Hi! I don’t actually know how to make cute aesthetic looking posts yet, but I’ll try my best with a description of what all I’m gonna do here!
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edit: please send in asks, I really could use some ideas and it would be nice to have a small way to communicate with you guys as well!!
another edit lmao: so, I realized I never put a nickname for u guys to call me? Just wanna say that u can call me Cas ;)
REMEMBER: I will absolutely NOT tolerate any hate or slander against anyone or anything that isn’t harmful or bad! I want this space to be safe and comfortable for everyone! I WILL NOT hesitate to block anyone who is disrespectful and mean to others or to me!
Also also, I will write smut! Probably gonna be in a LOT of my writing tbh-
also also ALSO!! If u want some slasher headcanons, just go to my search thingy and look for “a y/n that…” cuz I tried to put that as a tag in all of them but you may still have to look around for a few!!
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Things I will write for:
»House of Wax (I’ll write for it on my own but requests are probably open if you have ideas!)
»Dead by Daylight
»Any version of Michael Myers, we love them all!
»Scream franchise (Basically any Ghost Face)
»My Hero Academia
»Attack on Titan
»Samurai Champloo
»Genshin impact! (Any character or even monster!)
»Sally Face (mostly just Sal, but I’ll do Larry or others if u ask!)
»Lurking for Love
»If you want, I can write more about my ocs and lore drops if they interest you!
NEW!
>> any of the 141 members + Nikto, Konig, Krueger
»Ask for others if you can’t find something you like!
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Things I WILL NOT write:
Pedophelia
Rape/any forced sexual interaction
Scat/Vomit kink stuff
Anything that could possibly offend a specific group or person. If it could be offensive to some but not a topic that I feel uncomfortable writing (only in specific cases, mind you) then I’ll simply put warnings and a cut before the actual writing.
i recommend sticking to requesting the things i've specifically listed, my ideas are better when i'm interested in the ida you give me. that being said, don't be deterred from sending in a request! if you like my writing and you wanna see me write about an idea, send it in and i'll be more than happy to share my thoughts~
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There might be more to come since I’m still new to writing publicly! But thank you for your time and feel free to ask or chat! I hope you enjoyed your time here and have a lovely day you lovely person~
Summary: Reader is tasked with feeding enemy prisoner Octo!Konig
“Just don’t step over the tape, don’t talk to it, and try not to spend too much time in there. Oh, and don’t forget the bucket.” AO3
Inspired by this fanart by @numelu that I have not been able to stop thinking about since I laid my sinful little eyes on it.
Word Count: 25.7k
Warnings: 18+, NSFW, porn with plot, tentacles, restraints, bondage, orgasm torture, tentacle fucking, light anal, light spanking, dw he uses all of his tentacles, corked like you got the suds, dom!konig, hood stays on, choking, injury, holy trinity of fluff angst and smut, no use of y/n, story and smut kinda read like two different stories, that’s my bad, i’ve never seen the shape of water but i’m assuming this is the exact plot, reader gender is obscured but afab during the sex bits for sure, women in stem
Biowarefare has made incredible strides in the last few decades, unbeknownst to the public. Experimental creatures of nightmarish horrors engineered to inflict both psychological and physical damage to enemies live in the darker shadows of war. You’d been sworn to secrecy, but remain haunted by these creatures. You’d rather not get close to them - you were just a biologist. A consultant really, meant to answer questions about organic matter and DNA. You were to assist in the designing process, but this was not a part of the job description.
“It still needs to eat in the meantime,” Your supervisor had delivered around a cheeky smile, as if he was telling a joke. Your face, however, had not shown amusement.
“Just don’t step over the tape, don’t talk to it, and try not to spend too much time in there. Oh, and don’t forget the bucket.”
With only two hours to prepare yourself before dinnertime, you weren’t able to accomplish much work. Nerves escape through bouncing legs and fidgeting fingers.
The fridge smelled putrid. A cesspool of meats and seafood, all untreated and unprocessed, some on the brink of expiration, others completely rotten. You try not to breathe as you remove the top of a crate of fish, your fingers surviving any splinters and unpleasant scents with the protection of thick rubber gloves. The mackerel are large, four to five pounds, you’d guess, just shorter than the length of your arm. You grab two, placing them in the large yellow bucket your supervisor reminded you about. Seawater and fish guts drip from your rubber gloves as you step through the empty sterile hallways.
The involuntary shake of your hands causes the handle of the bucket to rattle against the plastic as you step up to the creature’s holding cell. In front of the large metal door you take a moment to steady yourself with a few deep breaths, but the stench of dead mackerel does little to ease your nerves.
You reach to the lanyard around your neck that secured your badge, trembling fingers hesitant to place it against the reader. The usually stagnant red light flicks green, and a grating alarm sounds followed by the sturdy clunk of the lock. You’re forced to use both hands, setting the bucket down before you grip the heavy metal door. You’re lean your entire weight against it, teeth grit as your heels dig into the tile. Your foot holds the door in place as you reach for the bucket. Once in the containment unit, the big metal door slams closed behind you with a mechanical clunk. The alarm buzzes again, making you flinch, shifting hesitantly in your spot by the door as you take in the sight before you.
It’s huge, bigger than any man you’ve ever seen. It looked like a man. Seven feet tall, you think. Muscles engineered for the purpose of destroying, the purpose of killing. Its arms are bent at the elbows and positioned behind its head, restrained by ropes. The restraints looped thoroughly around massive biceps and forearms, secured to the walls on either of his sides. Another rope had suspended from a mount on the ceiling, securing his wrists in place.
Glowing eyes stare menacingly at you from under a hood that cover its face. The black hood spilled from under a tactical helmet and down his chest, hem brushing up against exposed collarbones.
Slick black tentacles protrude from underneath the hood that hangs over its face, each slithering and curling in their own direction.
Eight larger tentacles resembled that of an octopus. As thick as tree trunks at the bases and gradually thinning towards the ends, four on each side of his spine and spread from its back like wings. Each one moves independently, spread and primed as they writhe in the air.
Mesmerized by the creature before you, you find yourself frozen under its gaze. Taking in such a miraculous sight. Sure, you assist in the design, but you’ve never seen one in person before. Pondering its capabilities, knowing full well without the restraints in place you wouldn’t stand a chance against such a well engineered design. Wondering what horror the hood hides, something so awful it had to be covered. Or perhaps the creature was designed that way, the hood itself intended to further off put its victims.
When you finally break eye contact with it, your eyes find the floor. A red line of tape separates you from the creature, signifying its reach within the cell. Its got a large radius, you’re surprised by how much distance he’s capable of covering even while restrained in place.
You swallow hesitantly, taking a couple steps closer, still leaving a healthy distance between you and the glossy red tape.
“Fresh meat?” It asks, in a harsh and gravely voice that sends a chill up your spine. You weren’t sure if he had been referring to you or the fish.
“I’m not supposed to talk to you.” Your voice is broken and hesitant as you eye the tentacles writhing and twisting alluringly in the air.
You carefully get down on one knee and set the bucket on the ground, your hands shaking. With a calculated push you slide the bucket across the concrete floor and into the creature’s reach. The bucket slides over the boundary a few feet before it skids and tips over, rolling in a semi circle on its side as the fish spill out of the rim one after another.
The creature laughs, a loud and wicked laugh that raises the hairs on the back of your neck. Your expression is seeped in worry as you stand, watching it eye the mess before it, cruel laugh still echoing in your ears.
“The new ones always forget the bucket.” It says, low and sinful with eyes half-lidded in menace. It coils a larger tentacle around the middle of the container and whips it back in your direction without warning.
You let out a yelp and dive to the floor, just barely missing the bucket that crashed into the cell door behind you. It bounces back, pieces of the plastic rim snapping off and scattering to the ground.
You scramble for the container, your other hand desperately clawing for your badge before slamming it against the receiver and exiting the cell in a panicked scramble.
The creature’s depraved laugh could be heard up until the door slammed shut behind you, the lock securing into place with the grating alarm. Your breaths are shallow, fishy rubber gloves pressed to your beating heart as you quickly distance yourself from the cell.
———————————————————
You had tried to convince your supervisor to give the task to someone else, anyone else, but to no avail.
“It’s your fault for forgetting the bucket!”
You mocked your supervisor’s inflection once out of earshot before burying your face into your palms with a groan.
You thought about putting in your two weeks. No! No two weeks. You’ll just leave and never look back.
You remember that the government doesn’t look very kindly upon disgruntled ex-employees holding classified information, and opt to run a hand through your hair with a huff instead.
You’ll be quick today, in and out, and then it’s done. Once a day for thirty seconds, until they find a replacement. That’s not so bad.
The second time was easier. You knew what to expect, and the spite against your supervisor, against the creature, only fueled your confidence. Features stone cold as you open the door, the grating alarm having stirred the creature. You step into the room assuredly, returning the creature’s harsh stare with one of your own.
You close more of the gap between you and the tape this time, holding the handle of the bucket with one hand and securing the bottom with your other. You wind it up behind you before using your arms to propel it forward with a huff, grip still steady on the bucket as the fish fly. The creature’s eyes follow the trajectory of the fish until they land at its feet. You had wasted no time turning on your heels and leaving, bucket still in hand.
“Someone learned their lesson.” You hear, and you grit your teeth as you let the door slam harshly behind you.
The creature left a lasting impression in your memory. Its taunts echo in your mind, and you can tell he was designed to get under the victim’s skin. To haunt them, inflicting emotional warfare in addition to physical, torturing them without even being in the same room as them.
You dreamt of it last night. You wondered if that was something that it had done to you. If he had the ability to inflict nightmares, or if he was just intimidating enough to let your subconscious run wild after only a few seconds of exposure.
In the dream, you had been caught in a sea of black tentacles, suffocating you as they wrapped around your mouth, robbing you of air while restraining your limbs from fighting back. The tentacles had wriggled until they transformed into the shape of the creature’s hood, glowing eyes staring tauntingly, but your dream had equipped him with a horrific mouth that laid over its hood, filled with sharp carnivorous teeth spread into a sickening smile. With his wicked laugh, blood spilled from the gaps of his endless rows of teeth.
You had woke up covered in sweat, gasping for air as you kicked free from the hold of your blankets.
The dream had stuck with you, the residual unease not allowing you to fall back asleep. You decided to start research on the creature although you weren’t instructed to - your way of controlling the fear of the unknown by making it known.
Detailed sketches and logs of your encounters with him quickly buried your work assignments. You were recording every detail from the number of visual abdominal muscles to his bluff behavior when encountering a threat, branching its tentacles out just like animals to in the wild do to appear bigger.
You couldn’t help the way your eyes lingered on it during feedings. To gather data, you told yourself, to understand the creature’s physiology. You’re a biologist, after all. Research is the foundation of your beliefs.
You had been able to refrain from speaking with it, even if he was rather chatty. Arrogant, he loved to push your buttons.
You didn’t let him get to you, at least as far as he was concerned. You never let your irritation show when under his watchful gaze, but grit your teeth once you turned your back.
It’s about a week and a half into your new duty when he finally makes you falter.
“You’re starving me, you know.”
Your stride stills, not yet turning towards him as your hand grips your badge. You consider his words, shed of his usually cocky tone.
He could be lying, who knows what his true intentions actually are. On the other hand, you’ve only been feeding him what you’ve been tasked to.
You slowly turn towards him, your eyes squinted as you stare at him. You’re trying to deduce his weight, but it’s hard since you’re not used to estimating in terms of seven foot creatures with tentacles. He looks like he’s made of pure muscle, and those tentacles look heavy. 300 pounds? 400? You’re trying to decide if you should be feeding him in terms of his body weight percentage in regards to a human, an octopus, or a monster.
You should have kept walking, you think. He has your attention now, and not only that, you’ve revealed from hesitation alone that you possess a moral standard to uphold a basic level of decency for a prisoner of war. Now he knows you’re soft.
He can tell you’re trying to figure out if he’s deceiving you.
“If I had food to spare, I’d have used it as a weapon by now.” His low voice drips off arrogance again, and a tentacle reaches down to grab a mackerel, curling as he brings it to the appendages pouring from beneath his hood. You watch carefully as the fish disappears, and wonder if your dream was accurate about the mouth he hides under his hood.
You take a deep breath and turn from him, gripping your badge tighter and exiting the cell as you latch the door shut with a loud clunk.
The next time you’re in that awful fridge that reeks of postmortem and cheap seafood, you add two extra mackerel into the yellow bucket with the jagged broken edges.
When he counts the fish that land at his feet during your next feeding, his tone is still gruff, but softer, “Thank you.”
He leaves it without a witty remark. He caught you off guard again, shown by the slowing in your steps. You didn’t turn back to him this time, but you wanted to believe that he was genuinely appreciative of your kindness. Even if it was just enough not to make an attempt to get under your skin this time.
Your dreams have only become more vivid. You can hear the clunk of the lock on the heavy metal door, the alarm that blares identical to reality. You’ll be having a typical day at work, fully immersed in dry research and black tentacles will emerge from every entrance, every crevice. Holding you still and swallowing you up.
It’s getting difficult to differentiate the events in the dreams to those in real life. It takes hours to reorient yourself enough to fall back asleep.
Circles develop around your eyes from the lack of rest. Your productivity had come to a halt, your thoughts and research now surrounding the creature you feed.
He refrains from making comments at you, now that you’re feeding him enough. The next few visits he doesn’t say anything, the two of you sharing the silence. You’re not sure, but you think you have come to an understanding. You feed him a little extra, and in return he doesn’t say anything about the long stares. Not even a snide remark as you leave.
“What are you?” You finally ask during a feeding, curiously eyeing the tentacles delivering a fish to his obscured mouth.
He takes a moment to consider it, or maybe he takes a moment to swallow the mackerel.
“I am what I am, same as you.”
You look down, a little ashamed at your question. Maybe you have been too judgmental. He’s displayed his intelligence from the start, he’s obviously much more than just an it or a creature.
He was just a being who never asked to be created, same as you. His potential locked away in enemy care, his conscious trapped between these four walls, restricted from moving.
“I’m sorry.” You say, standing tall with your brows pinched and eyes looking up to meet his intimidating gaze.
“For what?” He asks after considering it for a moment, voice holding a slight edge.
“That you’re here.”
You pause before continuing, “That you were made for what you were made for. That you never got a chance to just be.”
His eyes watch you carefully, narrowing underneath his hood. A tentacle curls in your direction while your eyes are trained carefully on him, and you can’t help the shake of your hands as you get a closer look at his slick tentacle.
“I’m sorry you’re here too.” He says, and you’re not sure how to take it. You nod your head anyway, giving him the benefit of the doubt.
“Me too.” Your voice is strained with remorse, as if you’re personally responsible for holding him hostage. “I’m not like them.” You say, desperate for him to believe you, “I’m just a biologist, I’m meant to answer questions about DNA and nature. I didn’t- it just got out of hand.”
He studies you carefully, his muscles tensing underneath his restraints. “But you help them.” He says, dangerously and definitive.
“No! I- well, yes.” You take a deep breath, closing your eyes as you did, “This is just a job.”
You look back to him. Could you even say it’s just a job anymore? When you’re assisting and encouraging the creation of beings like him? Forced into this world without regard of their wants, made for a purpose to kill and destroy and equipped with consciousness, without given the chance to discover themselves. Destined to a fate of being slain, captured, terrorized, experimented on, or worse.
You close your eyes again, “No, I didn’t mean-“ Your moral compass is spinning now, and you don’t feel capable enough to articulate your feelings on the matter. So instead you just look at him, eyes begging for him to give you a little grace.
He takes a deep breath and you can’t help but watch his chest rise and fall, tentacles wriggling idly behind him. He doesn’t speak, just studies you, those intense eyes boring into you.
“Do you have a name?” You ask gently.
The tentacles on his back curl, his menacing frame shrinking a bit.
He hesitates before speaking.
“Konig.”
“Konig,” You repeat. You give him your name before asking, “Do you need anything?”
He looks down his hood at you, tentacles itching with curiosity. “Water.”
You give a slow nod and gesture to the cell door behind you, “Yeah, I can, yeah.”
You go through the process of opening his cell door, sneaking the bucket into the nearest bathroom and filling it as high as you can with water, but it’s awkward with the sink’s base in the way. The bucket is a lot heavier when it’s filled and you have to waddle on your way back.
Back in the cell, water sloshes out of the bucket as you use your body to hold open the heavy cell door. You hover the bucket a few inches from the ground, the handle straining under the weight as you waddle it up just before the red tape and set it down. You look at him, slightly out of breath with your hands on your hips.
“Now - you can have this, but-“ You take a hand off your hip to point at him, pausing to take a tired breath, “You have to promise me you won’t throw it at me.”
His tentacles curl again, his hood tilting down. “I promise.”
You look hesitantly down at the red tape, kneeling behind the bucket and using your weight to slide it across the floor and over the boundary. He watches you carefully, studying the way your body moved as you kneel before him. As you work for him.
Once the bucket is over the barrier you stand and hesitantly take a step back, bracing yourself in case he launches this one at your head.
Instead he wraps a large tentacle around the jagged edge of the bucket, dragging it closer in order to get a better grip. You watch as two appendages work to bring it to his feet with ease. He takes turns eagerly soaking his tentacles in the water.
You’re not sure if he’s cleaning, drinking, or moisturizing, but you don’t ask. You watch as his tentacles smoothly work, picking up what remains in the bucket and dumping it over himself, letting it drip over his front and staining his pants a shade darker. He heaves a sigh of relief, his eyes closing and his glistening muscles relaxing against the restraints.
“Thank you.” He says, low and quiet. A tentacle grips the empty bucket and extends to its full reach, placing it carefully at the boundary.
After his tentacle retracts you reach for the jagged rim, scraping the bottom of the bucket along the concrete as you pull it back into the safe zone with two fingers. “Thank you.” You give a weak smile and gesture to the empty container in your hands. “I can keep bringing you water, if you continue to refrain from throwing?”
He nods, voice bordering on patronizing as his tentacles curl, “I promise.”
When you return the next day, you’ve got a new bucket and a small hose curled up and hanging off your shoulder.
You figured if he was being held prisoner, he at least deserved a full bucket of water and one that didn’t reek of dead mackerel. Konig watched as your struggle to manage to drag in both buckets while holding the heavy door open. When the door closes behind you with its noisy thud and grating alarm, you toss the fish over first, doubling back to haul the water closer. After getting it near the tape, you have to use your back and dig the heels of your feet against the concrete to slide it the rest of the way across the tape. The water sloshes onto your hair and down the back of your shirt as the bucket slides out from under your weight. You nearly fall back into his radius, but catch yourself with a nervous laugh.
You turn to get a glimpse of his tentacle as it pulls the water bucket closer. From here you get a peek at the suckers on his tentacles, each working independently as it grips around the rim and drags the bucket closer with ease. Just one of his larger appendages was stronger than your whole body. It gave you an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach, but you continued to sit on the ground inches from the boundary, your legs crossed as you watch him eat and bathe.
“Thank you.” He says, and you’re unable to decipher his tone over his harsh voice.
“It’s uh, it’s no problem.” You’re memorized by the way his tentacles move, each working independently. It’s a lot of multi-tasking, you think, but it looks like it’s second nature for him, as natural to you as walking and talking at the same time.
“I’m sorry.” He says, in between bites.
“For what?” You ask, head tilting to the side.
“For throwing the bucket at you.” He keeps his gaze to his meal, “Your first day.”
You’re caught off guard by his apology. You hadn’t expected to see self-reflection and regret from him.
You shrug, “I get it. I mean, imprisoned by enemies of war? Restrained against your will? I think everyone has a right to be a little feisty in that situation.” You give another weak smile, fingers absentmindedly picking at a loose thread on your lab coat.
He huffs, wrapping around another mackerel and letting it disappear under his hood.
He lets the silence sit, but the biologist in you can’t help but analyze his diet, “You gettin’ tired of eating the same thing everyday?”
A tentacle reaches up to pick a fish bone from his teeth before flicking it casually to the floor. He considers your question carefully, a habit of his you’ve already logged.
“I’m tired of everything,” he says, and the exhaustion in his voice makes you look to the floor in shame.
Your arm crosses over your chest, thumb anxiously running over your opposing bicep, “How long have you been here?”
“I’ve lost count.” He says.
You wonder if he actually wants to be in conversation with you, or if any stimulation is a better alternative to staring at these four walls, alone with nothing but his own thoughts.
You take another deep breath, accustomed to the overwhelming smell of fish by now.
You’re not sure what to say to him. No words could offer someone in his situation comfort. Instead you watch as he finishes his meal and simultaneously bathes his appendages. It’s oddly alluring, how he moves. You wonder just how many things he’s capable of doing at once. Such a being must be very efficient.
He doesn’t seem to mind your company or curious stares. If he does, he certainly doesn’t voice them. You think he must be used to staring by now, and you wonder if you’re no better than the rest.
When you return the next day, you’ve brought a door jam. You’ve got too many things in your arms to carry in to be able to manage the door all at once. Konig watches from his restrained position as your cluttered silhouette stumbled into the cell. You set the buckets down with a thud, letting the extra bags roll off your shoulders. You have to huff, the trek down the hall weighed down supplies stealing your breath from you. Once you’ve removed the door jammer, silencing the annoying alarm and leaving you both with privacy, you return to his meal.
“I brought you some stuff.” You say as you shake the food bucket before tossing the contents in his direction. Various seafoods you could scrounge up in the fridge scatter to the floor. Shrimp, clams, oysters, a few different species of fish. Whatever seafood hadn’t turned rotten in the walk-in fridge.
