shifts a little, spreads his legs to better accommodate a swelling cock, perhaps. Their breathing gets heavy when they see what’s inside the box König opens as delicately as possible: your innocent little Tupperware box doesn’t hold a cigar or a porn DVD, no. It’s filled with tiny pink cupcakes, topped off with little fuchsia hearts sprinkled over them with a smile and a love that knows no bounds. They look hugely misplaced in this environment, shining cute and optimistic under the bleak, fluorescent lights, like plastic dessert hauled from land Utopia. Maybe that’s why everyone just keeps staring at them.
Your soft smile is cowering, the self-assuredness you just mustered slowly but surely dissolving.
What if he snorts at them…?
What if he starts to ridicule them?
What if his dogs devour them, hearts and all before he can stop them?
No one dares to move when König just keeps standing there, looking at his birthday present like he’s under a spell. Then, without ever taking his eyes off them, he sets them on the table and turns to you. No one still utters a word when he walks to you with three long leaps, lifting his mask as he approaches.
You barely catch the sight of his shaved jaw before he breaks the unspoken rules and pulls you into a passionate kiss. The hood falls to smother your face along with his mouth, and your nipples rise to tight little peaks beneath your dress as he crushes you into one of those demanding, emotional hugs. Your back is about to break from the sailor kiss he’s trying to bend you into, and you’re forced to grapple his neck in order to not collapse, tumble and fall on the floor in a heap.
“He’s gonna fuck her bloody,” someone mutters behind König in a low, anticipating breath.
You want to gasp for air but can’t when there’s a hungry mouth trying to devour you. You wonder if these sick creatures know that this man didn’t stick his dick inside a woman before he was nearly 40, but what surprises you is that König still doesn’t do a thing to shut that man up. It takes another whimper or two for you to realize that they’re looking up to him, and he loves it; he basks in their attention while putting on this stupid, pathetically erotic show.
No one touches his birthday present out of respect, and no one says a thing after that one disgusting comment, but you know that fucking is precisely what everyone is thinking about right now. A fat cock sinking inside a too-tight pussy, you mewling and sobbing under a body far larger than your own, your cries for help doing absolutely nothing to shield you from a soldier in heat. You can almost smell it in the room: testosterone and precum, a pack of dogs drooling at the mere image of a violent mating done by their alpha male.
When he’s done showing you how grateful he is for the gift – and showing his dogs who’s got the biggest dick and, therefore, the privilege to rut the prettiest female – he retreats back under his mask, leaving you flushed, high and dizzy on the floor.
One of the soldiers “kindly” asks if they can get a cupcake too, but König snatches the box from the table as if ready to fight to the death over them, and grunts.
“Not a fucking chance.”
There arises some chuckling as he leaves the room, with you on his tail like you’re nothing but a butterfly flitting about in panic. He takes you to a room full of soft light and dark mahogany, squeaky clean floors and a window nudged slightly open, and you sigh from relief so huge that you have to bring a hand over your stomach. The stress in your system translates to your ovaries as pain, and you try to soothe yourself by reassuring that you’re safe here. If only you stay close to König, you’re safe.
You’re still breathing shallow when he rids himself of the hood and throws it on the desk. Seeing him with a simple black balaclava on is perhaps even more disturbing than having him walk around in that odd draping mask.
“Wow… Impressive,” you try to small talk in the midst of your slowly dissolving panic: you thought he’d be staying in some bunk stuffed next to some storage room down the hall. This isn’t what you were expecting at all, and now that you finally have the opportunity to take in your surroundings, you are truly quite taken aback.
“This is my new office,” he explains as he sets the cupcakes on his desk, proud and gentle after successfully protecting them from a hoard of hungry dogs. “I got promoted.”
“Really? That’s incredible,” you rush to say with genuine joy. “I’m happy for you.”
You realize you just sounded a little too surprised, which you didn’t mean to do at all. It’s about time he gets the recognition he deserves, and even if he’s had difficulties, he’s practically served in the army for almost twenty years.
“So what are you now? Captain? Lieutenant? How do those ranks go…”
“Colonel.”
“Oh. That–That sounds like a huge deal.”
“It is.”
You look at him with newfound appreciation – this is huge news. You know close to nothing about army ranks, and you thought his was frozen due to his history of violations. Whatever has happened must be the result of his leadership skills, now blooming thanks to you.