His tentacles wriggle and reach out, suckers gripping to the food before him as he brings it to his mouth.
You’re not sure, but by the way his tentacles are wiggling you think you’ve won at least a few brownie points.
You turn from him to walk the bucket of water to the boundary, letting it dangle between your legs in an awkward waddle.
“I brought something else, too.” You say with a hint of hesitance, straining a bit as you set the bucket on the concrete.
His tentacles curl in… anticipation? Curiosity? Hatred? You’re not sure, but you’ve been trying to piece together his body language back in your lab for quite some time.
He doesn’t say anything, so once you’ve got the water bucket over the boundary, you cross back to the discarded bag and rummage through it.
You reveal a small black box, setting your bag down as you extend the antennae.
“A radio.” You say with a sheepish smile. He doesn’t say anything and you look to your gift with uncertainty, “I just thought - well y’know, I wouldn’t want to be trapped with my own thoughts. Everyone deserves some sort of distraction, yeah?” You say, kneeling on the floor as you set the it into his radius.
His glowing eyes stare down the present, and you’re not sure what he’s thinking. “Not a music guy?” You ask tentatively, a hand finding the back of your neck.
A tentacle slowly extends in your direction, carefully wrapping the radio in its grip. He brings it to his face, examining it with his glowing eyes. He sets it down carefully, and while he doesn’t say anything, you’ll take it as a win that he didn’t immediately fling it into the wall, shattering it to a thousand pieces.
You stare down at the floor for awhile, the only sound filling the room is his slick tentacles tending to his meal and bath, clam shells clattering to the ground as he quickly works the meat from them.
“Thank you.” He says, in between bites. It comes out low and vulnerable, as if the words were foreign to him, or possibly held down by the weight of things unsaid. Maybe it’s because he’s having to be kind to a captor, forced to be cordial to someone holding him prisoner here - and for what? Meeting his basic nutritional requirements?
He could be playing the long con, hiding his deep hatred for you so he can lure you into trusting him. You’ll end up like the ones before you, destined to the fate of a sudden and unfortunate accident.
Your stomach turns at your predicament. You could be educating the future about the miracle that is the powerhouse of the cell, but no, you just had to take the government research job, flashy paycheck and hopes of changing the world.
He tenses for a moment, tentacles stilling except for one that loops up underneath his hood, picking something from his teeth. He holds it in front of his eyes to get a better look at his find.
His gaze flicks to you, another undecipherable stare that sends a chill up your spine. You watch with bated breath as his gaze returns to the item in his grip, tentacle moving in your direction before carefully placing it at the boundary. You watch as his appendage curls like a snake to gently nudge it in your direction. Like a marble it rolls to you, over the red tape and bouncing off your shoe. Shaking hands stop its slowing roll before you pick it up between your fingers.
A pearl, from one of the oysters you’d given him. It’s uneven, not a perfect sphere, but its texture is still smooth in your fingers. You wipe the spit and oyster remains on your lab coat before letting the pearl rest in your palm, tilting it in the light to get a better look at it. It’s a purplish gray, iridescent colors shifting as you move it.
“How neat.” You say, tone that of an interested biologist, “Poor guy must of had a splinter.”
Once you get a good look at it, you set the small treasure back across the tape to return it to him, but he stops you.
“For you.” He says, definitively enough that you can’t argue.
You lips part as you look to him, stunned and wide-eyed at his gesture.
Maybe he hadn’t hated you.
You wrap your hands carefully around the pearl, bringing it close to your chest.
“Thank you,” You say, voice breathy in awe.
You unwrap your hand to study it carefully in your hands, your little pearl. Cradling it as if it’s a fragile being if it’s own, not a resilient clump of calcium carbonate that survived both a life in an oyster at the bottom of the ocean and engineered predator teeth capable of cleaning the meat off a skeleton in seconds.
He watches you study your gift, the same way you had studied him with eyes wide in amazement and curiously. You don’t see his muscles relax against his restraints. He continues to eat, slowing his pace as his stare stays on you.
You hadn’t exchanged any other words during that interaction, but you think the silence that encompassed the cell was comfortable. At least on your end, you’re not sure about Konig.
He passes the empty water bucket back you, and before you gather all of your things, you tuck your precious pearl away in a pocket of your lab coat.
Back in the lab, you rolled the pearl in your fingers, wondering if Konig’s gesture had meant the same to you as it had to him.
Humans regard pearls as highly as a precious gem, but maybe to him it was no different than discarding trash, just as he had flung the fish bones that got stuck in his teeth. He may have even been demonstrating his annoyance with you.
How dare you not clean his oysters before you serve him, do you want him to choke?
Does he know the rarity of a pearl? How we string them into necklaces? Adorn ourselves with them to elevate our look? How we gift them to our loved ones?
There was so much you didn’t know about him. His mystique kept you up at night and your mind wondered with the possibilities. You were a researcher at heart, aching to get an understanding of him from the inside out. Endless analyses filled your days and black tentacles swarmed your dreams. In the hours between night and dusk you considered your own morality. You’d never met one of the biowarfare creations up close before. You didn’t realize they were capable of sentient thought. That they are truly beings of their own freewill instead of a programmed organic weapon.
You think you’ve already crossed too far over the line, that there was nothing you could do to make it right.
The next time you visit Konig, the sound of the radio floods the cell between the calls of the grating alarm. Once the door secures behind you, you can make out a talk show. The news or perhaps something educational, judging by the dry voices and even tones you hear before he turns the dial off with a tentacle, his glowing eyes giving you his full attention. You don’t say anything, but it does make your chest fill with a slight warmth to know he’s using your gift.
“I took a trip to the dock this morning,” You start as you drag the bucket of seafood to the tape, “I don’t think I’ll be able to get the smell out of my car, but it’s crab season, so, I got some. Got a tuna, too. Oh, and scallops, you eat those?”
He doesn’t answer, but his eyes narrow and his tentacles twitch and curl behind him.
“Lobster was a bit steep, but I can keep my eye out.” You say, setting the entire bucket just over the boundary. He had earned his trust with the bucket, and it was too demeaning to force him to eat his food off the filthy concrete floors.
His eager tentacles pull the bucket to his feet, digging into it to uncover your gifts. He wastes no time getting them underneath his hood, you can see his arms tense and steady beneath his restraints as his teeth sink into his meal.
You slide him the bucket of water and then stand back to observe as his slick tentacles take it from you. Simultaneously he’s able to clean multiple crabs at once, expertly working the meat out of its complex exoskeleton and leaving nothing but shell. Much faster than you’ve ever seen any octopus feed.
You think briefly to the feeders before you, wondering if their sudden and unfortunate accidents were just Konig cleaning the meat off a skeleton. You wonder if he was designed to feast on his enemies, if his diet had held space for human.
Another meal.
You look down to the space between you and the red tape. Three paces away. You casually make it four, just for good measure.
“Thank you.” He says, and it’s slowly becoming your language. The words thank you uttered a thousand different ways, each with a different meaning, weight, and inflection, neither of you fluent or able to decipher the other.
You don’t feel comfortable prodding, instead you steady your feet and watch him mesmerizingly tear apart his meal, body restrained but tentacles still fully dexterous. You wondered if he minds you watching him eat, or if he felt like a zoo animal under your watch. Your hand creeps into your pocket to nervously play with the pearl, fingers running over the smooth surface.
After he clears a few more crabs, he looks up from his meal to eye you carefully. He noticed the dark circles under your eyes, how disheveled you look.
“Tired?” He asks.
One hand stays with the pearl while the other rubs the back of your neck. “Yeah, I couldn’t sleep last night, uh, so I went to the docks early this morning.”
He flicks another shell into his pile, studying you carefully. After a few moments his tentacles outstretch welcomely, some resting against the concrete floor, “You can rest here.”
You tense under his stare, your eyes shifting hesitantly to his tentacles. “Oh, no - I just have a lot of work to do.” You eye his core for a moment before returning to his gaze, “I can sit for a little, though.”
He gives a pleased hum as you do, eyes narrowing as he watches you prop yourself against a wall on his side, leaving about three feet between you and the red tape. His gaze turns back to the seafood as he works. You observe him, resting your head against the cool concrete and staring down your nose. You can’t help but close your heavily eyelids, listening to the sound of shells snapping and being tossed to the floor.
Your fingers continue to smooth over the pearl in your pocket. It became a habit of yours, fingers finding the pearl absentmindedly, rolling it between your touch to soothe yourself.
You’re thinking about all the things you want to ask him. About his physiology, his full capabilities. About how he feels, what thoughts and emotions exist in a brain engineered for warfare. About his opinion of you, if he’s disgusted with you or if he understands that you’re both just products of a horrific environment.
Is he capable of empathy?
You couldn’t ask. Your relationship seemed so fragile and delicate as it was, so you both opt for silence.
You’re not sure how much time has passed when you open your eyes again, but he’s done his feeding and bathing, both buckets emptied and placed at the boundary in the center of the room. He’d tidied his cell, the floor cleared and the food bucket now holding his cleaned crabs, various shells, and fish bones.
His tentacles stir when your eyes meet his, and you take a sharp inhale as you rouse. You touch a hand to your heart, the other feeling for the pearl through your pocket. Your eyes find the red tape, and you’re still in your spot, propped up on the wall three feet from the boundary.
“Did I fall asleep?” You say, touching your forehead. If you had, you don’t remember having a nightmare.
His hood tilts up and he shrugs.
“How long’s it been?”
After a moment he shrugs again, tentacles working in rhythm to his movements.
Right, he wouldn’t know. You give a small nervous laugh at your foolish question, leaning forward and resting your arms on your knees.
“I should probably get going.” You say, but you don’t move from your spot, and he doesn’t wish you goodbye.
You stare at the floor on your side of the red tape. You can see his larger tentacles wriggling in the corner of your eyes, along with the glow of his stare.
Your back ached from sitting on concrete for an extended period. It made you wonder how sore Konig was, his arms having been restrained to their position bent behind his head for ages, forced into a standing position every hour of the day.
“I’ve made a huge mistake.” You say with a laugh, one in disbelief of yourself. You lay your palm flat on your forehead again. “I don’t know how it got this far, really.”
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing at you. He doesn’t say anything, and you continue.
“I’m just in too deep, right?” You huff, throwing your hand back down to your thigh. “I’m all torn up about this. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I’m just thinking about this nightmare of a job I’ve got myself in. You get so caught up in the paperwork and day-to-day, you forget what the end result is. I didn’t realize you were so sentient.” You give another nervous laugh, exasperated.
“Now I don’t know what to do.” A hand moves to your pocket and pulls out your pearl, holding it tightly in a closed palm by your side. “I’d try to make it right, but I don’t know how, okay? I really don’t know what the right thing to do is. I don’t know if there is a right thing to do, I think that ship has sailed.”
The right thing would have been never getting involved in this line of work, to never have learned of or aided in the creation of beings like him in the first place. But you’re both here, together, and there’s no way out.
You gnaw on your lip, looking to the ground. His eyes don’t leave you. Silence drapes over the cell as your words echo through both of you.
After the long pause he speaks, harsh voice layered with a hint of optimism, and his tentacles twitch and curl with his words.
“It’s not too late.”
You’re not able to meet his gaze, so you solemnly shake your head at the floor. You already know what he’s suggesting.
“You understand why I can’t do that, right?” You ask, soft and defeated.
He tenses under his restraints. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t push. You hope that means he understands. That he understands the risks he’s asking you to take. The threat of your employers, the threat of him, fully realized and unrestrained. That you wouldn’t stand a chance against a powerful being like him. That no matter how many gifts and thank yous are exchanged, your actions will always layered with a high probability of deceit. That trust is inherently not possible in a relationship between a prisoner and the keeper. Between a being made for killing and the target he’s designed to kill.
The silence falls over you both again.
When you finally stand to retrieve the buckets, his gaze follows you.
“Perhaps in another life, we’ll get it right.”
Your shoulders tense at his words, your pace slowing. You don’t meet his eyes as you leave to discard his scraps, the harsh alarm and clunk of the door concealing your exhausted sigh.
The next few visits, you wordlessly hand over his meals and water before sitting on your spot against the wall, resting as you wait for him to return the buckets. It feels so nice to close your eyes, and it’s hard for him to haunt your thoughts when you know exactly what he’s doing. Your subconscious has a difficult time running wild when presented face to face with reality. It’s the best rest you’ve gotten in weeks, even if the concrete hurts your back and leaves your neck stiff. You feel oddly comforted being in the presence of the only other being who understands your struggle, even if he was the heart of your conflict.
Konig doesn’t seem to mind when you doze off, at least he doesn’t complain. He may just not want to bite the hand that feeds him anything other than mackerel on the brink of decomposition. Sometimes you’re out for a few minutes, sometimes hours, not waking up until well into the evening, long after you should have left the building.
He never disturbs you, letting you rest as long as you need. Listening to the light snores you make, his gaze fixed on the rise and fall of your chest.
He can tell you’re still afraid of him, when the first thing you do as you stir is search with wide eyes for the red tape to ensure you’re still safely outside his radius. You always relax when you meet his stare, though, watching his tentacles curl as you rouse.
You always run your hand over your left coat pocket, usually at the same time you’re searching for the red tape in a panic.
He wonders if you’ve brought something to defend yourself if things go wrong for you. If your hand reaches for the outline of a weapon in your pocket, some feeble defense to soothe your fears of him.
You usually offer an embarrassed laugh or coy smile as you adjust, usually while rubbing out a knot on your back.
Sometimes, especially if you haven’t gotten a lick of sleep the night prior, you’ll readjust from your spot against the wall to the floor, curling up on the concrete and positioning your arm underneath you as a pillow. You’ll rub the sleep from your eyes when you wake, propping yourself up on your elbow to look for a watch that doesn’t exist.
Little words are exchanged. What words could be shared to offer either of you comfort? Anything he says could just be a ploy to gain your trust. Anything you say does little to aid his position as prisoner.
There’s one visit, when you stir, where your back is fully flush to the concrete and you get a view of the ceiling of his cell. Your eyes widen, always with a sharp inhale, as you turn over and prop yourself up to search for the red tape. It takes you too long to find it, having to press your chin to your chest to get it in your view.
You had rolled over in your sleep, bust having crossed over the boundary, forearms propping yourself up in Konig’s radius.
You freeze, eyes wide as you look to him, wondering if he was aware of the easy prey ready for the taking.
He stares at you, tentacles still wriggling, but not outstretched. He keeps them pulled close to him, unlike his usual intimidating posture.
You’re still frozen in your spot, eyes wide and locked onto him as you process.
He could have easily wrapped a tentacle around your neck and ended your life before you had even woken up. Or worse, he could have restrained you, tortured you, and held you hostage as a mean to earn his freedom.
But he didn’t.
He’d left you undisturbed while you rested, as he always does.
Your heartbeat has made its way to your ears, muffling the sounds of hitched breaths escaping your parted lips. You two haven’t broken eye contact as you lay paralyzed on the floor.
He had spared your life, that was clear to you. He had resisted the urge to effortlessly snap your neck or get revenge on you for assisting in holding him prisoner.
You slowly sit up, locked on to his gaze.
Another trick to gain for your trust, you wonder. Spare your life now and stab you in the back later.
You slowly scoot outside his radius, not turning your back on him as you hesitantly stand and clear your throat.
Once you’re outside of his reach, you feel for the pearl through your pocket, but you can’t find the telling bump through the fabric of your lab coat. You reach into your pocket, finally taking your eyes off Konig’s glowing stare. Your fingers come up empty and you look to the floor where you had fallen asleep, and your eyes find it a few paces from the boundary.
When Konig sees what you had been hiding in your pocket all this time, and your hesitance to step back over the red tape, a tentacle carefully reaches to pick up your pearl. Instead of nudging the pearl back over to the tape and letting it roll to you as he did the first time, he flips his tentacles over so it’s sucker-up, unfurling it to his maximum length to present the pearl to you at waist height.
You can’t help the way your brows retract and your mouth parts as you study his slick appendage. You’ve never gotten this close of a look at his tentacles before. Each sucker wriggles independently, just as his tentacles did. You wonder if it’s autonomous to him, or if he has control over each one. Your shoes scrape the concrete as you shuffle nervously to the boundary, toes pressed up on the red tape to take the pearl from him. He could easily wrap his appendage around your wrist and pull you fully into his reach, just as he does with the buckets. Your fingers tremble as you reach for your possession, the involuntary shaking causes you to brush against his tentacle, leaving behind a clear slick on both you and your pearl.
His appendage retracts once you’ve taken it from him. A heat creeps up your cheeks, embarrassed that you’ve been caught hanging onto his gift like this. Carrying it around with you and visibly worried when you lose it.
If he had been simply discarding his trash instead of giving you a gift, unaware of the value of such an item, he probably thinks it’s strange of you to continue carrying it around.
He doesn’t voice his thoughts if he has any, just watched quietly as you tuck the pearl back into your pocket, smoothing over it once it’s secured.
“Thank you.” You say sheepishly, your eyes still wide as you digest his actions and lack there of. You’re not sure if you’re thanking him for returning your belonging or for refraining from killing you.
You have trouble making eye contact with him, eyes glued to the floor.
You’re thinking that maybe there might be some trust between you two after all. You’re thinking about the new details you noticed on his tentacles from your close view that you’ll surely record later. About gifts and thank yous and curious states and defined muscles engineered to kill. About how you can only get rest when you sleep under his watch. About what’s hidden under that hood. About how he didn’t kill you when given the opportunity like you had suspected he would.
You think about what he’s thinking.
Then you look to the buckets, still at his feet and not emptied and placed back at the boundary like your usual routine follows. Your brows furrow as you meet his glowing eyes.
Your chest rises and falls as you study him.
“I should probably get going.” You say, nodding to the buckets in an attempt to get him to pass them back over to you.
His tentacles curl and writhe at your statement, and his head tilts upwards. He lets your words hang in the air before he responds.
“Not finished.” He says evenly.
Your brow quirks at the unusual occurrence. It’s not like him to leave a meal unfinished, to stray from the routine.
You give him the benefit of the doubt, choosing to remain optimistic about your new step in trust, “I’ll come by for it later, then.”
You turn on your feet to leave, hands reaching for the lanyard of your badge like muscle memory. You swipe for it a few times, fingers coming up empty. Your chin meets sternum as you look down to confirm its absence, patting pockets and swiveling on your feet to look to the floor where you had lost your pearl.
You don’t see it, so you eye Konig, stare narrowed.
Time slowed as a tentacle, previously obscured behind his back, unfurls and stretches far above his head. The end of his appendage loops around your lanyard, light reflecting off the lamination of your ID as it rotates in the air. He dangles it above you both tauntingly.
Your gaze switches between Konig’s stare and the badge. It feels as if the air has been sucked out of the room. You don’t want to believe it - you’re in denial waiting for him to pass it back to you just as he did the pearl. He doesn’t, keeping your badge far on his side of the boundary a few feet above his head, playing keep-away with your freedom.
You shift in your spot and swallow.
“Yeah?” You ask, voice breathy but with an edge. You need him to verbally confirm he was stabbing you in the back, hoping he says anything to clear up the misunderstanding.
The tentacle holding the badge shakes, and the rest of his appendages outstretch, just as he had when you approached his cell the first time.
“I don’t want to hurt you.” He says definitively, a few of his tentacles curling inwards with his words.
You rub your lips together and nod your head, digesting your predicament. He must have worked the badge off your neck when you rolled into his reach, delicately enough not to wake you.
You’re not scared, surprisingly, not afraid that you’re locked in here with him, most likely on a path to a sudden and unfortunate accident.
You’re more shocked at his betrayal, though you understand you probably shouldn’t have been. You’d been predicting this outcome from the beginning, that he was just hedging his bets and getting on your good side until you let your guard down. It appears your heart still bleeds regardless of your logical analysis, and you can’t help the lump that forms in your throat. You really had wanted to believe you two had an unspoken friendship, that regardless of the circumstances, you had his trust. You felt naive that some part of you had fallen for it. That you had invested enough of yourself to him to be hurt by his betrayal.
Your face burns as tears well in your eyes. You shift in your spot, sure the pain is obvious on your features.
“Don’t do that.” He pleads, tone a lot softer than his words. A few empty tentacles reach in your direction to offer comfort.
You don’t take it, your hand covering your mouth as you screw your eyes shut, tears escaping down your cheeks. You sink to your knees in defeat, almost perfectly between the middle of the cell door and your side of the red tape. All of the worry and ache and exhaustion you’ve experienced in the last few weeks involuntarily floods out of you in broken sobs.
Konig’s tentacles writhe as he watches you cry.
After a few moments, you sniff, wiping snot and tears from your nose with your coat sleeve, “Just give it back, please.” You plead at a whisper, stare desperate, “We can pretend this never happened, it can go back to how it was before.” You look up at him, face red and eyes brimmed with tears, “Please.”
It takes him a moment to consider your proposition. He lowered the tentacle holding your badge, but keeps it close to him. His words come out strained.
“You understand why I can’t do that, right?”
A loud sob escapes you at having your words thrown back at you. Without much other choice, you bury your face into your knees.
You cry for the better part of an hour, muffling your sobs into your thighs, curled up in a ball on the concrete.
When you’ve finally regained some composure, you wipe your face for the final time with a sniff.
When you speak again, your voice is forceful but nasally from the congestion of crying. Your head cocks back and you put your palm flush to the concrete, leaning back almost casually to support yourself.
“So what’s the plan?”
He tilts his head at you, and you don’t wait for him to answer before you continue.
“I don’t get the badge until I let you out, right? We both wait, you waiting for me to give in to starvation, and me waiting for someone to come to my rescue before it gets to that point - is that it?” It’s obvious you’re angry with him, words dripping with malice.
He huffs, muscles tensing against his restraints. His eyes narrow at you, tentacles outstretching to fill the space of his cell. You’ve grown accustomed to his bluffing behavioral response and it does little to intimidate you now.
“It doesn’t have to be this way.” He says, appendages curling inwards. “We can work together.”
You give your own huff, breaking eye contact with him. “It’s a little late for that.”
“I tried.” He said firmly, “I tried to do it the right way.”
You think back to your rebuff of his first proposal and groan.
“What choice did I have?” He asks, leaning against his restraints, ropes digging into his arms as the badge lowered to his side, “You wouldn’t have done the same if you were me?”
Your lips purse as you mull it over. Your eyes are still locked on to the floor and another frustrated groan leaves you. You didn’t want to put yourself in his shoes, you just wanted to be mad.
You do what you can to be spiteful with your limited resources, lying to the floor with your back facing him. Your arm is propped under you and your legs curled up. You stare at the cell door, brows pinched as you fume.
Rationally, you know you won’t last long. That you just cried all the hydration out of your body and haven’t been feeding yourself well in the past few weeks, including today. Meanwhile Konig’s been consistently eating full meals with your help and kept his buckets of food and water unemptied and close for him to ration over the coming days. You’re not in the best shape mentally, either, compared to Konig who has absolutely nothing to lose in his position. Even if soldiers bust down the cell door and filled him with lead, would it really be a worse fate than locked and bound in these four concrete walls?
Regardless of your long lists of disadvantages, you’re too upset with him to even consider giving into his demands at the moment.
You stew for hours.
You’ll occasionally adjust in your spot, sitting up to stretch the ache in your muscles before switching to lay on your other side, never facing Konig or even so much as sneaking a glance in his direction. You’re too upset with him to look at him.
Your mind is swirling, thoughts interject thoughts, throwing you new details to fuss over. You’re angry that he stole from you, that he took advantage of your vulnerability, the restlessness he was responsible for. You’re angry that he trapped you in here, imprisoned you even though he knows how awful it feels to be a prisoner. You’re angry that he can stomach sitting back and watching you starve and dehydrate yourself out of spite. You’re angry that he had plotted against you, made you out to be the fool, even if you’d suspected he had been doing so this whole time.
Mostly you’re just upset that you got your hopes up.
Instead of thank yous, your new shared language becomes silence.
You wonder if he can tell the difference. Between the solemn silence, the seething silence, the desolate silence. The thoughtless silences that come after running your mind in circles enough to physically exhaust yourself. The silence that falls on you when you finally shut your eyes, slipping into the comforting arms of unconsciousness.
You wake with a sharp inhale, desperately searching for your precious red tape. It takes you a moment, when you stir, to remember the events of yesterday. Or today, you’re not sure how long you were asleep and you have no way to tell the time.
You had already locked eyes with Konig. His tentacles wriggled and stretched when you looked at him for the first time since his betrayal, but when you see your damned badge on his side of the boundary it comes flooding back to you. An audible groan leaves you as you roll back over to face the wall.
You try to fall back asleep, desperate to escape from reality, but the dryness in your mouth is impossible to ignore.
Your mouth is begging for moisture and your joints are stiff. A dehydration headache had settled behind your eyebrows.
You need water.
You have two options.
Beg Konig to share his water bucket, or let Konig free and you’re free to get your own.
You decide you’ll just rot on the floor, instead.
You close your eyes and try to ignore the sandpaper feeling in your mouth enough to lull yourself back to sleep. You’re mulling over your options for water, and a detail you can’t believe you’d missed makes you sit up to look at Konig for the first time intentionally. Your head had swiveled around quickly, brows lowered in offense, “How do you expect me to get you out of here without giving me my badge back?”
He lets your question hang as his glowing eyes meet yours. His stare is intense, but yours doesn’t falter.
“I asked you a question, Konig. I don’t have anything to free you with. I know you don’t have anything to free yourself with.”
Your words are sharp and dangerous.
“So what’s the plan? You’ll have to give me my badge back to get something to cut you free.”
He looks to the pocket that held your pearl. His plan had one flaw - that he had not accounted for the outline in your pocket you’d reached for whenever you stirred being anything other than a weapon. He was sure you had brought something to defend yourself with if he had attacked you. Something that you could use to cut his restraints once you gave in to your starvation. He miscalculated the amount of trust you’d placed in him and it should have become obvious to him the moment you had looked to the pearl after finding your pockets empty.
He eyes the mounts that hold his restraints, two on the floor to his left and right and one in the ceiling directly above his head, all out of his reach.
“You’ll untie it at the base.” He says definitively.
Your teeth grit as you look to the ceiling, “How do you expect me to get-“ You cut yourself off when you realize what he’s suggesting, “No! No.”
His head tilts down but his stare says on you.
“No. Too far.”
A few of his tentacles curl, “I don’t want to watch you starve.”
“Then give me my badge back, Konig!”
His body tenses at the way you say his name. Coated in wrath and following a harsh demand. Your aggressive volume and fists clenching by your sides trigger his bluff behavior, tentacles stretching to fill the space of his cell.
He says nothing, and your eyes dart around his features before you let out a huff, turning away from him again.
You regretted saying anything to him. You’d wished you’d just swallowed your realization a little longer to mull it over before your compulsive outburst.
You hadn’t had a chance to consider that he would offer to give you a lift. You had been so focused on avoiding his reach that the thought of him wrapping around you and lifting you up in a tentacle was foreign to you. You’re not sure you would have thought of it even if you had taken time to consider it. The idea of getting close to him once he was cut free from his restraints was nerve wracking enough, let alone trusting him enough to hold you steady a story in the air as you free him.
You manage to sit with your spite and dehydration for a few more hours, even sneaking in short nap before you break.
You sit up slowly, head pounding as you prop yourself up with a palm flush to the concrete. You look at him, eyes pleading.
“Konig,” You say, so much softer than the last time you said his name, “I need water.”
His tentacles twitch, but he says nothing, glowing eyes staring you down.
“Please, Konig.” You say, voice broken.
He doesn’t respond, and you can’t help but sob, no tears escaping your dry tear ducts.
Your voice raises in desperation.
“Konig, don’t do this to me!”
He closes his eyes, the glow of his stare disappearing behind black eyelids. A tentacle reaches down to turn on his radio, and he dials the volume up to drown out your pleads.
A heartbroken expression spreads on your features. How could he do this to you? How could he put you in this position, after everything?
Your eye catches the water bucket by his side.
He doesn’t want to give it to you?
He thinks he can make you beg and plead for your lifeblood?
Fine.
You’ll just get the damn water yourself.
Your brows pinch as you check on Konig, who still has his eyes closed to rid the visual of your crying.
Your palms have already sprung yourself forward before your feet catch up to you, having to straighten your upper half as your shoes scrambled for concrete. After light fumbling you quickly pass over the red tape, beelining for the water bucket. You’re running so fast you overshoot, having to extend your leg to skid the sole of your shoe on the floor to slow yourself. Your body lowers to the ground with your extended leg as fingers wrap around the handle of the bucket. You’d looked to Konig, whose glowing eyes had snapped open and darted straight to you at the sound of your shoe skidding and plastic scraping against the concrete as you struggled with the bucket.
You catch a glimpse of his tentacles writhing furiously before starting your dash back to safety. You’re reminded of the heavy weight of the water bucket, stumbling over yourself as you struggle to manage both its heft and your panic at the same time. You’re inches from safety when a tentacle shoots out and loops around your ankle, pulling your leg out from under you when you go to take your final leap over the red tape. Your palms extend to brace the concrete, and while you manage to narrowly avoid hitting your head, you hear an internal rip that makes your stomach turn and a blinding hot pain bracelets around your wrist, stunning you. The bucket had crashed to the ground on its side, water spilling to the floor and soaking your clothes.
“No!” You grit, but you don’t have time to think about the water or your wrist because Konig starts to drag you backwards through the puddle and into the air with the tentacle wrapped firmly around your ankle.
A gasp escapes you and fingers desperately scratch at wet concrete until you’re fully airborne, hanging upside down and clawing for the ground.
You curl up in an attempt to rip his firm grip off your ankle, but your core isn’t strong enough to reach, so you end up just wriggling in his grasp like a fish out of water.
Another meal.
You hear the radio turn off, and your eyes find the ground, partially curtained by the tail of your lab coat. Your soaked shirt has slipped down, revealing your core. Water drips from your soaked clothes and splash onto the concrete. You can tell the ground is a long fall away and when you give up reaching for your ankle, your hands stretch out towards the ground and preemptively brace your fall, injured wrist pulsing as you follow your instincts. Involuntarily squeals are leaving your parted lips as he stills, dangling you so your body is above both of your heads and you’re eye to eye with him as you hang.
You look at him with fear swelling in your eyes. You’ve never seen him up close before like this, even if upside down. You’re inches from the hood that covers his face, glowing eyes reflecting off yours. You still, free limbs falling in line with gravity as you stare into his narrowed gaze with wide eyes. Your headache is severely exacerbated by hanging upside down, feeling your own pulse in your head as the blood drains to it.
When he speaks, his voice is low and dangerous, and he gives you a slight shake with his tentacle for emphasis.
“I think it’s time for you to let me out.”
His growled yet arrogant words send a chill up your spine. Reminded you the being you’ve come to feel so much for was still a monster.
He’s left no room for argument. He’s given you plenty of chances to let you make the choice yourself, and yet you resisted. You had opted for the hard way, and you had left him no choice.
Release him, or suffer a sudden and unfortunate accident.
“Okay! Okay!” You squeak out with a slight flail, hoping it pleases him enough to prevent him from slamming you as hard as he can into the concrete.
You still again, slowly holding your hands up, palms showing. You calmly let out one more, “Okay.”
His head tilts backwards slightly, silently keeping your stare.
“Can I at least be upside-right? Please?” You squeak out, heart racing intensely enough you can hear it in your ears.
He lets you dangle for a few more moments before a tentacle curls around your waist. Instead of using the end of his tentacle like the one around your ankle, he had secured around your bare waist with the middle part of another appendage, the thicker grip giving him a sturdier hold on you. You think this must what it be like to be in the hold of a boa constrictor, trapping you and reminding you of its strength but not yet squeezing the breath from you.
He slowly flips you upside right, but keeps your flushed face inches from his. Your feet are only a few feet from the floor now, but you don’t bother trying to remove the tentacle on your waist. You’re well aware of his strength and you can feel his grip threatening to tighten around you. You won’t stand a chance against even one of his appendages, let alone all the others at attention behind him.
He takes his time looking you over, watching your eyes flick nervously between him, the tentacle firmly coiled around your waist, and the floor beneath you. Your mouth was stretched in fear and unease, breath hitched. You weren’t flailing anymore, but your feet did still mindlessly search for foundation and your hands had gripped on to his slick tentacle in an attempt to steady yourself.
He gives a huff before moving you through the air again. He goes slow, extending you out to the wall to his right. He has to pass you off to the end of another tentacle in order to use his full reach. You can’t help but feel felt up as he wraps and curls around you to keep you steady in the air.
He has to lay you almost diagonally with your head tilted towards the floor to get you close enough to the mount that tied off his binds. He uses some extra appendages to secure around your lower thighs and hips.
You let out a few breathy expletives as he adjusts you, grabbing and moving you against your will through the air.
You had to reach your arms out in a full extend, and even then the cool metal of the mount is just barely grazing your fingertips.
You wriggle in his grip, swiping at the post, grunting as you do so. He does his best to use the very end of his appendages to hold you in order to get you closer.
“Got it.” You say breathily as your hand grabs the mount. You give a light huff as you try and pull yourself closer, but Konig is extended his full range and instead you yank against his tentacles.
The knot of his ropes are tight around the loops of the metal post. You’re not sure if you’ll even be able to untie them with just your fingernails, but you don’t think Konig will accept an excuse.
He’s not hurting you, but his grip is definitively still tight, putting an uncomfortable pressure on your ribs. Had your clothes not already been soaked with water he would have left stains on your lab coat from the slick of his tentacles.
Your hands shake violently as you fuss with the knot. You’re forced to stretch, already sore muscles aching as you overextend them. Involuntary grunts escape through your gritted teeth as you dig at the knot, feet kicking as if you’re trying to swim closer to it. You try for minutes, but the knot is way too tight for you to even get a fingernail into. It doesn’t help that you’re being suspended, squished, and held at an angle, and your hands are soaked with water and Konig’s slick. You think your wrist is most definitely sprained, possibly broken, judging by the sharp decline in dexterity and searing pain that’s impossible to ignore as you fidget with the ropes.
The panic bubbles quickly, fingers scratching desperately at all of the loops of rope. You’re pleading under your breath for one of them to loosen, loosen just enough you can slip a finger in - but it doesn’t budge. One of your nails snap as you force it against a crease in the taught knot.
You’re guessing every time Konig has ever pulled against or leaned on the restraints it only forced the knot tighter, and with how long he’s been in this cell the rope has fused together with friction and time.
The panic isn’t on your side, causing you to thrash at the ropes and undo whatever insignificant progress you had made. Your whines would be matched with tears of irritation and fear if you had any water left in you.
“Konig?” You sob, “I can’t do it! I’m trying, really - the knot’s too tight!” You give the knot another frustrated claw with your broken nail, “I need a knife, scissors, something!”
You sigh and go limp, arms and top half dangling as his tentacles support you.
“Just kill me,” You whisper through your dry throat, eyes screwed shut and voice cracking.
You pause, and when you speak again your voice is quiet in defeat, but still holds an edge of malice, “Just do it and get it over with, hopefully the next feeder will be smart enough to bring a weapon.”
You’re still facing the wall, but you can feel his tentacles tense around your middle and lower limbs.
You both still, aside from the involuntarily and uneven heaving of your chest as you sob and wait for death.
All the appendages wrapped around you pull you closer to him. Two additional tentacles move to coil around your upper arms, and he tilts you so you’re upright instead of diagonal. You stay limp, feet and sprained wrist dangling. You let him move your body like a marionette, with your head tilted all the way forward and hair obscuring parts of your face.
He stops when you’re right in front of him again, you would be eye to eye if your chin hadn’t been pressed to your chest, feet only a few feet from the ground.
He holds you steady.
Considering how he wants to kill you, probably. Drag it out a little perhaps? Get a little torture in before he does it maybe?
Maybe your kindness will have not been for nothing, maybe he’s thinking about all the food and gifts and thank yous and he’ll repay you by making it quick. One swift snap of the neck or extra hard hit to the concrete, maybe.
He doesn’t do either.
He slowly lowers you to the ground. When your feet touch the floor and they don’t move to support your weight, he lifts you up an inch and comes in a second time at an angle, gently lying you on the ground so you’re flush with the concrete. His tentacles gently release from you and retract to his sides. Your badge gets placed gently on your stomach, and then all of his tentacles are off of you.
You don’t rush for the badge or the exit. You had already given up, and you weren’t about to give up on giving up, too. Your ass backwards way of maintaining some scrap of dignity.
You continue to lay limp on the floor, ignoring the badge he’d returned to you and keeping your eyes closed, tearlessly crying.
You’re not sure how long you lay on the floor, waiting for him to change his mind and kill you.
You think maybe he wants a challenge, maybe he likes a hunt. Or maybe he just wants to look you in the eyes while he does it.
So once your sobs subside you slowly sit up, your red and puffy eyes staring into his glowing eyes. His whole body is tensed, but he keeps all of his appendages close to him as they curl and twist alluringly.
You’re slouched as you stand, arms hung in front of you before you shift sloppily on your shoes, badge hitting the floor as it falls from your stomach.
You cock your head back to look at him and lick your chapped lips before giving a broken hum. You hold your arms out on either of your sides, as if inviting him to a fight, but you’re weak from dehydration, starvation, and your injury, so your movements are slowed.
You don’t speak, but your face reads Come on, kill me! What are you waiting for?!
He just stares at you, a look you’re unable to decipher from under his hood. His tentacles are writhing, but he keeps them close to his body, even if your stance is aggressive.
You let out a huff and roll your eyes, breaking the stare off. You walk over to his food bucket and empty out its contents onto the floor before stepping over to water bucket, shoes splashing in the puddle it sat in. You stack both buckets so you can carry them with one hand, before doubling back and swiping your badge off the floor with your broken nail, not so much as looking at Konig before you exit the cell.
Your first stop is to the bathroom, where you shed your lab coat, its thick fabric still wet.
You bend your aching muscles to awkwardly crane your head underneath the faucet, gulping down the streaming water. The sweet, precious water. Bathroom sink tap water has never tasted so good.
You’re drinking so fast you don’t even stop for breath. When you pull away, chin dripping and face puffy, you’re gasping for air. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the mirror behind the sink you had drank from.
Your hair was disheveled from being dragged and hung in the air, face puffy and swollen from crying, and skin showing your dehydration. Clothes soaked from the water bucket and Konig’s slick, face still dripping as you breathe deep.
You take a few more sips from the sink for good measure before turning the faucet off with force. You drape your coat over your injured arm and grab the buckets with the other before you march out of the bathroom and straight to your supervisor’s office.
Oh, the speech you were going to give him was going to be therapeutic. You are planning on letting him have it, telling him to post your position because you’re done, and then you’re going to tell him where he can shove his buckets.
You open his door hard enough the doorknob slams into the wall and bounces back with a shake, but his office is empty, and you let out another groan at the discovery through gritted teeth.
You go back to the lab, gather your things and leave, regardless of the time. You’re caught off guard when you get to the nearest window and see the dark sky. Nighttime.
You cry the entire ride home, not yet ready to process the events but stuck with an overwhelming feeling of dread and exhaustion in the pit of your stomach.
Your wrist was red and swollen and the movements of your steering wheel turned the pain to a cruel pulsing throb.
Once back in your home, you think about a list of things to do to take care of yourself, but opt for wrapping your wrist and popping a few over-the-counter pain relief pills while finishing a bottle of water at the same time. You crawl into bed and pass out without even getting under the covers.
—————————————————————-
You hadn’t set an alarm, so you wake to a tentacle-ridden nightmare with a sharp gasp. You jolt to a sit, wincing when you feel the searing hot pain that bracelets around the sprained wrist you’d used to support yourself.
You get your weight off of it, holding your wrapped arm in front of your face. It triggers the memories of Konig tripping you and your wrist hitting the concrete. Of him dragging you across the concrete floor by your ankle. Holding you prisoner. Starving you. Making you cry. Betraying you.
Threatening your life and then sparing it.
Had it all just been another one of his bluffs? Had he known from the beginning he wouldn’t be able to follow through with his plan, or did he change his mind about killing you once you’d pathetically given up, going limp in his tentacles?
When had he changed his mind?
Somewhere between the first day when he threw that bucket at your head and the moment he’d laid your limp body down on the ground he had changed his mind about killing you, that you knew.
He wasn’t just a mindless programmed weapon, he was capable of some amount mercy. Control.
Unless he knew that if he had killed you, he wouldn’t have been able to get his varied meals and water buckets. Maybe he had kept you alive as just another means to an end.
But he had kept you alive, that was understood.
You close your eyes, falling back onto your mattress. You’d been thinking about Konig non-stop these past few weeks. Obsessing, even. It was exhausting, him and you and both of your mortalities and the constant threat haunting you in and out of your dreams.
You decided you weren’t going to think about him now, that for the sake of your own sanity you needed to focus on yourself.
You treat yourself to a full breakfast for the first time in awhile, topping it off with more pain reliever and water. A long shower eases your aching muscles, but the one-handedness makes it awkward to bathe yourself.
You put on loungewear after you towel off and reapply your wrist wrap, in need of the extra comfort. You leave your dirty lab coat at home before you head back to the office, still in your lounge clothes. You won’t be there long, you decide. You’re going to tell your supervisor what happened, chew him out a little bit, and then let him know he’ll need someone to feed Konig while you take time off to heal and process.
You stop by the lab to pick up your buckets before heading straight to your supervisors office.
You open his office door without knocking and when his eyes meet yours his brows furrow as he gives your clothes a scan.
“I’m going to need some time off,” You say firmly, gesturing to your wrapped arm.
“What happened?” He says, brow quirking.
You laugh, “What happened? What happened?” You use your uninjured hand to shove the buckets to the ground forcefully, your tone dangerous, “Is that I accepted this shitty job offer in the first place. What were you thinking?”
He’s sweating now, eyes wide with shock as you raise your voice to him.
You continue, “You saddled me with feeding him. You gambled with my life.” Your tone goes from angry to quiet and stern, “He almost killed me.” Your gaze flicks to between each of his nervous eyes.
He sputters, “What- What do you mean? What happened?”
“He stole my badge and trapped me in that cell with him! He starved me! NONE of you came for me, NONE of you checked on me.” Your animated tone lowers to one of cold malice, “You saddled me with a deadly job and then left me to die. Not a single reinforcement.”
“How did he steal your badge?” He asks, face stretched in confusion.
You hesitate, “I-“ You cut yourself off. You can’t tell him you fell asleep in there. Because then you’d have to tell him about how you had fallen asleep waiting for him to empty his bucket. The bucket he wasn’t supposed to have. The loitering you were instructed not to do. The conversations you were forbidden from having. The unauthorized tape crossing.