“You’re above all those people in that room…?”
“Yes.”
He shoots a curious stare at you from time to time, trying to decipher how you react to the information. Your bright, surprised eyes and breathlessness speak of admiration, of course, and he looks so adorable when he’s about to burst out of his seams, so proud of himself and the fact that you finally look at him like he’s The King. And you just can’t help it. You smile at him like an entire sun, knowing you look a bit foolish right now, both of you: a girl in a white dress praising her lover for a job well done and a freshly promoted soldier standing stiff like he just shat himself from pride. He’s such a pup, even in his soldier gear, wagging his tail when he gets treats and praise in the form of cupcakes and an approving female smile. He can’t take your admiration any longer and so he walks to you with stiff hips – it looks like he’s carrying a swelling erection in those camos and needs to do something about it asap. The embrace you receive is thorough and sweet, and you feel like you’re about to float off your feet there for a minute. It’s so unlike the rough imitation of a V-J day grope he just gave you in front of his soldiers, but his palms still find your butt, trying to get a good handful of his sweet girl.
“Kurt–Uh, Fritz. We can’t,” you speak up in haste. “I have… It’s my period…”
“You think I’m afraid of blood, princess?” He breathes on your skin, excited and smiling at this new game.
“No but… It makes me uncomfortable.”
He doesn’t seem to understand the concept of periods at all, and you don’t know who’s to blame. His mother, the school, or the army? It shouldn’t come as a surprise that he doesn’t know shit about a menstruating woman: for him, a hole is a hole, even if it’s bloody. At least he knows that there is blood involved instead of some bizarre blue liquid they used to use on those awful pad commercials.
“Little angel wants to feel comfy, is that it?” he grins. “You can sit on my face… I’ll give you a good ride. How about it?”
“No,” you laugh with discomfort. “Absolutely not…”
The situation only gets worse and worse when he’s incapable of taking any kind of hints. Sit on his face – God, that’s actually a position you have yet to try…
“You come here wearing that and then tell me I can’t have you? When it’s my birthday?”
The sudden ire in his voice speaks of immaturity and entitlement. It still stings you a bit that he has to act like this, but you of all people should know how to handle him by now. And it doesn’t even require you to do anything but be your own, vulnerable self.
“I’m sorry. It hurts… And I’m bloated, and grumpy, and–”
“Ok,” he immediately pulls you back to him and hugs you. A bit more fatherly this time. “Ok...”
You know it was a little silly to pick a dress like this for this visit when you knew you’d have to deny him. You just didn’t think it would get him going this much… But what with the show he just put on back there, you realize he mainly wanted to establish himself as a privileged soldier who can now bring a girl to the base. And what kind of a girl… A cupcake-bearing, dress-wearing, soft-spoken woman, you truly played your part to the full. Count in the promotion and your gifts, and he must’ve been waiting for this day like Cerberus in heat. Still, behind closed doors, he's now forever loyal to you.
“You’re hurt…?”
“It’s painful, yes.”
He pets your head and, apparently, only starts to think about what you just said. The gears in his head turn slowly, but they turn.
“Is there anything I can do? To help?”
“...Hold me?”
He never stopped doing that, but now, he actually melts into the hug. Laying his cheek on the crown of your head, he sighs as he rocks you softly from side to side. The sweetness of the moment seeps into your stomach like warm soup on a cold winter’s day – you’re still trying to remind yourself that a guy offering to do the bare minimum is not a reason to ring the wedding bells, but it’s just so sweet when he’s trying to fight himself for the sake of you, tries his all to be helpful by keeping it in his pants… You used to hate oblivious, ignorant men, but König being so clueless about what periods mean is kind of endearing. Something about this man reminds you of cavemen and the like: of men who think menstruating women are weak and need to be sheltered and protected from danger.
Maybe you should be worried about your independence soon to be lost, and maybe you should be offended that he hasn’t taken the time to educate himself on simple things such as these. Still, at the same time, not many men would be willing, let alone excited, to have a bloodied woman sit on their face. Oh no, most of them would run.
König, on the other hand, would only smile happily when his face gets covered in blood. You’re relatively sure he would wear your period blood to battle if he got to decide, and the thought doesn’t even make you grimace as much as it perhaps should. You guess it has something to do with him wanting you so much he’s not only prepared but willing to please you at any time of the month. And if that’s not charming as hell, you don’t know what is.
“Do you notice anything different about me…?”
He lets you go reluctantly, eyes half-lidded from the rush of oxytocin and love. You step back and smile at him, certain that he will catch his mother’s old wedding ring on your left hand where it belongs.
But he doesn’t catch it.
His stare scans you up and down; it drifts back to your hair at least thrice. He looks at your shoes, your lips, even your breasts. As if you’ve done something else to them than just stuffed them inside a cute dress…
You clasp your hands in front of you; you smile as adorably, as charmingly as you can. When you sway a little from side to side, trying to appear innocent and also trying to draw his attention to the ring that’s right there in front of him, he finally sees it.
And the moment he sees it, his jaw falls open.
Nothing comes out, not a sound, but the fragile look on his face changes to disbelief, then pure, naked hope. He falls to his knees and extends his hands to the sides as if he’s about to worship and pray to a statue. The swallow that precedes his speech is authentic, almost fearful.
“I will give you my life. I will give you everything. You won’t…”
“Regret it?”
You smile again, shyly. The engagement is your second, secret present to him, because what would his dogs say if they saw him right now? Kneeled in front of a woman like this, he looks like he’s about to ask forgiveness for his sins or worship some old, forgotten deity.
“I promise to be a good… A good man.”
“It’s nice of you to promise.”
You say it with a compassionate tone because his promises still don’t mean shit, and you know that he was about to say ‘dog’ instead of ‘man’.
But he’s trying.
He’s actually trying his best to be the kind of man you want and need.
And he looks a little heartbroken when you don’t believe him – you’re still smiling through the tears about to arise – but then you notice that the worry on his face speaks of more than just the fear of being misunderstood.
He half crawls, half walks to you, stumbling to his feet to take you in his arms again. The squeezes he gives you speak of fast emotional turmoil, of fear and hope and everything in between. He does the same thing he sometimes does when you’re only just waking up: grabs you by the waist and squeezes you until a delightful little squeal comes out of your mouth. “Why are you so cute?” he asks right after, “Why are you so cute? Why are you so cute?” until you laugh and beg him to stop because you start to sound like a squeaking dog toy.
It’s dangerous, you know, to forget who he is. But it’s even more dangerous to forget that you brought this pup home from the shelter; it was you who fed him and gave him a new home. You could never live with yourself if you threw your dog back into the rain, and besides, you would miss his jaws and his snoring and his paws.
“I love you,” you breathe into his shirt that smells of old sweat, gunpowder and earth; sharp, pungent, and sweet.
He slowly crumbles in your shy embrace, a tiny collapse that begins from the torso and travels up his spine. You’re smushed against his chest as he tries to hug you like a kitten he just saved from drowning; your tiny whimper only sends him groaning in despair.
“I know I don’t deserve you,” he whines, hiccups on your skin. “I know I’m… I know I’m not…”
“Shh,” you pet his back, now sweaty from hope and joy and fear.
He hides his face in your neck as he cries what must be for the first time in years. Maybe decades.
“You can take care of me,” you whisper to him, the final blow to take him down completely. “I… I want you to take care of me.”
“I’ll take care of you,” he vows, his voice now solid only through sheer willpower. “Always. Always.”
Tears are pushing through your lashes as well when you hear him so weak. He says those vows with his whole heart behind them, and if someone were to warn you that you’re still the lamb and he’s the big bad wolf, you’d ask them how can it be that he’s the one who’s crying as if being stabbed here.
“Shh, shh…”
You pet him as he comes down from it, the most powerful man on earth now choking on his tears. The disintegration leaves him huffing in your hair, his nose pressed into the nook of your neck as he tries to breathe, breathe, breathe. You don’t want him to stay forever in hiding, and so you gently withdraw to caress his face.
“It’s settled, then,” you say with a soft, reassuring voice. “You’ll take care of me…”
You kiss him over the black fabric, on the spot where his lips are open and huffing underneath.
“...and I’ll take care of you.”
Long white lashes bat, angelic above you. Tears stream down his cheeks, causing dark, wet spots to bloom on the cotton. The face paint he uses must be waterproof because it doesn’t seem to waver under this sudden flood. He sniffles and clears his throat under the balaclava, breathes out a shaky exhale, nods again and again while looking down to the floor.