“It doesn’t matter! I’m-“ You’re frazzled now, face reddening, “I’m leaving! Just make sure someone feeds him!” You fumble for the doorknob, leaving him with a bewildered expression and two colorful buckets.
“Are you quitting?!” He yells out after you’re already down the hall.
“Yes! No! I mean - maybe! I’ll let you know!”
You take three days off to take it easy, catch up on sleep, and ice your injuries. It’s been awhile since you’ve been able to relax, just getting lost in a mindless TV show and forgetting your worries for awhile. You didn’t want to think about Konig, it was too painful, but your thoughts kept leading you to him and you had to often remind yourself that you were supposed to be taking a break from him.
After three days, you’ve managed to steady yourself enough to get back to your research. The work had piled up during your stint as a feeder and you thought your normal work would be a good distraction.
The first time your supervisor catches a glimpse of you, he does a double take through the circular glass pane of the lab’s swinging doors before he enters.
He says your name, surprised but still cheerful, “It’s good to see you! Lab coat and all.” He lowers his voice, “I, uh, I didn’t think you’d be back.”
You don’t say anything, attention still to your work.
He clears his throat before continuing, “How’s your wrist?”
“Still sprained,” You say dryly, still not turning to him.
He sputters a bit, “Hope you feel better soon, uh.” He clears his throat again, “You’ll be happy to hear that,” he trails off for a moment before continuing, “It’s being put down.”
Your eyes finally find him, darting over quickly as you set down your notes.
“What’s being put down?”
“The creature.” He says with a smile, as if he’s offering his saving grace.
“No!” Leaves you involuntarily. The wrist with the bandage finds your heart as you stand, shaking your head at your supervisor, “You can’t do that!”
His brows pinch, “What do you mean? I thought you’d be happy about this. He tried to kill you.”
“No, if he tried to kill me I’d be dead, he almost killed me, he spared me!”
Your supervisor steps closer you, holding his palms up in a weak attempt to calm you. You back away from him with each step he takes, still shaking your head.
“He hurt you!”
“That was an accident!” You say, angrily. The edge in your tone causes him to still his stride. You don’t usually speak to him like this.
He says your name again, voice soft and eyes full of pity, “He put your replacement in the hospital.”
Your face goes slack as you look at him with wide eyes, shaking your head slowly, “No!”
He says your name again, “Yes. Listen, I see this has left you on edge. Maybe you should take some more time off, no problem. We can even get you in touch with a counselor specialized in war trauma.”
“No, listen to me, you can’t kill him!”
“How many more sudden and unfortunate accidents do you think we can continue reporting before the wrong person starts asking questions?!” His voice has lost his pity, obviously frustrated with your disapproval.
“You can’t be mad at a wasp for stinging when you whack its nest, can you?! He was made for that purpose!”
He raises his voice, stern enough it stuns you, “And what do you expect us to do with a monster made for the purpose of killing? Let it out into the public? Let it rot in a jail cell while we keep feeding him our employees?!”
“He didn’t kill me!” You say exasperatedly, “He didn’t kill me because you guys are starving him! You’re not feeding him enough. That’s enough to make any man kill.”
“Why are you sympathizing with it? It’s a monster!”
You look at him with squinted eyes and mouth parted in disgust, “He’s not a monster! He’s-“ You cut yourself off.
Your supervisor lowers his head in your direction and crosses his arms over his chest. “Go on.” He says.
You put your palms together gently in front of you, careful not to bend your injured wrist. A sigh leaves you.
“Look, I’ve been doing research on him, okay? He’s rather remarkable and he’s surprised me more time than I can count.”
He scoffs, “I’m sure it has.”
Your eyes screw shut for a moment as you groan in frustration, “No! I mean, sure, he is a miraculous biowarfare weapon equipped with superior predator features, that’s a given, but in addition to that he’s an intelligent creature capable of independent thought! He is capable of being kind and showing mercy. You don’t understand!”
He cocks a brow at you and sighs, “I guess I don’t.” He reaches out, as if he’s going to put a hand on your shoulder to comfort you, but stops himself. “Look, it’s been a rough week for everyone here, okay? Why don’t you take some more time off and we’ll take care of things here.”
You realized there was going to be no getting through to him. That there would be no way to get him to see that Konig was an intelligent being capable of restraint, that he had no say in his creation as a weapon, that he was misunderstood due to the weight of being a prisoner, and that even the worst behaving prisoner deserved not to starve.
“You’re still going to kill him, aren’t you?” You say, more of a statement than a question.
He doesn’t say a word, pity still flooding his stare. He turns slowly, stopping once he’s got the lab door ajar at his finger tips,“I’ll see you when you’re feeling better.” He slips out, and you watch the lab door swing to a still as you swallow his words.
It doesn’t matter how you feel about Konig right now, all of your complex feelings have been pushed to the side. They can’t kill him, he doesn’t deserve that fate, that’s for sure. You can’t hold a being prisoner, underfeed him, and then expect him not to act on his primal urges. Not even a human would pass that test.
That and the idea of him disappearing from your life permanently is enough to make your heart pound and your head spin, having to press your uninjured hand to your forehead to wipe away your sweat.
This is your fault, you’re thinking. That if you hadn’t let a substitute go in there after you left things so messy with him maybe this fate would have been spared.
No, no. You can’t afford to think like that. You can’t afford to blame yourself for his actions.
But your actions could save his life.
“Yes,” you say, out loud frantically to yourself at your own idea, “Yes!”
You’re searching the lab, pulling open cabinets hard enough they slam against their holds, leaving their doors open as you dig out their contents and leave them scattered on the floor.
You find what you’re looking for, the sharpest object you could think of in the lab, a scalpel.
You had grabbed the entire dissecting kit with the firm grip of your uninjured hand, finding a sprint as soon as it’s in your grasp. As you run you lay your injured arm across your chest, setting the pouch on top of it like a makeshift table as you pry the zipper open and dig for the scalpel. Your feet are hitting the tile hard and each step jostles your injured wrist but you’re not sure how much time you have.
You have the horrible thought that it might be too late, that when you get there you’ll find an empty cell and you’ll never have the chance to say goodbye, I’m sorry, or thank you again. The lump in your throat and the prick of tears in your eyes makes you stumble, and you use the opportunity to slow to find the scalpel, pulling it from the hold of the pouch through blurry vision. You let the pouch slide off your bandaged arm and crash to the hall floor, returning to your quick pace, damned be lab rules of running with sharp instruments.
You slam your badge into the receiver in a panic, the tears already threatening to spill over at the thought of never seeing Konig again. The scalpel scratches against your badge and when the alarm sounds, you’re looking frantically down the halls to see if anyone is going to try and stop you. When you pry open the heavy metal door enough you stumble into his cell.
He’s still in there, alive, and your tears quickly turn to that of relief.
You’re don’t hesitate, crossing the red tape and closing the distance between you, scalpel in hand.
His tentacles are at a bluff, writhing and fully extended as you dash at him. You realize that sprinting at him full speed with a weapon after the way you left things was probably not the best way to approach the situation.
“Konig!” You say, out of breath and slowing to turn your direction towards the ropes instead of him. You waste no time scraping the scalpel against the taught restraint with your uninjured hand, “We got'ta get you out of here - they’re going to kill you!” The tears are flowing down your cheeks again. You’re not sure if it’s the panic, your upset feelings of him bubbling up at seeing him, or the thought of him being killed.
“We gotta get out of here, we have to go!”
You struggle through the first rope, handicapped by your injury and fraying it in multiple spots as your hand shakes. The scalpel slices all the way through, and the rope snaps back, the loops around Konig’s bicep releasing in large coils.
You make a dash for the rope restraining his other arm, out of breath and tears blurring your vision. Your hands shake as your uninjured hand slices the ropes, unable to grip the restraint with your other hand. You fumble it for moment, panic slowing you down. Something grazes your hand and you flinch, but relax when you see Konig’s tentacle gently tapping your palm. He flips it sucker up, offering to take the scalpel from you.
“Oh, yeah.” You say, a dizzy heat creeping up your cheeks. You hand him the scalpel, blade facing your chest so the end of his appendage can safely coil around it.
He takes slices precisely through one of the indents you started in the rope with ease.
You can’t help the awe as you watch him, mouth slightly part as your eyes follow the tentacle slice through the rope securing his wrists to the ceiling. You take a step back, hands slightly braced at your sides.
His free tentacles are curling and writhing in excitement as he gets the final swipe through his restraints, the slack releasing and dropping to the ground in loops. Once fully unrestrained, he takes his time stretching his muscles, eyes closed and small grunts leaving his lips as his tentacles move in synchronization with his movements. He rubs out the red and irritated lines the ropes left behind on his arms.
You’re still in awe as you watch him, eyes wide and slack jawed. You hadn’t given yourself time to prepare for being in a the same room as a fully unrestrained superbeing designed for killing.
Had he just been being nice to you for his own benefit, you’re thinking this would be the time for him to kill you.
Once he’s done working out his muscles, he steps over to you slowly, eyes not leaving you as his boots make their commanding presence known on the concrete.
“Oh, I-“ You cut yourself off, looking to the side as you take a few steps back. Your palms are out, and you’re thinking maybe you should have thought this through a bit more.
He says nothing, his glowing gaze boring into you as he closes the gap, leaving only inches between you two.
The nerves are apparent on your face as you stare up at him, having to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. He frame towered over you and his tentacles curled behind him alluringly. You flinched when the end of a tentacle came up to brush your cheek, leaving behind a small line of clear slick.
“Thank you.” He says, and for once you know what he means.
“Thank you.” You respond with a shaky voice, eyes flicking around his features nervously.
“Are you ready?” He says, nodding to your badge.
You’d forgotten he’s being hunted. Your unease of him is overtaken by the panic to save him.
“Yes, yes! We should hurry.” You say, starting a sprint for the door, but a tentacle loops firmly around your waist and lifts you up, your feet still searching for floor. Another tentacles comes underneath you like a swing, allowing you to place to weight on it. You can’t help but let out a few nervous squeaks as you’re adjusted in the air. Once you get your bearings you he puts you close to his back, letting your head sit next to his so you’re looking over his shoulder. You’re in a nest of slick tentacles, securing around you to keep you steady, and you’re reminded of the nightmares you’d experienced with a sea of tentacles swallowing you whole.
One appendage is offered to your injured wrist so you could rest it. He does all of this without looking at you, his focus on carrying your through the cell.
He stills and a tentacle reaches out, sucker up, and it takes you a moment to understand he’s asking for your badge. You give a nervous laugh when you realize, pulling it from your neck and ruffling your hair with the lanyard as you do. His tentacle curls around the badge and it disappears from your view.
You hear the grating alarm and the clunk of the lock. Two tentacles return instead of one, opening the lanyard of the badge to place it gently around your neck so you don’t have to. He simultaneously gets the door you struggled so much with opened with ease, and he’s careful as he gets both of you through the doorway.
“Which way?” He whispers through his harsh voice.
You point over his shoulder so he can see your arm from behind him. “That way, I need to grab my keys.”
As soon as he’s starts moving you realize why he didn’t let you run. He’s scarily fast, moving efficiently through the hallways as his tentacles allow him lengthier strides. You’re mesmerized by the way they shoot out, using the walls, floor, and ceiling to support himself as he moves. It’s like something from a horror movie, you think, and you can’t help imagine the fear a victim would feel being charged at like this.
“In here!” You point to the swinging doors of the lab. He’s got you smoothly inside, careful to make sure the doors don’t hit you on the recoil. His tentacles place you down gently, ensuring your feet are steady on the tile before removing his support.
You’re quick once on your feet, running to one of the undisturbed cabinets and shoving your stuff into your lab coat pockets with your good hand before dashing back to him.
“Okay, let’s go!”
But he doesn’t move, because some papers strewn on the lab table had caught his attention. He picks up a piece of paper with his hands and holds it up. The light shining through the page lets you see ink of a sketch you did of him during your obsessive research.
“Oh, that- yeah, that’s, uhm.” You purse your lips together and squint, trying to find an ending to the sentence you hastily started, “Hard to explain.”
He sets it down gently, using his hands to sift through a few more sketches of himself, anatomy labeled and fully detailed. Separate sketches of just the close details of his tentacles. Theories to what’s under his hood and his skeletal structure. His eyes scan over more pages and he find logs of your interactions, his diet, body language.
You laugh nervously, flush creeping up your neck as your eyes dart to the side.
“We should go.” You say, less urgent and more breathy than you meant it to.
He looks at you, glowing eyes piercing into you and you’re not sure how to decipher his stare.
He doesn’t say what he’s thinking, stacking the papers together and rolling them up in a way not to crease them. He tucks them into the waist band of his pants as he wordlessly returns you to your spot on his shoulder as he takes you from the lab.
“Which way?” He says once you’re both in the hallway, but a screams echoes from behind you, and you both whip around to look.
“Go, go, go!” Your hands frantically tap his shoulders to emphasize your words after meeting the horrified stare of a coworker, who had turned quickly on her heels to flee from you two.
He starts to sprint towards the person running from him and you tap his shoulders more forcefully, “No, the other way! Away from people!”
He gives a single nod, grunting in response as he turns on his heels and heads the opposite direction.
There were workers at the end of this hall, too. Three of them, and you can see your supervisor as he rips his attention away from the conversation he was having and turns to the mass in the corner of his eye.
He stumbled backwards, and the others turn to gawk too, screaming and fleeing from you both in a panic. You supervisor had froze, pressing his body against the wall as his shock and horror melds with confusion when he made eye contact with you, perched on Konig’s shoulder.
He shouts your name in panic, eyes searching frantically for aid.
As you Konig tentacles reach out to the halls to quickly pass him, you put one finger up on your good hand. “Don’t forget this!” You say cheerfully.
The dumbfounded and offended look on his face leaves you with an overjoyed smile as you turn back around to rest your arms back on Konig’s shoulder, lower half still supported by his tentacles.
“The stairs are through that door.” You say, leaning forward on his bare shoulder to point.
You both stop in your tracks at the sound of a blaring alarm, much more shrill than the one of his cell. It’s deafening, shrilling through the entire building. There’s bright emergency lights that reflect off the walls from the lockdown sirens.
He looks to you, and instead of yelling over the loud alarm you just point to the doors to the stairs and tap his shoulder frantically again, hoping your urgency translates.
It does, and he continues through the halls, tentacles clearing his strides and pushing open the door to the stairs. The alarm can still be heard, but you’re farther away from the speakers and it’s easier to hear the chorus of heavy footsteps echoing up the stairwell. You grip tightens on Konig’s shoulder, a nervous squeak escapes you.
You both lean over hand rail to see the commotion below, and you can make out flashes of tactical gear and weapons of dozens of soldiers moving in a group up the stairs.
Your eyes widen and you look to him nervously, unsure of your next move.
You really did not think this through.
It’s hard to tell with his hood, but he seems unnerved. He watches carefully over the stairs, and you’re tapping him quickly, silently pleading with him to keep moving to search for another way out.
A free tentacle reaches out to rest on your palm, leaving behind a slick and letting you know that he’s got this. You swallow and let your hand lay on his shoulder. You can’t help the way your fingers dig in to his firm shoulder.
The soldiers are close enough you can hear their voices below you. You screw your eyes shut, trying to search for your trust in Konig and hoping this hasn’t just turned into a suicide mission.
The soldiers are almost in your view when Konig’s tentacles moves you both to the gap in the middle of the stairwell that drops all the way to the ground floor. He’s got you both suspended in the air, his grip on you tight, with tentacles laced onto either side of the handrails of the floor you’re on.
He releases the rails he had held in his tentacles for support, letting you both free fall past the soldiers and down to the ground floor in a blur, catching you both with his tentacles against the bottom floor hand rails.
Expletives leave you without thought, and he turns his head to you to check on you as he exits the stairwell, now on the ground floor.
The alarm is defeating again, so you resort back to using the taps and points to direct him out of the building.
He freezes when the sun hits him, having to hold a tentacle up to shade his eyes.
Does he even remember the last time he saw the sun?
It takes him a moment to steady himself.
“My car’s over there!” You point once he’s steady.
You can hear yelling from the building behind you, the lockdown drill still blaring.
Once you’re at your car he sets you down, and you race to fling the driver door open, fingers fumbling as you start the engine.
He opts for the backseat, and you think it’s a bit odd before you consider the need for him to have room on both sides of him. He’s forced to hunch over in the middle seat, his head is pressed up against the ceiling. His tentacles had spread to the trunk, the front seats, pressed against the windows and coiled up on the seats next to him to get them all to fit. He’s blocking your view of the rear windshield window but you can make it work, you think.
You throw your car in reverse, using just the side mirrors to guide yourself out of your parking spot. You can see the building doors burst open, soldiers pouring from the building. One points to your car.
“Shit, shit, shit!” You say, pressing on the gas, tires squealing as you exit the parking lot.
You hang a skidding right and shoot for twenty over the speed limit, but get slowed by traffic.
“C’mon…” You say to the car preventing you from speeding as you nervously eye your rear view, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. You drive with just one hand, your bandaged arm resting in your lap.
You get a glimpse of a familiar military vehicle in your sideview and you squeal, “OhfuckOhfuckOhfuck.”
The gas pedal slips out from under you and you slide your knees over to glance down in a panic before your eyes return to the road.
You weren’t going fast enough for Konig’s liking, apparently, because his tentacle had stole the pedal from you, pressing it to its full extend against the floor mats. The engine roars as it struggles to keep up, and you have to used your injured hand to steady the steering wheel as you swerve off the road to desperately navigate the other cars.
Your foot desperatly searches for the break, but another tentacle shoots out from your left, coiling around the metal that held the brake pedal and holds it firmly in place. You tried to push it down with all your might, but you were no match for his strength, as if you were trying to crack a boulder with just one foot.
He doesn’t let you use your arm for long, two tentacles coming in to take the steering wheel from you. Your engine is roaring and your eyes find the odometer, you’re going 40 over and climbing.
He coils a few tentacles around you and your seat for good measure, bracing your head and core in the event of a crash.
The expletives are falling from your lips without thought. You’re going well over 100mph now, never having gone this fast in your car before.
“Konig, slow down!”
He’s navigating with ease but too many close calls makes you screw your eyes shut to brace yourself.
He finally lets up once you two are out sight of the soldiers tailing you, letting off the pedal and offering you back control of the wheel.
It takes a few deep breaths and expletives before you take the wheel from him, leaning forward once his tentacles release you.
“Don’t!” Sharp inhale, “Ever do that again!” You say, heart pounding in your chest as you nervously eye the sideview mirrors for signs of trouble.
“I didn’t want them to catch us.” He says evenly. There’s a pause, and you catch each other’s eyes in the rearview mirror in between checks of the road.
“I’m sorry if I scared you.” He says with a flick of his tentacle.
You take a few more deep breaths, wiping away the clear stick Konig had left behind on your forehead, “Well, we didn’t crash.” You’ve regained the wheel and find your groove going twenty over.
“I don’t know where to take us.”
“You don’t have a home?” He asks.
“I do, but they have my address in my employee files. It won’t take long for my place to be flooded with soldiers looking for you.” You say, briefly holding the wheel with your bandaged hand so you can put on your indicator to change lanes, sprained wrist returning to your lap.
Silence falls on you both mull it over. You keep driving, wanting to put as much distance between his capturers as possible.
The tentacle stretched in the passenger seat moves close to your bandages, “What happened?” He asks, voice low.
“Oh, uh,” You keep your eyes on the road. You had assumed he would have been aware of what he did to you. It made sense he didn’t realize it happened when it did, his attention elsewhere at the time.
You debate telling him in your head, but decide it’s best to be honest with him, “My wrist sprained when it hit the concrete. When I uh, tripped.”
You swallow hard, glancing at him in the rearview. He’s leaning forward between the two seats, his head close to yours.
“I did that to you?” He asks with a tense frame.
You look at him again briefly before your eyes find the road. “It happened so fast. Neither of us were thinking properly.”
He leans back in his seat, still having to hunch over to fit under the car’s roof. The tentacle outstretched to you retracts to the back seat with him.
Another silence falls over you both as he digests the new information.
“I’m sorry.” He says, voice strained, “I never wanted to hurt you.”
You glance at him in the mirror again, his eyes are turned to his boots. “It’s okay.” You offer a weak smile, even if he can’t see it. “I would have done the same, remember?”
He doesn’t say anything, but he gives a slow shake of the head, and in between checks of the road you can see the fabric of his hood rippling with his movements.
You continue down the highway in silence, keeping your eyes on the stretch of road ahead of you. You drive until the sun sets, making stops for gas only when the station is empty, quickly filling your tank in fear someone will spot the ultimate creation of biowarfare resting in your back seat.
You see a sign for a motel and you decide you’ve covered enough ground today.
“Ready to stop? We can rest for the night here. Give you a chance to stretch out in privacy.”
He hums, but ignores the question, attention directed out the window and over the horizon, “I forgot how beautiful the sunset is.”
It catches you off guard, the sweet words whispered in awe from his intimidating frame.
Your eyes find the clouds reflecting the orange of the sun’s warmth. The bright colors gradually shift to the calm blue of dusk as the sky stretches on. Some of the brighter stars of the night sky are already making an appearance on the other end of the sky.
“It is beautiful tonight.” You say.
A small smile creeps on your features, finally feeling anything other than regret and worry about your impulsive decision to free him. Maybe the hasty ruining of your life and being forced to live on the run was all worth it, because now Konig gets to see the sunset again.
You pull into the parking lot of the motel, pulling out your wallet as you speak, “Stay out here and try to lay low. I’ll get us a room.”
You leave the engine running for him as you handle things at the front desk. The motel was as shady as it looked, not requiring your ID and accepting cash for payment.
Perfect. Untraceable, that’s what you needed. The man in the white stained undershirt doesn’t even give you a second look when he hands over the room key.
You turn your head both ways to scan the parking lot before preemptively unlocking the door to your room. You return to the car with an awkward jog, opening the driver side door to gather anything you’d need.
“We should be good. Just move quick.” You say, closing the driver door behind you.
You watch as he gets out, tentacles pouring out of the car one after another.
He doesn’t seem to be in as much of a rush as you, taking a moment to stretch out his back with a pop.
You’d gotten a head start to the motel room, but he still catches up before you reach the door, opening it for him so he can get all of his appendages inside. You nervously peek out to the parking lot one last time to make sure no one saw you two, closing and locking the door behind you before securing the blinds shut.
“Okay, we should be safe.” You say as you move to pull the sheets up on the mattresses to check for bed bugs.
The room is as dingy as you expected it to be. Peeling wallpaper stained with years of cigarette smoke. Outdated decor and furniture. Stained and faded carpets. An old box television perched on a dresser facing the two queen beds.
“No bugs.” You announce once you’ve thoroughly checked both mattresses. You look to Konig, who’s standing in the doorway of the tiny bathroom, eyeing up what you assume is the shower. You hear the water turn on in a spray against the shower’s porcelain followed by the sound of a belt jiggling.
Your brow quirks as you kick off your shoes and shed your lab coat, stretching your sore back as you settle in on one of the mattresses.
He starts a shower and you can’t help but picture him soaking his tentacles and sore body through the wall of the motel room. He left the door open, and some sinful part of you thinks about peeking.
You don’t, forcing your attention to the TV. You mindlessly flipped through channels with the remote, thoughts lingering on Konig showering. You settle on reruns of a lighthearted show.
You hear the shower turn off with a hearty thud of its noisy pipes. Some more time passes, and you can see flicks of corners of a white motel towel from the doorway.
The jingle of his belt makes an encore, and after a few more moments he reappears, turning the light off for the bathroom with a free tentacle. Another continues to works the towel, dabbing off stray water beads from his skin.
Your cheeks flush, and you catch his wet muscles flexing from the corner of your eye as he makes his way to the other mattress, laying down on his front with a relieved huff. His tentacles relax as well, draping themselves on the duvet and hanging off the sides, the ends lazily flicking and curling as they dangle.
You both sit silently for awhile, forcing your attention towards the TV set while you watch his tentacles curl alluringly in your peripherals. You’ve settled into your spots on your respective beds, trying to find some respite after such a stressful day.
He breaks the silence first.
“I will never forget your kindness.”
“Oh,” You start, heat still flushing your features but keeping your stare towards the television, “It’s nothing.”
“You sacrificed everything to save my life.” He says definitively, “Even after what I did to you.” His eyes linger on your bandages.
“It just seemed like the right thing to do.” You shrug, your eyes finally meeting his. “I was really only at that job for the paycheck.” You pause again, fingers fidgeting with the TV remote, “The guilt was starting to weigh on me anyway. Better to live honestly and on the run than settled-in but trapped, right?”
His glowing eyes stare into yours as he considers your words.
He nods slowly, tentacles twitching and curling.
You give him a cheeky smile and a point, “But no more killing people, okay? I’m responsible for your actions from here on out.”
He huffs in amusement, lifting up one tentacle in the air as if giving an oath, “I promise.”
He stirs suddenly, as if he had remembered something.
“I have something for you,” he says as he sits up, reaching into his pants pocket. You quirk your brow as he stands, closing the gap between your beds and as he presents his fist to you. He towers over you, even more so from your spot sitting slouched on the bed.
You look at him with intrigue, cupping your hand underneath his, “It’s not a bug, is it?”
He laughs, and it’s the first laugh you’ve heard from him aside from the wicked laugh from that first day you met him, the laugh that raised the hairs on your neck and haunted your dreams. This one’s different, softer and playful. It makes your chest warm and you can’t help the goofy smile you give in return.
“No, it’s not a bug.”
He lets the small item drop into your palm and your brows scrunch as you study it.
Your pearl!
You let out a quiet gasp, eyes darting to him once you understand. It must have slipped from your pockets when he had held you upside down during your altercation in his cell. You hadn’t even thought about it, didn’t realize that you had lost your precious pearl. You had been avoiding thinking about Konig up until you heard about his pending execution, and at that point you had bigger things to worry about.
You pick up the uneven pearl with two fingers, moving it in the light, “You had it all this time?”
“I’ve been keeping it safe for you. I was worried I’d never be able to return it to you.”
You purse your lips at the way you had left things. Leaving him without closure in that sterile cell, forcing him to sit with his unresolved feelings and thoughts without an explanation. Never knowing if you’d be back.
“I’m ashamed, at how I treated you. I thought I had ruined the one good thing I had in there.”
Your cheeks flush at his words and you wrap your fist around the pearl. You’re forced to break eye contact with him, hoping he can’t see the heat beneath your skin.
“I’m sorry I left you alone.” You say, eyeing the floor by his feet. “I just needed time.”
He considers your words carefully. “I can’t blame you for that.”
His eyes flick down to the hand that held the pearl and both of you bask in the silence for a moment.
“Maybe tomorrow we can get you a necklace for it, so it doesn’t get lost again.”
You tilt your head to meet his gaze, mouth parted and eyes wide. A tentacle brushes the apple of your cheek, and he looks at you like he had eyed the sunset, in awe and stunned with its beauty.
He had understood the significance of the pearl this whole time, and he returned it to you post-freedom, meaning there was no chance of him attempting to gain your trust for his benefit.
“Konig,” You whisper, voice breathy.
“Yes, meine perle?”
“Thank you.” You hold the pearl in a fist placed over your heart and keep your eyes fixed up at him.
His hand reaches down to your face, tracing a finger on the underside your jaw. Your breath hitches at the chill that shoots down your spine.
“I’ve been watching you.” He says, finger resting just under your chin, keeping your gaze on him. Your eyes flick nervously to his tentacles curling alluringly over his shoulder before returning to his stare.
You’re not sure what he means, but you’re too stunned by his words and the light touch of strong fingers, breath still hitched and heartbeat pulsing in your ears.
He pulls out the rolled up stack of papers he took from the lab and held close. All of the sketches and logs and theories you’d made during your obsessive research, “Looks like you’ve been watching me, too.”
He gestures to the papers in his hand before placing them on the nightstand to his side.
The tentacle that brushed your cheek moves to your hair, curling strands gently between the slick end of his appendage. Another gently takes the pearl from you, setting it down with the papers.
“Am I wrong, meine perle?”
Your jaw slacks open a little further as you stutter out the beginning of a few sentences, each quickly abandoned one after another.
You settle for a shake of your head accompanied by a full flush of your features.
He gives a hum of satisfaction as he leans down close enough that his hood almost brushes up against your skin. His glowing eyes are inches from yours.
“I want to repay you, meine perle.”
His thumb continue to soothingly stroke your jaw, His voice drops, soaked in a sultry tone as his gaze maps your features.
“You worked so hard for me. Went through so much, didn’t you? So good for me.”
You give a sharp inhale at the praise, a warmth suddenly pooling in your lower abdomen. You’re hypnotized by his large frame, his gentle touch, the inflection of his words. You can only stare up at him in anticipation, caught off guard by his change in demeanor.
A tentacle rests on your knee and begins to creep up your thigh. You try to look down but his hand under your chin keeps you steady.
“I want to make you feel so good, meine perle. Will you let me do that?” His voice dropped to a low whisper, and another tentacle creeps up behind you, making you flinch as it slithers down your shoulder and curls around your collarbones, “Will you let me reward your hard work?”
Your thighs spread obediently at the touch of his tentacle and Konig takes the opportunity to stand between your thighs, keeping them open. When you go to answer the only thing that comes out is a nervous squeak, so you opt for nodding your head.
The grip on your face tightens, a few of his fingers indent the soft flesh of your cheeks, “Ah, ah.” He gives a slight shake of his head. “You have to say it, meine perle.”
It takes you a moment to find your voice. “Yes, Konig.” You whisper through shallow breath, eyes wide as you look up at him. “Please.”
He gives another pleased hum, a tentacle eagerly coiling around your waist and picking you up from your spot on the edge of the bed.
A gasp leaves your parted lips, hands finding the slick coiled appendage at your center for leverage. Your socks scraped the duvet as he repositioned you to the middle of the bed.
Two tentacles work the button of your pants, a sharp inhale leaves you as they yank your zipper down and slide the waistband to your thighs. His eyes trace every inch of newly revealed skin as his tentacle placed you down on the bed, removing the appendage looped around your middle. By the time he gets your jeans off and discarded to the floor, two more tentacles have already begun sneaking up the hem of your shirt, slithering up your stomach and lifting your slick stained shirt with it. You obediently, albeit hesitantly, put your hands over your head to let him take your shirt and bra off in one swipe, ruffling your hair as he does.
You’ve got your upper half propped on your good arm, palm sunk in to the mattress. He corrects this by looping a tentacle around your good wrist, giving it a careful but firm yank as another presses to your sternum and guides your back flush with the mattress. Another simultaneously wraps around the forearm above your injured wrist, gently pinning it to the bed and forcing it to rest on the mattress above you. The two tentacles that removed your shirt trace down your exposed core and down each leg, giving you goosebumps behind the trail of slick they leave behind. The tentacles stop at your ankles, wrapping around them and up your calves like a snake coils its prey.
In quick movements your ankles are forced to in the air, extended and spread. He kneels onto the bed at your feet, positioning himself so he’s kneeling in the new space between your thighs.
He stills, tentacles holding you firmly but comfortably. You can feel his suckers against your bare flesh, each having their own independent wriggling grip on you. Your chest rises and falls, trying to swallow your nerves of being undressed and fully restrained at the hands of the powerful being you’d freed.
His eyes are tracing all of the newly exposed flesh, and you can’t help but squirm against his appendages as you fight the urge to cover yourself. He holds you steady, all your limbs extended as he takes his time committing the curves and dips of your delicate body to memory.
His eyes find your panties, already stained with arousal at the way he spoke to you, manhandled you.
“Such a delicate thing you are, meine perle.“ He says, eyes half-lidded as they admire you.
“You knew you wouldn’t stand a chance against me, didn’t you little one?” His voice is low but gentle, and you’re stunned by his words, his forwardness. You can’t help but be intimidated pinned beneath him.
“You knew the risk you were taking. You knew I was deadly.”
One of his tentacles come up to gently smooth the hair he had disheveled when removing your shirt. You flinch at his touch, and he gives a pleased hum once he successfully fixes your hair.
“And yet you couldn’t help but throw yourself at me.” His eyes briefly widen before returning to their half-lidded boring stare, “Time and time again,” He shrugs in casual disbelief of you, “I’ve never seen anything like it, your carelessness.”
A free tentacle sneaks up your leg again, curling to stroke your spread inner thighs.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re self-destructive. Suicidal, even.”
The tentacle at your thigh creeps up, teasing the waist band of your underwear, and you suck in a breath through your teeth.
“But I do know better, though, don’t I?”
The tentacle lets your panties snap back to your hips, and the appendages holding you as restraints tighten on your limbs threateningly, excluding your injured arm.
His eyes narrow and his voice drips of arrogance.
“You’re just a little masochist.”
The tentacle drags down your front, teasing your slit over the fabric of your panties.
“Aren’t you meine perle?”
Your thoughts are clouded with a haze as you cling to his words, hypnotized by his chilling voice, domineering tone, and arousing touches.
He lets you get away with not responding this time, studying your responses to his teases before he continues. He gives another hum, a tentacle tracing down your neck and core, leaving behind a cool trail of his slick.
The tentacles tracing your cunt curls around your waistband again, while the two appendages securing your ankles maneuver your legs as they slide your panties down.
“Do you like that I have so much power over you?”
He has to unravel the appendages on your ankles to remove your underwear, discarding them over his shoulder. The cool breeze on your dripping cunt makes you shiver, tensing your core and arms in his restraint.
“That I’m a predator and you’re just a sweet defenseless little thing?”
His tentacles quickly rewrap around your ankles, but this time he secures the thick middles around you, covering the tops of your feet in his slick suckers as he forces your legs spread. His tentacles slither all the way up your legs from foot to upper thigh like thick black vines, and he leaves the ends of his tentacles with extra slack so the tips can tease the lips of your dripping cunt.
“Does the danger turn you on, meine perle?”
He gives a hum as he eyes your exposed and spread cunt, thoroughly slicked with your own arousal.
“I can see it does.”
You flush under his stare, still mesmerized by his words and the heat pooling in your lower abdomen.
He leans forward, his hands finding the mattress on either side of your core. You shrink under him as he leans down. He presses the front of his pants against your cunt, spread open by the tentacles looped around your legs.
“You were afraid of me.” He says, and you let out a broken sigh as he grazes your clit, your hips giving small involuntary grinds against him, “Yet you still gave yourself to me, so willingly.”
He hovers his face inches from yours, glowing eyes reflecting off your wide eyes. His voice drops low, and the hem of his hood drags across the curve of your breasts. The smaller tentacles that pour from under his hood curl around your tits, and you flinch under his touch when the ends of slick appendages start to tease your nipples to attention.
“I think someone that brave deserves to be thoroughly rewarded.”
He keeps his face close to you, leaving the equivalent of kisses through his hood down your middle as his smaller tentacles trace your skin.
He kisses all the way down to your cunt, spread open by the larger appendages coiled around your legs. You lift your head to watch him, and he keeps his half-lidded stare on you as the tip of a smaller tentacle swirls slowly around your clit. Another traces your dripping entrance.
A breathy sigh leaves you, your thighs tensing under his tentacles, but he holds firm.
“I am curious,” He starts, eyes locked on yours as he lays his chest flush to the mattress between your wrapped legs. He props himself up on his elbows, and brings a hand up to his hood to slowly pull it up halfway. His smaller tentacles part like curtains to reveal his mouth, and your eyes widen at the sight.
Your dreams had been scarily accurate, a taunting smile made up of rows of predator teeth. Razor sharp and killer. Concern and awe melded on your features, eyebrows pinched and eyes wide.
“Are you still afraid?”
He sticks out his tongue, and your face twitches as you watch it extend unnervingly far from his pointed teeth. The length and curl reminded you of another tentacle, but made of the flesh of tongue.
He dives his tongue up the slit of your cunt, a long deep stripe from hole to clit.
You let out a pathetic whine, your thighs begging to clench around him but tentacles forcing you spread. He hums, tongue sending the vibration straight to your pulsing clit.
He starts slow, tracing circles around you with his precise tongue.
Your hips grind into the pleasure, and he huffs in amusement at your eagerness. He lets his tongue unfurl, completely smothering your cunt with his slick tongue. He loosens his grip on your thighs just enough to allow you to get a better range to thrust into his face.
You give another whine when he stops teasing you, but continue to grind your clit against him in a desperate search for pleasure.
You give him a pleading look, mouth slightly parted for breathy exhales. He lets you grind long enough to embarrass you, waiting for the telling flush of your cheeks.
He finally pulls away with a long swipe along your cunt as you let out a sinful moan. The tip of his tongue returns to your aching clit, flicking side to side. He starts teasingly slow but hungrily picks up once he hears the hitched breaths you take.
You have to lay your head back to the mattress, closing your eyes as you give in to the pleasure.
He presses the tip of his tongue to your clit head on, pushing his tongue forward and letting it slither down your cunt. It curls around like a ribbon, the wide part of his tongue rolling down your clit as the tip curls back to your entrance, rimming your dripping hole. He teases you for a few moments before diving the tip of his tongue into your warmth, keeping the middle of his tongue pressed against your clit.
You let out a gasp as he enters you, and he gives a low pleased hum into your dripping cunt in return. His tongue slithers further into your warmth, the thick of his tongue continuing to graze your clit.
You start to grind down on him again but the tentacles around your legs climb further up your thighs, securing your hips as the ends continue spreading your cunt open for him. You give a whine, and he complies by pushing his tongue in and out of you, fucking you while stimulating your clit.
Your toes curl under his suckers and the moans are falling from your lips without thought as he tastes you.
When you tilt your head up to meet his eyes, cheeks flushed and breaths shallow, he’s eyeing you the same way he had eyed the meals you brought him. Free tentacles twitch in excitement as his hungry gaze follows his prey.
The corners of his mouth curl into a smile as he quickens the movement of his tongue, causing you to pull against the tentacles restraining your limbs, desperate moans leaving your parted lips.
He retracts his tongue, an arrogant laugh leaving him as he leaves your dripping cunt rutting into the air.
He licks another deep stripe against your entire cunt one more time, letting his nose swipe against your slit as he drags up. His eyes roll once he retracts his tongue again, a sinful moan leaving him.
“You taste so sweet, meine perle.”
You let out a whimper, rutting your hips in desperation at the sudden lack of touch. He gives another pleased hum as he sits up on the bed, eyeing you from above.
A free tentacle creeps between the mattress and your middle, and when you obediently arch your back he coils an additional appendage around your waist. He hauls you into the air with ease, the four tentacles on your limbs still spreading and supporting you. The tentacle on your injured hand, still less taut than his restraints, slithers up further to keep your wrist in-line with the rest of your arm in absence of the support of the mattress.
He puts you above his head, cunt resting just above his head. He tilts his neck back before burying his tongue back into your cunt while keeping you in the air above him.
A squeak leaves you as you tense against him, unnerved by the sensation of being suspended in the air. Your worry melts to pleasure as he fucks his tongue into you, his tentacle restraints bouncing you up and down in rhythm with his slick tongue.
The jostling and the tentacle coiled firmly around your ribs allows the moans and squeaks to leave you with ease, and he hums in satisfaction at the cute little noises you’re making for him.
He retracts his tongue again, letting his hood drop, and you look to him with pinched brows - as if offended he revoked your pleasure.
“I could eat this cunt everyday and not get tired of it.” He says, and even though you can’t see his mouth you can tell he’s wearing a cocky grin.
You let out a pathetic little whine, giving a weak tug against his restraint.
“Don’t worry,” He says, almost mockingly, before you feel a thick tentacle slither up to tease your cunt, a relieved whimper escaping you.
He uses his thick appendage to swirl around in the slippery mixture of your own arousal, his slick, and spit. He uses the smooth side of his tentacle, curling it against your slit as he moves your restraints, forcing you to grind your dripping cunt on his tentacle. Two more free tentacles slither up your chest, cupping your tits and teasing your nipples with the ends of his slick appendages. He continues grinding you against him as he lays the two tentacles over your tits, a sucker on each covering your nipple and applying suction. The stimulation makes you gasp and pull against his restraints, overwhelmed with him sucking both your nipples and forcing your clit to grind on his thick appendage at the same time. Your squeaky and broken moans echo throughout the motel room.
“I’m just getting started with you.” He says, low and dangerous, “Make sure to save some of those pathetic whines.”
The thick tentacle swirling your cunt teases your entrance before impatiently slipping into you.
You let out a pornographic moan as he plunges into you. You’re sure it was loud enough for the neighboring rooms to hear but being filled up by Konig’s tentacle felt too incredible for you to care. His slick tentacle was thicker than anything a human could offer, and his suckers allowed for a ribbed sensation as he fucked his appendage in and on of you. His dexterity allowed him to find your g-spot with ease, the end of his tentacle massaging it as he fucks in and out of you.
Your eyes close at the overwhelming pleasure, weak and limp as he puppets you up and down on his tentacle.
He’s using all of his tentacles on you now, and you’re helpless to stop him as he removes the appendage that secured your waist and coiled it around your neck, close enough to graze your flesh but not yet applying pressure. Your eyes open at the touch, half-lidded in pleasure as you find his glowing stare. Even through the overwhelming stimulation, it’s an unnerving feeling having him wrap around your neck, reminding you of his power. He could end your life, easily, and there would be nothing you could do to stop him.
He slithers further around your neck, and you can help but shiver under his threatening touch. He sees your brows pinch in worry and his eyes squint. While his hood obscures his mouth you’re guessing it’s twisted into a smile, as if he knows what you’re thinking and had planted the idea on purpose, reigniting your fears before you get too lost in the pleasure.
There’s a sinful glint in his eye, “Do you trust me, meine perle?”
He doesn’t give you a chance to answer, his tentacle tightens around your neck, cutting off your moans with a harsh gasp.
Your eyes widen in fear, your fingers scratching the air instinctively as you wiggle in his grasp.
The tentacle fucking your tight cunt doesn’t let up. You’re left with your mouth open as you ride him, the moans that would be coming out silenced by his tight grip on your airway. The lack of oxygen allows a fuzzy haze to cloud your brain, and suddenly you’re not even thinking about the danger or the tentacles restraining and choking you. All you can think about is the sensation of your cunt being teased and fucked as your nipples are milked by his suckers. You let your body go limp in his grasp, no longer anxious for release. You’re still looking at him, but he’s getting farther and farther away, your vision blurring his bold silhouette.
He waits for your eyelids to unevenly flutter shut before he loosens his grip, keeping his tentacle looped around your neck like a scarf.