He’s a shattered man, but to you, he’s now wholly intact. If he can shed tears of joy, he can’t be all that bad.
Sun filters through the shutters of his window, casting stripes of gold across the room. The cupcakes on his desk stare at you like they’re completely innocent of this beautiful mess, and perhaps they are. But you reckon they might’ve started all this, back when you posted that picture on Instagram and told everyone you know how to bake, too. You wonder if that’s what really made your dog drool: not your body, not the cupcakes, but the memory of a home he never had. Cozy home on a Sunday morning, the scent of freshly baked treats, and a girl to call his own.
His mouth is steady when he takes you to see the view from his window and makes you sit on his lap, the black mask now pushed to rest on the bridge of his nose. The jaws you used to fear regard you now with reverence instead of hunger, and he swallows a few times when you smile at him, his steel blue eyes still hazy from crying. He has never looked more beautiful, sitting wide there in his new chair, chin set towards the future, paperwork and dessert resting on his desk. Maybe that’s why you keep kissing his lips, the tip of his nose, the smooth chisel of his jaw.
You lean into him, your body moulding perfectly against the nook of his arm and the rigid abs of his middle, your body featherlight against his support. He lifts a gloved hand to caress the prize he finds in his arms, and you tuck yourself closer, the softness now spreading through your very bones.
“I’ve dreamed of this moment,” he rumbles, voice trembling as the pads of his gloves drift down the column of your throat. He traces the soft ridge of your sternum and the blush of your stomach and, eventually, steals his way under your dress.
“That I’m a Colonel... That there’s a cute girl on my lap. That she smiles… And then–”
“...she feeds you a birthday cupcake?”
You already know it’s useless to chastise him, so you choose to distract him with your gifts instead. Lifting from his lap, you reach for one, the most perfect, cutest cupcake you can find. His hand stops to rest on your thigh, his hopeful eyes dashing towards the treat.
Tiny pink hearts drop all over his camos when he takes a bite: you’re both sprinkled with them, and you can’t help but breathe a laugh as you hover what’s left of the cupcake next to his chewing mouth. He looks at you with glossy, trusting eyes, not quite unlike a puppy who's not sure if they’ve done something wrong.
“You made a mess,” you tell him, and watch how he crumbles again.
At first, he looks like a kicked dog. Looks up at you, waiting for a pardon for something far more serious than this. Then he eases into it, into the storm, into the calm in the middle. Like a man, with eyes settling into both sorrow and hope. Then he opens his mouth to say something, but you bring a finger to his lips before he gets to speak.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, love,” you whisper while your heart slowly shatters into pieces; this time golden, glimmering ones.
You never know whether he was going to apologize – you don’t know to this day whether he was about to ask forgiveness for the sparkling mess he has made of you two.
Perhaps it would’ve made a difference, perhaps it would've soothed some wound inside you, but when you look at the tears welling, brimming in his eyes, you know you don't exactly need it. Both the lamb and the wolf have already been slaughtered, out of mercy, you suppose.
“Can I have some more…?”
He hesitates a little when he asks it, the trusting, heartbroken look in his eyes giving way to more tears.
“Of course. I made them special just for you.”
You bend down to kiss him, tasting sugar and salt from his mouth: the aftertaste of heart-shaped sprinkles and tears of human happiness.
Notes:
First of all, I want to thank every single soul who has left comments, kudos, followed this monster of a fairytale and/or gushed about it on Tumblr etc. I mainly write these silly stories for myself & I wrote the majority of the story last winter already, but without you, I don't think I'd ever have finished this fic <3 I have been beyond touched by the love this rather angst-heavy fic has received, and your support has motivated me to do my best with this story instead of abandoning it somewhere in my messy drafts! Comments and interaction mean so much to us writers, and even if I’m notoriously bad at replying to you & your lovely thoughts, I can assure you I’ve giggled and screamed and smiled when I’ve read how excited people have been about this fic, how this story has moved them – or simply made them horny :)
So thank you for your enthusiasm and support, I hope the wind is forever at your back and that your path, whether light or dark, is always paved with flowers! Much love to you all <3
(...and extra kisses to Syl, or @comfortless on Tumblr, you've been an absolute sweetheart with your support! everyone go read her König fics if you haven't already, they are super special ^^)