Your first sharp inhale is involuntary, followed by desperate sharp gasps for air. He continues pounding your cunt, his tentacle diving further into you, stretching you open as you return from your haze.
His smug snicker progresses to a deep hum of satisfaction.
He gives no warning before he cuts off your air again, watching as you fight against his restraints while managing the overstimulating pleasure.
“I like watching you struggle, meine perle.”
He takes a moment to look you over, watching you tense and feebly wriggle against his strong grip. He soaks in the look of concern and arousal on your features. You fade away quicker this time, eyes going cross as you zero in on the tentacle fucking your soaked cunt, suckers clinging to your walls as he massages your g-spot.
“I’d feel bad about it, but I know you like it too.”
He releases his grip on your neck, tentacle unfurling and leaving behind a necklace of clear slick and imprints of his suckers. You’re sputtering and coughing as he allows you breath, struggling to steady yourself as you’re bounced up and down on his thick tentacle.
Once you catch your breath you’re giving him breathy moans again, tensing beneath the tentacles on your limbs.
“Look how aroused you get when I threaten your life. This tight little cunt is so wet.”
One of the smaller tentacles that extends from under his hood runs circles on your pulsing clit. The tentacle that had retracted from your neck traces a line down your spine, stopping to rim your ass.
Your eyes widen at him as he slicks up the entrance of your hole. You’re nervous about anal, but you don’t find your voice to stop him. He slips a slick tip in, allowing you time to relaxing on just a few inches as he continues working the rest of you.
You were right about him being good at multitasking. It’s a lot to handle a once, your clit being teased, cunt pounded, nipples being sucked, and ass being stretched around the end of his appendage, all while being restrained and unable to relieve the tension building inside your body.
You’re lost to the stimulation, moans and expletives and sweet nothings pouring from your mouth in jumbles.
Konig’s enjoying the show, reveling that he’s made you come undone under his power. The mess he was making over you, covering you in his slick and getting you drunk off his touch.
A white heat steadily builds underneath your skin, pooling to your lower abdomen.
“Konig! It’s too much- it’s too much I’m gonna -"
“Come for me meine perle.”
The waves of pleasure rip through you, convulsing in his grip as you come. Konig doesn’t let up as he fucks you through orgasm. Mercilessly pounding your cunt with his thick tentacle while you clench at the intense euphoria.
“There you go, so good for me.”
You let out a strangled moan, hands searching for something to grab onto for stability but they come up empty, straining against his restraints while powerless to the pleasure.
“Konig - please.” You manage out between your broken moans and meaningless stuttering.
He gives another low hum of approval and he still doesn’t let up, the tentacles still working all your sensitivities.
“Not done with you yet, meine perle.” He warns, and you let out a whine in response.
You’re quivering in his touch now, futilely arching away from him, your pleasure turning to over-sensitivity.
“‘s too much.” You mutter out, shaking in his grip and too weak to escape his touch.
“I know, but you’re going to take it for me, aren’t you meine perle?”
You let out another whine in response, twitching at the stimulation that was turning nearly painful.
He offers some relief by removing the smaller tentacle from your clit, but he keeps the rhythm of both tentacles inside you, filling you up and forcing you to bounce on him. He continues teasing your nipples with his suckers, enjoying watching your back arch desperately as you squirm under the sensitivity.
You keep his gaze, teeth still grit at the overstimulation, eyes pleading.
He removes the tentacle from your cunt as he holds you steady, no longer bouncing you but still teasing your ass as he undoes his belt. He pulls it free with one firm tug, discarding it with the rest of your clothes.
His hands ease his zipper down and he takes his time, amused by your expression seeped in curiosity, desperation, and awe. He inches his pants down enough to expose his genitalia.
A fleshy appendage, a few inches longer than what a standard human male would have, springs to attention from the waistband of his clothes. The entire appendage was a uniform deep pink with no head. The shape reminded you of another tentacle, larger at the base and ending in a slick tip. Slight indents that ran up the sides of his shaft.
He lets you admire him for a few moments before he lines your used cunt with his appendage, plunging into you without mercy.
You let out a loud moan at being filled again, and he rock his hips, letting his appendage grind in you as you sit on his full length.
“Shh,” he whispers teasingly, “Don’t want anyone finding out how much of a desperate slut you are for me, hm?”
He brings the tentacle that had occupied your cunt up to your lips, and you obediently open your mouth to let his tentacle slip in, silencing you as you suck on the end, tasting the mixture of your arousal and his slick.
Your moans and whines are muffled by his tentacle as he pounds into you, his restraints moving you up and down in rhythm with his hips, meeting your hips in the middle as he fills you up.
He lets out a low growl that shoots a tingle of excitement down your spine.
“This pussy feels even better than I thought. So fucking tight, meine perle.” His pace quickens, now pounding ruthlessly into your soaked cunt.
His hands find your hips, fingers pressing into your skin as he guides you on his appendage. The tentacles supporting you allow you to lift almost all the way off him before forcing you down his entire length over and over again.
The moans are pouring from you again, but gagged by the appendage fucking your mouth - slick, arousal, and spit dripping down your chin.
When he pulls his appendage away from your cunt, the rest of thick tentacles still work your ass and nipples as he works to flip you over. He forces you into an all-fours position in front of him, letting you rest your forearms and knees on the duvet, his restraints staying firm on your limbs as he bends them into position as if you’re his doll.
You obediently arch your back and lower you head down on the mattress, sticking your ass into the air. He can see you spread open from behind, and he watches the tentacle work your tight little ass as he shifts to his knees behind you.
He gives you a firm smack on the ass with his hand, huffing in amusement at your shocked gasp around his tentacle gag. He gives you a few more, alternating cheeks as the sound of flesh on flesh echoes throughout the motel room.
He hums in amusement at the squeaks that come from your gagged mouth.
“Such a naughty perle,” He teases in his arrogant tone, “Always putting yourself in danger, hm?”
You whine, fingers clawing at the duvet as you brace yourself, flushing at the idea someone might hear your punishment.
He stops not long after, leaving behind his handprints on your flushed cheeks. He’s getting impatient, so when he lines his appendage back up with you he slides in without warning, hands finding your hips for grip as he slides in and out of you.
He’s too excited, he can’t refrain from letting his hips flush with your pink sore ass.
The tip of his appendage curls forward inside of you, massaging your g-spot as he fills you.
He doesn’t let up, keeping a steady rhythm with his hips and all of the tentacles working you. Your tits groped, nipples sucked by his tentacles, mouth and both holes filled and fucked - it’s overwhelming enough to make you go limp in his hold, not a single thought occupying you as you mindlessly work your tongue around the tentacle gagging your mouth. You’re too focused on the pleasure, how good it feels to be at his mercy.
“Watching you got me so excited, meine perle.” He says though heavy breaths, his grip tightening on your hips, “I’m already getting close.”
His thrusts get more intense, and you think you’d be yelling if you hadn’t been gagged. You probably wouldn’t have been able to warn him about your second finish even if you hadn’t been silenced, too cockdrunk off the overstimulation to properly string together a coherent sentence.
Your cunt clenches around him as another orgasm rips through you, causing your muscles to tense in his restraint.
He lets out a hearty moan, his thrusts becoming slightly uneven as he struggles to keep his composure in your tight walls.
He comes everywhere, his finish not only marking his claim deep in your cunt, but also from each of his tentacles, tips releasing his come into your ass and mouth while coating your tits and spread cunt.
He twitches inside you throughout his finish, fingers digging into your hips as he gives a few light thrusts, milking every drop of his finish into your filled cunt.
You’re still limp when he finally pulls away with a strained moan, his tentacles placing you down gentle on the mattress. You’re on cloud nine, too high from your finishes to be able to support yourself. You let the mattress support you, basking in the warmth of the afterglow, bliss settling over you as you recover.
He gives another hum of satisfaction at the sight, having completely unraveled you and marked you with his seed. He leans down to plant a kiss through his hood on your back, his hands giving a light squeeze on your hips as he props himself up next to you. He runs his fingers up and down your back, swirling through the clear slick his tentacles had left behind.
He lets you rest for a few moments, waiting for your breathing to settle before a tentacle gently drapes across you.
“How about we get you cleaned up, meine perle?”
You let out a dazed hum of approval, letting his tentacles coil around you to carry you to the shower. He presses you to his chest, your head resting against him as he cradles your back and the crease of your knees.
When your eyes flutter open, and you meet his glowing stare, your face stretches into a warm sleepy smile. He unwraps your bandages carefully, and he doesn’t let you lift a finger once you’re both in the cramped bathroom, standing outside of the tub as he scrubs you down. You exchange little words, both of you still basking in the afterglow.
He takes his time wiping the slick and come off your skin, easing around the flushed marks his suckers had left behind on you.
It’s soothing - the warm water embracing you, and Konig smoothing a washcloth over your skin. Intimate, even, how he’s washing your upper arms as he holds your hand with his free hand, watching you while you relax into the water. He’s extra gentle with your injured wrist as he cleans you.
He’s in no hurry as he cleans your middle and legs, enjoying the glisten of the water on your plush breasts and thighs. He thumbs the bubbles on your skin under his soft grip.
He even washes your hair, his large hands massaging your scalp as he runs the suds through. He’s careful not to get soap in your eyes when he rinses the bubbles from your hair, using a tentacle to shield your forehead as he guides your head back under the stream of the shower, disregarding the water spraying all off the motel bathroom floor.
He’s being so careful with you, so sweet and soft, it was a jarring contrast to the Konig that had been ruthlessly pounding you moments before or the Konig you’d come to know trapped in his cell.
Once you were all clean, he shut off the showers with its noisy clunk of old pipes, he was quick to wrap one of the motel towels around your dripping body before he carried you back to the beds. When he stilled you meet his eyes, resting your hand on his chest.
“Guess we’ll have to share a bed.” He says in his cocky tone as you follow his gaze to the mattress, thoroughly soiled and stained from your session.
You roll your eyes at him, giving a soft tap on his chest in your disapproval of his corny flirting, but the smile on your face betrays any hope of hiding your enamor.
His eyes squint from under his hood with a smile, you assume, as he carries you to the bed with his strong arms.
It’s not easy for a being with tentacles shooting from his spine to cuddle. He wasn’t designed for cozy naps and soft embraces, but he does what he can. He presses against the pillows sitting up, at an angle to leave space between the headboard and his back for his tentacles to settle. He nestles you at his side, keeping your head on his chest as your arm rests against over his core. Your leg props up on his as you rest the side of your body on the mattress.
His arm wraps snuggly around your back, fingers making soft circles at your curve.
You’re already halfway to sleeps clutches when you mumble into his chest.
“Thank you, Konig.”
“Thank you, meine perle.”
———————————————————-
If you enjoyed this fic, you may enjoy…
THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN - Loser!Konig x Reader - Konig & Reader must compete in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death. (122k word slow burn)
something something reader is a bartender at a popular little pub, and night after night you are hit on by men so plastered you often have to sigh and call over one of the guys you work with the idiots end up vomiting all over themselves (sometimes it’s worse than vomit but thankfully you can count those incidents on one hand)
you think by slipping on your grandmothers old wedding ring, it will sway men from hitting on you at work. And it does, there’s still some that try to test their luck, but the minute you flash that pearl on your finger they’re scurrying off to find their next target.
Cue four new regulars, four attractive military men that always flash you a polite smile and leave you a nice tip. Price comes in more than the others, claiming the stool near your register for himself, Ghost doing the same the rare nights he slinks into the pub. Soap and Gaz come in together some weekends, sitting themselves in front of you with big grins on their faces as they watch the game on the tv overhead.
They’re all sweet, a little cocky at times but nothing that one of their grins or sly remarks can’t make up for. They ask how their favorite girl is doing when they return from longer missions, genuinely listening as you fill them in on the things that have happened since they’ve been away.
Perfect gentlemen.
Until one night you forget your ring, having had to rush your shower and sprint out the door to make it to the pub before the nightly rush.
You filling glasses when you hear the chime of the bell and a familiar laugh fill the pub.
“Was wondering if I’d see you boys tonight.” You smile, motioning for them to give you a moment as you serve the other patrons.
When you slide back over to them, you immediately reach for their usual glasses, grabbing your cloth to wipe them off, when a hand clamps around your wrist and you jump, nearly dropping the glass as Ghost turns your hand over in his.
“Trouble at home pretty?” Price comments, concern etched on his face and it takes a moment for you to catch on, and you can’t help the little giggle that spills out.
“Oh! My ring… It’s kind of a funny story. I uhm.. I’m not actually married.” You laugh, expecting them to laugh along with you, but all you feel are four pairs of eyes piercing into you.
“Come again?” Gaz asks, voice a tad deeper than usual and you ignore the chills it sends down your spine.
“I started wearing it so some of the drunkards would leave me be, kind of forgot about it, just became habit.” You chuckle nervously, hand still in Ghost’s grasp and he’s eyeing you in a way you’ve never seen before.
like, I know he has that “feel nothing” or “tough guy” cry like we saw in the movie (he basically had no tears-)
but like, let’s say we inserted a very lucky y/n into the situation, and y/n and Bo are sitting on the back of his truck late at night with a small radio just playing whatever comes on for background noise. This wasn’t planned out at all, but Bo had previously packed a few containers of beer into the truck before you both had gone out to do heavy work around Ambrose. So, it’s late at night and all the work is done, so you two have been sitting there for a while just talking and drinking. You’re a little tipsy because you don’t enjoy the taste of beer too much (sorry, not trying to assume but let’s just say that Bo has a weird taste in beers.) so you don’t drink it as fast as Bo does. Building off of that, Bo is noticeably drunk, to the point he’s getting a bit difficult to understand between the mess of his southern accent and the slur of the alcohol. You listen hard though, he deserves attention from how well he treats you now.
we all know how conversations, especially late at night, usually get a LOT deeper than just funny stuff or other normal topics. For Bo, it was his underlying issues with his mother and how the cyst’s effects on her brain and actions really fucked him up. You aren’t exactly sure how the topic was brought up, probably from some kind of family activity topic or something, but all you knew right now was Bo’s voice was shaking and he was getting emotional. You had never even thought of what he would be like vulnerable, nor did you think you’d live to see the day. Yet here he was, his eyes hidden behind the bill of his trucker hat as he stared deeply into the nearly finished beer bottle in his hands, still venting about his past trauma. You stayed silent, not really sure what to do. Well, what could you do? There was always a 50% chance Bo would either blow up and get aggressive, or sink into a messy, sad putty. The second one you never thought would ever happen, but the first option was what usually happened when things got too deep for the poor man.
the moonlight reflected in his newly shed tears, his eyes pleading and sorrowful as he looked up to meet your gaze. Only then did you release the breath that you didn’t even know was caught in your throat.
“You don’t think I’mma diss’pointment, do ya?”
his sentence was half choked up, a clear sign of the struggle he was feeling when being so vulnerable. The skin on his chin was pulled in a weird pattern, the muscles of his face struggling to keep his emotions from bursting through the surface. You really didn’t know what to do. Bo had never shown such emotion around you, nor did you show such emotion around him. It was an unspoken deal to keep the distance, but this one moment could shatter it all. You hesitated for a long time, before forcing yourself to shake your head from side to side, a simple no.
“I-uh- n-no, not at all. If anything, Trudy would be proud of how you turned out-“
the words felt weird on your tongue. You weren’t exactly sure of those were the truth, nor if he would even remember that.
suddenly, his self control vanished, and he crossed the invisible barrier between you both. He leapt forward, wrapping his arms around your mid section and trapping your arms to your sides in the hug. His beer had dropped from his grasp somewhere in the transition, leaving the rest to pour out onto the grass. His body jolted and shook with every sob and cry, his embrace tightening and loosening, only to tighten again with every deep breath. You REALLY didn’t know what to do, thinking of all of the places your body would be found if you dared to push him off or dismiss his feelings in any way.
so you sat there, Bo’s arms wrapped tightly around your arms and waist while he leaned all of his weight on your thighs. His salty tears stung your skin slightly, but you won’t dare tell him to get off. You two sat like that for a while, him turning his face away every time he would have enough sense to know you could see how his expression would comfort into agonizing looks of despair or discomfort. If it were literally any other situation, you would laugh, but this was COMPLETELY different.
You never spoke of that night ever again, and you still have yet to know if he even remembers it. Honestly, you’re not sure if it would be better or worse if you knew that HE knew about that night.
wow, I wanted to express a thought or maybe a funny question, but it ended up turning into a whole fanfic-
price would be strangely possessive over his assistant.
referring to her as things that really aren’t work appropriate at all. “swee’eart,” “dolly,” “sugar.” once, a “baby” slipped through his teeth, but he was switching the subject before she could really catch on.
it’s hard to pinpoint exactly when it was he started tacking “my” in front of his pet names. “my angel,” “my love.”
even when she wasn’t in the room — it was impossible to know he was talking about a colleague with the way he spoke about her. “my woman’s always on my case abou’ shit like that — cholesterol levels, sugar intake. fuckin’ bullshit, but i do it to make ‘er happy.” or “can’t stay long, lads — got my lady waitin’ on me.”
in the summer months, her skirts get a bit shorter and her tops a bit tighter. he doesn’t blame her, the AC is shit and the heat can be suffocating. what does bother him, though, is the way his men ogle her as they stroll past her desk. how they’re coming up with excuses to visit her throughout the day.
it’s an easy enough fix. “why don’t ye come work in my office for the day, lovey?” he’s already collecting her paperwork. “keep an old man company, would ye? i’ve got a nice little fan too, keep ye nice an’ cool.”
though the job came with benefits, perhaps more than an assistant should be getting, price didn’t think it was enough. when her phone started to slow and the screen cracked, he left a new one on her desk. didn’t bother mentioning it came out of his paycheque. if she complains about her outfit — all my good clothes are in the wash — he’ll take her shopping, doesn’t let her worry about the totals. and, hey, if they end up at a lingerie shop, no one has to know, right? he’s just being a good boss. it’s only crossing a few boundaries when he gets her to model it for him in the fitting rooms. when she disappears behind the curtain, john adjusts himself in his slacks — it’s a natural reaction. on that note, it would make too much of a fuss if he were to correct the worker when she asks if his wife needs any help.
when day turns to night and she’s refusing price’s suggestion of hitting another shop, he pulls into a nearby restaurant, insists on treating her to a glass of wine to end the night. finding out she’s a lightweight is a pleasant discovery — two glasses in and her skin is warm to the touch, she’s giggling and hanging onto his every word. he likes her like this, he decides — but it’s not safe to leave her alone. no, she should stay with him tonight. another few sips and she’s agreeing, changing into one of her new lingerie sets and falling into john’s bed, dozing off with his hand splayed over her tummy, beard tickling the back of her neck.
it’s been too long since he’s had a woman in his life. his wires have gotten a bit crossed. you can’t blame him, can you?
idk just thinking about seeing your lieutenant for the first time, this big giant dog of a man, and thinking to yourself, "hmmm yeah, i'm gonna make that thing mine." (18+)
like. i'm thinking about seeing him walk into the room for the first time. fresh off an op, still in all his gear. he's angry cause he's been awake off and on for 40 hours at this point, and he sinks down into a chair in the mess hall, and your eyes bug cause the chair fucking bends with his weight.
and you're just like "omg omg omg holy shit" cause this fucking brute is just huge and beefy, and you had no idea this was your type until you watched his hand curl around a cup and make it look miniature. and you're wondering like "fuck i bet those holsters are custom made" cause you don't think you've ever seen them stretch that far around someone's thigh.
ughghghghgh, and he's dumb as shit, too, or maybe he's just fucking blind. you give him every hint in the book, every indication of how you feel other than pasting a giant neon sign on your forehead that says "fuck me."
you wear the tightest cargo pants you can get. you let the buttons on your shirts go low whenever he's near. you make excuses to see him late, delivering him paperwork in the middle of the night, meeting him out for a smoke (and he's never seen you smoke anything), shuffling your way in front of him in line so you can bump into him and graze your ass against his front. he even catches you this way--even curls his hand around your waist and steadies you before letting you go impatiently.
fuck, bending over in front of him, the obnoxious giggling, the excuses to dangle your tits in his face. you want this man underneath you, on top of you, tangled around you and suffocating you with those enormous arms, and he barely side-glances at you whenever you're in his vicinity, and it's infuriating.
what do you have to do to reel this thing in? how many bones do you have to give him?
how many times do i have to flash my bra at you for you to fuck me over your desk?!
you can't eat another cherry in front of him. you can't drop more sauce onto your cleavage. you cannot come out of the showers in just a towel in front of him anymore because you're going to lose your fucking mind--
you even made out with his beloved little sergeant, his favorite little know-it-all that can't stop blowing shit up. that blue-eyed, insufferable, yapper of a scot that kisses all wet, with teeth, who pants like a puppy when he asks if he can 'ave a taste of y'r bonnie cunt, please, please, please--
and you say yes, because maybe he'll finally fucking shut up if you drown him between your thighs and never let him come up for air.
face down, ass up, cargos around your ankles, hips pushing past against that puppy's stubble as he devours you on his knees. his big hands spread your ass for him, and his thumbs flick over your folds as he opens you up, a cackle leaving him before he opens his mouth wide and kisses your pussy all sloppy and uncoordinated.
when the door swings open and hits the wall with a bang, the puppy tries to leave. he tries to move, but you reach back and grip his mohawk, scowling as you shove his face back where it belongs as your lieutenant stands at the door and heaves with anger.
"uh uh," you snap, and your sergeant on his knees whines, his blue eyes a little foggy and wet as he blinks up at you. but he complies, his tongue slurping, and you flutter your lashes at your lieutenant as you keep johnny muzzled in your cunt. "sorry, lieutenant. is this your office? must've read the sign wrong."
you reel from the contact. a big hand grips you by the hair, slamming you down against his desk, and you choke as you try and gasp for air. like a good boy, johnny settles where he is, shoving his tongue down your hole and moaning low when he realizes you're dripping down his chin now that his lieutenant has you.
"y'think this is funny, eh?" ghost mutters in your ear. "y'think i don't know wot y'r doin'? think i 'aven't caught on, think i 'aven't noticed wot a fuckin' insatiable bloody pain in my arse you've been ever since y'got 'ere?!"
you whimper, relaxing against the desk, and ghost tugs at your hair again, shaking his head.
"oi! y'don't get to be stupid just because y'r gettin' y'r cunny played with," ghost snaps. "y'r a right headache."
you laugh, getting up to your elbows, your eyes rolling to the back of your head as ghost scruffs johnny by the base of his mohawk and cups your pussy with one big hand. you gasp, leaning your head back, because finally, yes, it's all i want, please, please, please--
"'f you wanted to be my pet so bad," ghost murmurs, fitting himself behind you, leaning over your shoulder as he spits into your ear, "all ya had to do was fuckin' ask, swee'eart."
when your eyes open, ghost hums, clicking his tongue under the mask.
"use y'r words," he growls. "be a good girl, and say wot it is y'want."
"want you," you whine, and he sighs deeply, closing his eyes, and you drown out the sounds of johnny sputtering at your feet as ghost bends you at the hip a little more, arching your back.
(18+ smut, fem!reader, infidelity but your boyfriends a cunt if that makes you feel better)
—•—
you don’t know how this happened. you don’t know when this happened. all you know is that it is happening, and you really don’t want it to stop.
simon’s everything that your boyfriend isn’t. has everything that he lacks. communication, understanding, selflessness; commonsense, emotional intelligence, a big cock,
the list goes on, frankly.
but here you are, your bedroom sweltering around you, swimming beneath distorted waves in your vision. convection currents radiating from your conjoined bodies.
simon’s hands were large and calloused on the soft fat of your hips, fingers toying with the taut lines of stretch marks passing onto the thick of your upper thighs. his hands gripped and pulled and moved you against him, slamming you up and down, grinding you against him.
he was leaned up against the headboard of your bed, head cocked back with dark, hungry eyes glued to your body and a coy smirk plastered across his face. the way he looked at you, gazed you, admired you as if you were some kind of prize, had your stomach in knots.
maybe you were a prize. after all, he was balls-deep in his best friend’s girl, and he didn’t have a care in the world. didn’t have a care in the world that his cock had chubbed instantly when she opened the door to let him in an hour ago.
you panted above him, thighs burning, shins pressed into the warm sheets of your bed. you were hesitant to be on top, to perch your body weight across his pelvis. your boyfriend never assured you it’d be okay, just agreed with you and fucked you flat on the mattress. simon was different.
“what? think i can’t handle myself a girl like you, eh?” simon had uttered, looking you up and down. a prize. he was also knuckle-deep in your pussy by this stage, two fingers scissoring you open. “oh, sweet girl, you have no idea.”
and now you were here. straddling simon riley, the formidable ghost that you’d seen only occasionally with your boyfriend. a recluse of a man, a mountain of a man. was always kind, always respectful.
an army dog, a government mutt. always so obedient, and so polite. well-trained and well-mannered. clearly, until he had a pretty bird like you stretched across his lap. a prize.
“yeah, ride this fuckin’ cock, baby,” simon grunted, helping you fuck yourself down onto his cock. his thick, fat cock— a cock that hit you so deep, stretched you so wide, that the joke of ‘is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?’ had died on your tongue because, holy fuck,
he could use it. he knew what he was doing. you should have guessed it with the way he spat on your cunt ten minutes into you letting him into your flat; the way he licked the glob of spit from your wet folds and fucked it into you, tongue warm and searching. you also should have guessed when he rubbed at your clit with his thumb while stretching you open on his fingers; the way he moved them at just the right pace to make you come twice in a row. now:
“s’all yours, baby. s’all yours,” he uttered, pushing his hips upwards to meet your downwards movements.
your tits bounced with each of his thrusts, the mattress creaking beneath you. the sheets were bunching, the heat in the room thick and molten. liquid, drowning you.
you gasped, air in your lungs. you were not drowning, just fucking delirious with the way his cockhead knocked up towards the plug of your cervix.
panting, you clutched at his shoulders. broad and muscular. you could feel the difference in texture where skin ended and scar began. a few times, your fingers wandered upwards, and you drew the tips through his hair. once cropped, now grown out. scruffy, rugged,
handsome. sweat beaded on his forehead, turning the lighter strands dark, sticking to his skin. between the filth he spewed from his mouth, you could hear him grunting and moaning. you wished he’d moan louder. maybe once he stopped talking it’d be different. but you weren’t sure how soon that would be.
“fuckin’— look at the fuckin’ state of you. such a pretty girl. such a pretty— fuckin’— girl,” simon groaned, thrusting up into you. the force made you hiccup around a long moan. simon smiled, triumphant. “look like a dream takin’ all o’ my cock, sweetheart. perfect little pussy letting me stretch her open, huh?”
“simon,” you moaned, and that wasn’t the first time you’d said his name tonight. but he acted as though it was.
a dog with a bone, simon flashed a wicked grin, canines showing, and redoubled his efforts in pushing his cock in and out of you, rutting against your body.
“yeah, baby, i’m here. your simon’s righttttt here,” he said, grinning, as he took one of his large hands and placed it over the mound of your belly, pressing gently and squeezing you there. he couldn’t actually feel his cock inside you, but the added sensation knocked an airy moan from your chest, your eyes rolling. simon hummed, pleased as he fucked you. “‘m reaching so far, aren’t i? so deep. bet your lad couldn’t reach up here, could he?”
you whimpered, and you wanted to whimper a ‘noooo’ but it died in transit. instead, you whimpered, like a wounded dog, as his cock hit that perfect spot inside you. it made you want to scream.
you continued to bounce against him, his thighs pressed close to yours. he fondled you, squeezed your hips while you both worked each other towards release.
“simon,” you pleaded, breathless. “oh, fuck—”
simon wanted so badly to beam with pride. but he resisted, cocking his head and watching the way your greedy cunt sucked his cock in with wet squelches at each upward thrust.
“you feeling good, sweet girl?” he asked, tone warm and honey-sweet. well-trained. then, “this cock making you feel good? he followed with an obvious lilt. mutt.
you replied with a yes, that trailed off into a high-pitched moan when simon’s thumb found your swollen clit, rubbing against it and beginning to draw small, tight circles.
“thaaat’s it, baby. sing for me.”
“siiimon,” you mewled, body tiring but stomach growing tight. bubbling hot, molten like the atmosphere of your bedroom. the knot in the base pulling tighter and tighter with each nudge of his cock against your g-spot.
your cunt was soaked around him, dripping out onto his pelvis and onto your bedsheets. making a mess.
tight, velveteen walls clutched at his cock as your climax built. gripping tight, holding him against you, keeping him with you. wet and warm and the closest to heaven a non-religious man like simon’ll ever come close to.
“beautiful,” he suddenly whispered, eyes on your face now. “beautiful girl.”
well-trained. damn, your boyfriend wasn’t even close to being this well-trained. he was more used to chewing you up like a toy, and heading off to do god knows what once he’d finished. once he’d satisfied himself.
you weren’t a toy for simon. just a prize. much different than a toy, for your information.
a toy is something you play with. a prize is something treasure. savour. and with the way simon revelled at the silky feel of your pussy against his bare cock, he intended to savour you forever.
“you wanna come?” he asked softly, but you knew the soft tone wasn’t going to last. not with the way his eyes glinted, his soft abs flexed, and his mouth curved at the corners. “can feel this pussy startin’ to make a fuss. so desperate for it, isn’t she?”
personifying your pussy. a new one, but one you weren’t entirely afraid of.
so you answered. “yes. simon, please—“
simon quickened his pace, thrusting deeper. your flesh rippled, thighs and stomach and tits moving with the sheer force of his movements. he grunted and panted, eyes drooping, fingers tight in your hips, chasing his own high too. he still had a hard-working finger drawing sharp shapes across your puffy clit.
“go on then. come all over my cock, sweet girl. show me what i’ve been missing out on.”
the tension in your body grew and grew, sweat accumulating across your skin. shiny, dewy, completely ethereal, you hurtled towards release with wind in your sails. sweating, hot, on the brink of overstimulation, you let your mind go fuzzy. you had a heartbeat in your clit. you could feel the stickiness of your inner-thighs. you could hear simon,
“come for me, baby.”
the coil snapped as if on cue. maybe you were the well-trained dog in need of a new collar.
your release rocked you off balance, and you slumped forward, ready for simon to catch you. he did, of course, leaning you against his chest as your body shook, twitched, jerked with the force of your orgasm. it travelled through you like electric shocks. an electrical current that fizzled out after a few long seconds, and left you boneless against simon’s chest.
he was close behind you, his balls drawing tight, tip leaking inside you, flared head now ruddy and red.
he moaned. “god, baby. feel so good around me.” a speechless moment, filled only with pants and— moans. simon moaned loudly, eyes snapping shut as his orgasm quivered inside him. bees trapped in a glass jar.
“just needed a proper cock to split you open,” he said suddenly, voice deep and rich. “pretty girl like you needs a big cock to keep her happy.”
rutting, in and out. desperate mutt. canines flashing, grip tightening, moans increasing. military stamina you hoped wouldn’t last all night. a working dog, too, this man. god, what a man. not perfect (you wouldn’t want him to be), but pretty fuckin’ close right about now.
“simon,” you whined, desperate.
he groaned deeply. “oh yeah, fuck, that’s it, baby. say my name— yeah, say my name when i come inside you.”
“mhm, thaaat’s it, fuck,” simon moaned, then shoved his cock as far in as it’d go (making you gasp and choke on a loud moan) and then came inside you.
you felt the heat. more heat, more liquid fire. molten. lava. you were drowning again.
he filled you, cum painting your insides as he moaned out your name, whining as his head flopped backwards, his large hands keeping you firmly in place.
then, everything stilled. your heartbeat clanged loudly in your ears, heavy in your rib cage. your puffy clit beat in tandem with it, and your hole fluttered around his cock, now still and plugging his release inside you.
for the briefest moment, as you lay against simon’s chest in the warm, sex-laden air of your bedroom, you thought of your boyfriend. the man you should’ve been doing all of this with.
but the thought was merely a linger. it flitted away, brushed aside by simon’s lips, that came to rest against your tacky forehead. he peppered a few kisses there, rubbing your hips, arse and back soothingly as you fizzled down.
“pretty girl…” simon whispered softly, hugging you to him. “my pretty girl.”
his prize.
he always thought his mate was a bit of a prick, anyway.
(secret lovers but simon will not be kept a secret.)
you hadn't liked him from the get go. amongst the regulars that frequent the place you work at serving drinks, had been him; a burly, massive figure that commanded attention even though his clothes were nondescript and blended into the shadows created by the sickly, flickering lights overhead. his broad shoulders were squared, imposing, the fabric of his faded jeans stretched taut over his knees, tapering down to his scuffed sneakers.
him appearing a menace isn't what made him stand out. it doesn't even make him special, to be honest. one too many rowdy oafs call this hole in the wall a haven, seeking solace at the bottom of a thick glass.
it's the very air around him. it's heavy, muted, as if absorbing sound and movement. that one time you had the displeasure of personally handing him an beer, it'd felt suffocating, pressed down on you, made it hard to breathe. the stillness had been almost palpable, the usual hum of the bar nought but a distant buzz, even the clank of the chilled glass on the table had seemed muffled.
you'd felt the drink slosh over the rim in your haste to get away, retreat, escape. he hadn't even glanced your way and you'd been overwhelmed.
fucking hell.
and that's not the worst of it. the way he looks at people is unsettling. his beady eyes glint with a manic, rabid hunger, fixated on any bare legs that come into his field of view, as if he sees nothing but prey. that turns the discomfort that pricks at your skin into disgust.
revolting bull of a man is a pervert to boot.
(sometimes he comes in with others, 3 much more approachable, charismatic men that pop that personal bubble of oppressive silence he brings with him with their boisterous laughter and lively chatter. they're good folk except for when they want to act like your eyes are on your chest.)
so it's a true shame you spent weeks snarking about how foul he is when he's one of the best lays you've ever had in your life. (and continues to be.)
it's all discreet, of course. you can't be caught having a thing with the man you'd cursed up, down and sideways because he wouldn't stop staring at the tits you let him come on that same week.
you wouldn't even know how to explain how all of this started. that'd he'd been a surprised you and strong armed a belligerent drunk off the property for you a while back? that he'd happened to be around when your car got a flat, pulled out a jack from the bed of his truck and told you to sit your 'pretty arse' inside while he changed it? or that after the nth night of him being the very last patron, you realized he'd only leave after you were done with restocking and ready to close up shop?
you kept it all of it on the down low. pretended you couldn't feel his eyes on you, boring holes into the side of your head while at work then garble out his name through the fingers you're drooling over after work.
and it stayed that way for a while. he never stayed longer than you let him (not like that meant anything, he barely let you out the bed to pick up the door dash before he sat you on the countertop and lapped at your sore cunt until you came.)
he rarely used his phone so there was no worry about sudden texts while you had friends around.
it seemed a fine thing at the time. but then he started sitting at the bar top instead of his usual corner haunt, occasionally calling you over with a curl of his fingers (the ones he had you lick clean last night.) he stopped being a total lech, keeping his eyes glued onto you and you only, being so blatant about it that your co-workers offered to walk you to your car later.
embarrassing. you'd meant to give him a talk about laying off the intensity of his stare but it slipped your mind when he slipped into you from behind while fisting your hair.
when your boss is the one that gives you the stranger danger talk, even though you have said strangers love bites mottling the junction of your shoulder, you decide that enough is enough. so after your shift, you ask to speak with him.
only to have him snort in your face.
"don't think so."
before you get to say anything else, he's sitting you on the hood of his truck, legs hooked over his shoulders, eye level with your bare pussy because he'd stuffed your knickers into his pocket before work.
the first glide of his tongue between your folds is deliberately slow, tip catching the bundle of nerves at the top. your palm stings from digging your nails into it.
the second sends a shiver licking up your spine, his hands dimpling the soft of your thighs to keep you from squirming.
"look at me."
your body reacts instinctively at the low, grating tone of his voice and you're peering down at him before your mind can even catch up.
he nips at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. "best get used to 'avin' me 'round." this was no conversation.
the tips of his fingers grazing over your wet heat, gently prodding the entrance. when he sinks them in, scissoring, thrusting, you realize he's not going to let you come.
this isn't a reward. this is about to be your punishment.
slick glistens on his knuckles under the streetlight as he undoes the zipper of his jeans, the sound of the metal teeth deafening in your prickling ears.
simon puts his hand close to your mouth like he's done in the bedroom, and you spit on it, like you've done in the bedroom.
the searing (but oh so good) burn is both familiar and not when you take him to the root, a shuddering breath escaping your quivering lips at the sensation of him filling you until the seams feel like they're becoming undone.
he lowers his head to nose your sweat-slick temple, large hands flat by your sides. his breaths warm your throat as he speaks.
"i won't be your dirty little secret, pet."
a hand creeps up to the nape of your neck, claiming a fistful of hair. simon pulls a sibilant hiss from you when he tugs hard enough to ache.
ouch.
"can't shove me in a closet and pocket the key." he rolls his hips once, twice before widening his stance.
oh.
oh no.
"now be good and let me take what's mine."
there'd been no arguing with him before he fucked you in earnest, and certainly not after when he takes you home, spend dripping onto his seat on the way there, where he makes you ride him on the driveway, only letting you go inside once he felt he got his message across.
(message understood.)
the next morning you wake to sore thighs, a throbbing pussy, a dry mouth and a text from your boss.
i've got cameras outside the place, by the way. go home next time.
Ghost sharing you with the rest of the 141, simply because he honestly can't keep up with your sex drive. Ghost fucking loves you, but he isn't in the mood that often. It's a wonderful thing when he is — he always gets you sobbing from pleasure with his nice, thick cock and dirty words spilling from his mouth — but it just doesn't happen much. Between his chronic pain flaring up or his ptsd rearing its head he finds it a little difficult to want to fuck you as often as you'd like him to. He knows you're more insatiable than him and he feels guilty sometimes, not being able to keep up; even though you have never and would never complain about the infrequency of sex.
Takes a while for him to come to terms with it. Takes a bit longer for him to decide on what he thinks is the only suitable option; let his mates, the men he trusts with his life, have their way with you. Starting with the one he trusts most.
It's nerve-wracking the first time he lends you to Captain Price, some cynical part of him worried that you'll like it a bit too much and decide Ghost isn't worth sticking around for. Ghost shouldn't have been worried though — Price sends along a video of him fucking you, assumedly recorded just seconds before. The noises you make are loud and filthy. You're clearly cockdrunk and almost incomprehensible when you whine. But when Price growls the question in your ear, you don't hesitate.
"Tell us who you belong to, sweetheart, go on. Who owns you, darlin?"
"S-Simon!" You moan, nearly sobbing it out. Ghost's hand is on his clothed cock as he watches you cry and squirm. "Ah, 'm Simon's! Please, please, fuck, please!"
Price chuckles and the video cuts just as his hips speed up. A moment after Ghost is finished watching, a text pops up underneath it.
hi um uhh i'm too shy to um ask non anonymously so yeah uh
um could you do a fluff scenario where michael myers gets jealous of um our stuffed animal so he forces us to hug/cuddle him instead ?
Ofc! I think it’s an adorable idea and I’d be happy to do it :)
next time, please try to add a gender or however the reader is presenting (masc, fem, etc) ;)
~~
you laid there on your bed, your arms wrapped around a rather fluffy and large bunny stuffed animal. it was soft and very fluffy, still slightly warm with the scent of fresh laundry detergent from just having been washed. it was your favorite stuffie, having gotten it a few years ago when college was getting too stressful. you were on the verge of sleep, the stuffie pulled to your chest and your body curling around it as you nuzzled your face into the fluff of its body, the fabric easy to breathe through. suddenly, your boyfriend entered the room, his heavy footsteps and tall posture making you flinch slightly since he was so silent entering the house and coming up the stairs. your eyes opened slightly, half lidded as you moved a bit to look at the masked man standing in your doorway. usually, you would immediately stand up and cling to the killer, wrap your arms around his torso and maybe lecture him a bit about tracking blood into the house once again.
-"hi hun..."
you muttered, allowing your eyes to flutter closed and your muscles to relax. Michael stood there a minute, shifting slightly as he settled into his stance. you were half asleep, not even awake enough to read him and tell that he was waiting for something, for the usual routine to be fulfilled, yet your warm embrace never came. Michael hesitated, then stalked closer, making his footsteps heavier as he always did since you seemed to get spooked when he would suddenly appear behind you. his shadow loomed over your sleeping figure, his breathing slightly audible from behind his worn pale mask. he observed your delicate sleeping features, a slight pang of annoyance in his chest as the stuffed animal you were holding instead of him obscured your pretty face.
he put his bloodied knife down on your nightstand, then reached for the stuffed animal with his other hand, the leftover crimson on his skin immediately staining the soft white fabric of the plushie. your eyes shot open, brows furrowing as you tighten your grip around the stuffed animal.
-"Michael-?"
you looked up at Michael as if his masked face would tell you anything about his intentions, the staining color on your favorite animal slipping your detection. it wasn't even a fight, Michael Myers being more than half your size and easily pulling the plushie from your grasp, then throwing it to the side on the floor. you gasped softly, your gaze following the poor glorified pillow that was caught in the crossfire of Michael's entitlement for your attention. you looked back up at at the killer, your brows furrowed and your bottom lip out in a pout. the pleading look seemed to go unnoticed by Michael this time, instead the man just grabbed your shoulder and pushed you down on the bed, climbing on the bed with you. he held you down with one hand, using the other to stabilize himself above you as he adjusted on the bed. you couldn't escape or even struggle as he settled on top of you, the bed creaking in protest as his weight moved the bed slightly.
you whined, bracing yourself as he laid his body on top of yours, his arms on either side of you caging you in. you tried to move, but he only allowed you to adjust underneath him. with a huff, you relaxed your muscles, turning your head towards the door and away from his to show how displeased you were. you pouted, your eyes feeling heavy once again as Michael's body heat seeped into you, his weight calming and grounding. suddenly, he shifted slightly, one hand moving to your hair as the other hand forced its way under your torso, his large hand resting on the small of your back. MIchael held you close, the hand in your hair gently and softly tugging the roots in the way he knew you liked. he rarely ever pampered you in such a way, making you think this was maybe a way he was silently saying sorry, not yet realizing you still had no idea he got blood all over your white stuffed animal.
you let out a sigh of relaxation, snuggling closer to his chest. he was laying on the side of the bed closest to the door, his way of trapping you and making sure you couldn't leave, but you were too tired to care, your hands moving to his chest and your breathing becoming softer and more steady as you fell into a quiet sleep. you could never tell if Michael actually even slept, his ominous mask only indicating that he was watching you since his head was tilted down. the fact that his ministrations in your hair eventually ceased lead you to believe that he indeed did eventually sleep.
I met a guy in the Summer (dilf!Konig x fem!Reader)
Your boyfriend is an asshole. Luckily, his hot dad just returned from deployment.
CW and Tags: Cheating, dub-con, size kink, daddy kink, age gap(reader in 20s, Konig is early 40s), Konig is a pervert, slightly obsessive Konig, love(and lust) at first sight, fingering, dom!Konig
Word count: 3713
AO3
“Just one more game, babe, don’t be a buzzkill. I don’t want to end at a loss.”
You didn’t want to be a buzzkill, of course. You simply wanted to be a good girlfriend, have some domestically cozy date, and for your boyfriend to at least try to put an effort into being with you. It wasn’t much to ask for, really. You hoped so, at least. You didn’t want to be an annoying, nagging girlfriend who only ever waits for another reason to yell at him, but your patience started to run thin.
You spend the past three hours either listening to his apathetic rambling about the shows he watched – really, you wanted to invest in stuff he liked, but an abnormally large amount of animes he talked about had 1000-year-old girls who looked like they were 10, wearing inappropriate outfits, and you started to raise the alarm.
You also watched him play – and also listened to his rage quitting and angry voice messages to his team that, honestly, made you slightly anxious. You never liked loud people, people who were so easy to rage about something as silly as some colorful video game with too many characters to look after.
So, like a good girlfriend would – you wanted to be a good girlfriend, he was such a nice guy before you started dating, and you need something to think about besides the tremendous amount of study work you are doing for college – you decided to go and look for snacks. Maybe bring something for him as well.
— I’ll find something to eat, alright?
He didn’t respond at first, so you shook his shoulder. Your boyfriend took off his headphones with annoying look on his face, half-turning to look at you. You gulped, suddenly feeling like a child in front of the principal – not a feeling that you were supposed to feel around your partner, but with him, you somehow constantly felt like you were being judged.
— Nah, stay here. I don’t want my father to see you.
— Ah…your father is at home?
You never heard anyone else being at the house – big house, you must admit, and it’s embarrassing almost how you never thought about his family. He lives with his dad, apparently, and the depth of your relationships can only be judged by the fact you literally didn’t know what his father’s name was.
— Returned from his fucking deployment. He’d ask too many questions about you.
— You didn’t tell him about me?
Ah, now you’re hurt a little bit. You knew it wasn’t anything serious or too committed yet, but you intended to make this work. To try and fix all the problems you can without ending things abruptly.
— He never asked. Not like he cares too much, but…
An apathetic dad, huh.
You started to slowly piece together the puzzle that was your boyfriend’s horrible boyfriend skills. Now, you want to meet the man who conceived him and kick him in the nuts for creating such an unlovable human being who somehow captivated your chronically lonely heart.
— If you don’t want me to come and meet him, I can go home.
He doesn’t answer because his queue is finally coming to another match – you simply nod, knowing everything you need to. You can grab a little snack for yourself, fuck off to your dorm and rethink your life choices while your roommate is getting pounded by some gruss British bloke with an accent that makes your ears bleed.
You have dignity, and right now, it has asked you to get some snacks from the kitchen.
***
Now, the only thing König wanted after returning from deployment was to take as many hot showers as he could, shut his bastard of a son up, and get some delicious food waiting for him in the freezer. He was already home for a few days, but adjusting is always hard when you basically fucking hate living at your own house. Of-fucking-course, his son was watching the house while he was away – and now he can’t even think of a good excuse to set him off to his mother. Too old to do this, and split custody never really worked when not even one part of the relationship wanted to take care of the kid.
König closes the door of the refrigerator – of course, his son took every good thing that he stashed for himself. With a groan, the colonel fights the urge to finally throw him out of the house – a thing he needed to do a few years ago, just when he celebrated his 18th, but some sentimental part of his heart instead promised to help with finding a place close to the college. No good deed goes unpunished.
With a groan, he takes a few steps from the fridge – and then he almost stumbles across an angel.
Scheisse
Now, König never thought of himself as a predator who prefers running after college girls who might as well be his daughters. He never thought of himself as a gut who liked them young – his wife, god forsake her name, was his age when they started dating, and he hardly had any sexual encounters with a person under 25 in the past few years. Well, not like he had any sexual encounters in the past years, but…
The thing is – he never thought he liked girls with wide eyes, pouty faces, and trembling hands who were holding a bag of his cookies that he carefully stashed away from his son.
You are wearing something cute, a nice skirt and an adorable pink cardigan that looks so cozy and warm and soft, and he fights the urge to grab your skirt and simply lift it, You’re dressed up for a cute coffee date, and König has to double check if he isn’t dreaming and no one has decided to play a prank on him and send him a cute callgirl.
— Oh! Sorry. It’s yours, isn’t it?
You give him his cookies back – but not before your fingers fished another salty caramel goodness out of the bag, and you bit it. He looks at your teeth, at your lips, and glimpses of your tongue – god, he is an old, dirty bastard because even his baggy pants aren’t enough to hide his boner. You have no right to look this pretty for a man who hasn’t seen a woman in three months and hasn’t had sex in the past few years.
You lick the crumbs from your fingers – it’s such a deliberate action that he can’t believe he actually sees it, and it’s not even something from porn he used to like.
— Ja. You can have it.
He would give you the code to his bank account if you asked for it.
— Thank you, sir. I’m…well, I assume if Paul didn’t introduce me to you…I’m his girlfriend. Nice to meet you.
You lick your lips and take a step back, pressed against the counter. He looks at the sway of your hips, a bit of crumbs on your shirt, and almost brushes it away with his hands. It would be a good excuse to touch your chest – but he can’t be like this, he has to keep his urges under control, or else his son will never forgive him.
Yeah, like he needs a better reason to throw his useless son from his home.
— Girlfriend? He never spoke about you.
You look sad, and he immediately curses under his breath. For a moment, you look too fragile – too real. He can’t handle this look on a woman, especially as pretty and young as you are. You bat your eyelashes, even involuntarily, and he already prepares to give you the keys to his home just so you’d stop with such miserable expressions. He has a spare bedroom.
He has his bedroom with a bed that would be enough for both of you.
— Ah. Um. We’re…I guess we’re not at this stage yet.
— Knowing him, you’ll never be, Schatz.
You look at him immediately – you’re offended, angry, and sad at the same time. There is a certain stubbornness in your eyes that immediately makes him want to simply scoop you in his arms, lift you, and drag you straight to the altar – and here he thought that his impulses over getting married would be over after his first divorce.
— What do you mean by this, sir?
You look uncertain now, he can see this in your eyes – and really, knowing his asshole of a child, he is almost sure that Paul never once got you off, either physically or emotionally.
Now, König never once considered himself to be a good man. He has killed countless people, overthrown many governments, and made shitty jobs for shitty people way more than saving hostages to help the good guys – and in the romantic field, it’s even worse. Wife, unsatisfied with his controlling tendencies and inability to feel normal love for a human being – and a son who hates him because, in fact, he never once wanted to have a kid.
He looks at you and sees a pretty young thing, still in college or freshly out of, probably without a stable job and normal social standing – a good girl won’t be with his son if she isn’t stupid or extremely desperate for a relationship.
The thing is, König is also extremely desperate for another warm body next to his, to feel a woman beside him, to love and obsess over someone – he looks at your pouty lips and shaky hands, at the way you bite the corner of your glossy mouth, and he almost wants to drop you on this very table and fuck you until you’re crying under him. He can’t do just that, of course. It would probably make you extremely uncomfortable and scared, but…well, quite frankly, his son doesn’t deserve you.
König is.
— I won’t sugarcoat it, Schatz. My son is a Scheiß Arschloch…fucking asshole, that is. I’m surprised he brought home someone as cute as you.
You feel embarrassment collecting in your body. Paul’s dad is a…interesting man.
Tall, broad, very muscular – even his baggy house clothes aren’t really concealing his extremely interesting physique from your eyes. He looks yummy and tasty, and you fight the urge to eye the bulge in his pants because you’re a good girl, you don’t look at your boyfriend’s dad like this.
König has greying ginger hair, locks already curling slightly at the lack of cutting, and you fight the urge to sit on the counter and get your palm in his scalp, massage his head gently, and pull him closer for a kiss. You feel like a dirty, horrible woman – your boyfriend is in his room, probably enjoying his time on your “date” while you’re lusting over his father.
Then again, this date already felt like a disaster. This relationship, too.
— Paul isn’t all that bad, sir.
“He at least has a nice dick,” you wanted to add but stopped yourself. Paul is tall and somewhat strong – if he weren’t sitting at his computer all day, you would call him even muscular. And he has a nice dick, yes, even though he had no idea how to use it. You liked the idea of laying with him, of spraying your jaw trying to fit all of this in your mouth, but his kinks and his sex skills being directly taken from porn…not really your thing.
You look at König and wonder if they are similar in all of the places. He is his father, after all.
König catches your gaze locked on his bulge and smirks.
God, if he knew his son had such a cute girl, he would ask her to come earlier. He is two weeks off deployment and probably won’t take another long contract for a few months because they just upped his retirement payings, and he can afford to slack off a little bit, only visiting the home base for some training and instructions for rookies.
He can afford to retire and never worry about money again – but he needs someone to make his days less boring, right?
You look like a good candidate.
— I’m sure my son was convincing, but I know him better than anyone. He doesn’t deserve you, Schatz.
He is shitty at flirting, it’s not his forte – he can flaunt his money, maybe, show you in his wallet and bank account face first. He can just straight up ask you to be his sugar baby and suck his cock instead of doing your studies, but he can’t flirt and manipulate to save his life. Lying isn’t something he is good for, this is why his wife has left.
— I…not sure we should be having this conversation here.
You’re a good girl, and it’s infuriating. He knows that having someone in his bed shouldn’t be the end goal for his leave, but he wants you, and by the look on your face, you aren’t opposed to the idea. König doesn’t understand if he likes that you’re so reserved about it or if he wants you to be a bit more slutty – but he captures you in the space between the kitchen counter and presses you with his body.
— You want to see the bedroom then?
Pushes you so close his knee gets between your legs – it might look involuntary like he didn’t exactly want for it to be placed here, but you aren’t dumb, you know what he wants from you. Like a good fucking girl, you’re too shy to give it to him right about now. God, sometimes he hates being so nice to people around him.
— Sir, this is very…
He got you caged in his hands, body trapped in his embrace – you jerk your head upwards a little bit, staring at him like a small bird in the hands of a predator. He isn’t a strong man in regard of morals, he doesn’t see anything wrong with fucking his son’s girlfriend – if the girl is up to it. And if she isn’t…well, he better make sure she is.
— What is it, Schatz? Paul won’t hear us in his headphones.
You know just how wrong it is, and you almost want to escape – his dick grinds on your pelvis through his pants, and you’re horrified to see how big it is. Excited too, of course, he is bigger than your boyfriend ever could be, and you don’t want to be a slut, but, oh well, not like you were in a committed and serious relationship anyway.
Paul was seeing your friends more than you ever saw them – it’s probably a sign that you should settle for someone older. You did enjoy Lana Del Rey's songs, after all.
— I don’t want to break his heart.
— He doesn’t have one.
You’re lost when he pushes his lips to kiss you over and over again – a surprisingly good kisser, and you give in because it was the first time in forever a kiss made you feel this good. His lips are sending electricity down your spine, you want to moan just from his knee, pushing on the softness of your cunt through that adorable skirt you liked so much – you feel so small like this, so tiny in his hands, you…
God, you feel like a slut, and you like it.
Soon enough, you answered the kiss, your lips meeting his in a dance that made you feel hot, that made you feel like your boyfriend never could. Never thinking of yourself as someone who can fall so easily into the hands of an older man, now you know that he got you right where he wanted.
You push your hand on his pants, trying to get the control back – but he stops you, a giant hand enveloping your wrist and pushing you back. With a surprise on your face, König just wants to kiss you all over. God, you’re adorable, and he knows that you deserve way more than being fucked on the rough kitchen counter while your so-called boyfriend is too busy dickriding his friends in some useless online game.
— Not now, princess. You deserve better than being fucked on the kitchen counter, ja? It can come later.
“Later” sounds like a promise, and you bite back your moan when he keeps pushing his knee against your cunt, making you throb and clench on nothing. He is such a gentleman, you can’t help but compare him to his son – and his fabulous ability to make you feel dirty after fucking you in the backseat of his car and tossing you to your dorm with your pussy still wet and messy after you didn’t cum.
You sob, not from sadness, but from pleasure mixed with some weird, unnatural for you emotions – you feel weird, strained here like this, but you hug his neck and whisper something in his ear. Something, dangerously sounding just like “daddy, please”
König is blushing, and he looks fucking adorable.
— Daddy, ja? God, you’re dangerous, liebling. Going to get me in trouble with my son later.
He laughs when he kisses you again, his hand slipping in your panties only to find them completely soaked – he knows you deserve a nice pillow and soft sheets under your body, and he pushes you up so you can hug his waist with your legs. You rely on him like a cute pet, and you’re so perfect in his hands he curses himself for not seeing you before.
He is going to ruin you for anyone but him. Put so much cum in you, it will make your tummy bulge – make you his precious sugar baby, pay for your dumb college and make you move to his bedroom instead of some shitty dorm you probably share with four other people.
He can be good for you – but he will ruin you for anyone else, anyone appropriate, every guy your age who clearly doesn’t know how to treat a lady right.
— So wet for me…such a filthy thing, I didn’t know my son dated a whore.
— N…not a whore, please…
He kisses you on your forehead, silently apologizing. You feel his crooked, scarred smile, and you push your face up to kiss him – you want to touch him so badly it makes you feel stupid.
— Sorry, Schatzen. Not a whore, a good girl for her daddy, ja? So nice for me, too fucking young…
— W…we really shouldn’t…
— Tshhh, don’t think about it. Thinking will only hurt your pretty dumb head.
— I’m not…
— Quiet, little one. Let daddy handle everything.
He kisses you over and over, his fingers playing with your pussy – meaty digits digging in your hole, making you whimper from sudden intrusion. He is big, bigger than anyone else, just two of his fingers are enough to spread you as much as normal cock would, and even though you’re used to taking Paul’s size, you just know that his dad would be much, much bigger. He is going to split you open, and you will love every fucking second.
It feels so wrong, you still aren’t sure if you want him to touch you like this.
It feels so right, he is experienced and eager, pushing every button to make you squirm in his grasp. Your orgasm comes embarrassingly quick – maybe because you haven’t gotten off in ages, only miserable masturbation sessions and poor attempts at faking your orgasm made it feel real. Paul never cared enough to actually get you off – but now…
You aren’t ready for him. You squirm in his grasp when the pressure becomes too much, and he soothes you, two fingers still buried in your soaked cunt. You feel so dirty, so wrong right now – you are cumming on the fingers of your boyfriend’s absent father, and you love every second of it.
Post-orgasm clarity makes you whiny and sobby, and you whimper in his shoulder when he gently lifts you in his hands. God, you’re adorable, and he knows that he just scrambled your brain with that orgasm – it’s good, really, he might just want to keep your pretty head nice and empty for him. Not like you would ever need to think in his presence, the colonel can handle everything in- and out- of bed.
König holds you close, not allowing you to scramble away no matter how embarrassed you are. You are his precious thing, with a pouty face, and he will do everything in his power to make you squirm on his fingers again and again before he makes you his wife for good.
So impulsive, maybe this is why his son is such an asshole – taking the worst traits of his father.
— W…we shouldn’t have. Shit. I’m sorry, it was a m…god, I need to tell Paul.
— I’ll tell him.
— No!
— I will tell my asshole of a son that you’re my girl now, ja? And then I will take you to the bedroom, so we can fuck.
— I need to return to my dorm.
— And then I will dine you properly, okay? Sorry, Liebling, I know I should court you before all of this…but we can afford to go a bit off board, ja?
He is smiling, so smitten and obsessed over just having you cum on his fingers once – you don’t have the heart to say no. Never did. You’re a good, proper girl, and Paul was never treating you right anyway. You feel dirty, yes, but somehow, it is almost right.
He peppers your face with kisses, like a dog lapping its tongue all over your skin – you’re so concentrated on the warmth of his strong, seasoned body that you don’t even look in the direction of the doorway to the kitchen.
Paul, however, looks straight at you, disheartened and shocked.
— W…what the fuck, dad?!
König laughs, kissing you once again – deep, hot, with tongue and loud, sloppy sounds of your mouth pressing into one another. You’re stuck in place, still caged in his arms like a precious little pet you are.
— She’ll make a good step mom, ja?
You don’t even register his hands slowly caressing your fingers as if he already tries to check the ring sizes.
Your fingers will barely meet while wrapped around König's girthy and pulsating boner, to put his large and lengthy size into perspective. You can feel as König's leaking cock twitch and ache through desperation beneath your firm grasp. The delicate, intimate, and comforting touch of a woman drives him utterly insane, his bottom lip quivering as he attempts to string a coherent sentence together, intoxicated off of your beauty. The tension is thick, with him averting his gaze from yours in order to compose himself — to hold it together through the discomfort of his painful, drooling dick. He pants heavily, a loud whine emitting from within him.
“Oh, Gott— Bitte, Mein Schatz...” König lets out. His breathing quickens with each stroke and the intense and overwhelming touch of your thumb swiping over his creamy tip, collecting a pearl of his load. His sensitive and pink head oozes out drops of his pearly cum, each fist to his sore cock intensifying his perverted and debauched urge to ruin you — to regain some control and put you in your place. But, God, it's an opportunity König has been dreaming of — one that would only be offered to him out of pity for the loser.
The sight of his unsightly appearance is enough to scare off any woman, let alone his embarrassingly large cock. No one wants their insides rearranged and a long-lasting, worsening ache between their thighs for days. Your touch is soothing and distracting from the fact he's nothing but a freakish moron, and it doesn't take a lot of effort to leave him trembling and bucking into your soft, warm hand at the waves of euphoria rushing through your body, with a bead of sweat wandering down his forehead at the sickening, sexual thoughts rushing through his filthy mind.
pairing: Shouta Aizawa x exotic dancer!reader (fem)
word count: 1.3k
warnings: coffee shop acquaintances to lovers. he’s comes off a little stalkery at first, but nothing too intense. he’s just very into you and also very unsure how to pursue that. takes place in a strip club. soft/intimate sex. handholding <3
Aizawa doesn’t normally do this.
He doesn’t typically frequent establishments of this sort. The kind that are full of dim lighting and dollar bills. It’s not that he holds anything against these types of places; it just isn’t usually his scene.
He’s not even really sure what he’s doing here. He’s out of his element, but he couldn’t resist the temptation when he heard that the cute waitress who knows just how he likes his coffee moonlighted as an exotic dancer.
He tried for some time; he really did. How could he possibly stay away forever though? With the knowledge that he might finally get a peek at what you’ve been hiding beneath that coffee stained apron all this time? He couldn’t.
Now he’s here, waiting in the corner. His ever tired eyes glued to the stage, anxiously awaiting a glimpse of you. He’s not even sure that you’re working tonight, but he’s willing to stay and find out. He’s willing to come back tomorrow night and the next night after. And so on and so forth. He just needs to see you.
But then once he does, once he sees you strut out on stage, all he can think about is how he wants to touch you.
His gaze ravages your form as you begin to move, sensually swaying and spinning around the cold steel pole. He’s so much warmer. He could give you so much more than the men hollering for your attention. He could give you everything that you deserve and so, so much more.
He tunes the men out, focusing on the way your body expertly moves to the music, though his ears do perk up when the DJ refers to you as “Kitten”.
An amused smile graces his lips as he leans back in his chair, finally feeling a bit more comfortable in your presence.
That is, until you notice him.
You lock eyes with the man you’ve seen every morning for the past who knows how many months and for a second, you forget to breathe, but that’s nothing new. Every time he shuffles into your store, the same phenomenon occurs.
You forget to breathe and then you keep doing your job. This time is no different.
You keep your nerves in check, on the outside, at least. All that you can think of is a litany of questions.
How did he know? Did he seek you out? Is this simply happenstance? Is he going to treat you differently now that he’s seen you like this? Can you really take your top off on front of him?
It’s not like you have much of a choice. Off it comes and the way that you notice his eyes widen is worth the perfect reward for the risk.
You know that look. You’ve seen it hundreds, if not thousands, of times by now. He’s interested. You have him hook, line, and sinker.
So when your set is done, you depart the stage, feeling his gaze burning on your skin and loving every second of it. You can’t wait for more, so you make quick work of stowing away your earnings and putting yourself back together, so that you can make your way onto the floor.
He’s right where you left him, his eyes anywhere but on the dancer who’d since taken the stage. You’re hopeful that he’s looking for you and, of course, he is.
His stare meets yours and you gravitate to him, pulled in by some magnetic force that has your heels clicking in his direction, slow, sensual, and steady.
“I don’t recall seeing ‘Kitten’ on your nametag,” he murmurs, a lazy and effortlessly confident grin tugging on the corner of his mouth.
“I don’t recall ever seeing you here before,” you reply as you circle behind him, dragging your fingertips along his shoulders. “I’m not quite sure how to serve you here.”
He feels more muscular than he looks beneath his baggy clothes. You can’t help but wonder what else he’s hiding behind his aloof persona.
“But if I had to guess..” you continue, coming around to stand in front of him and straddle his lap. “I assume that you prefer it extra hot?”
It’s his turn to be rendered breathless. The subtle shift in his hips and the bulge growing beneath you is all the affirmation you need.
You smile and lean in, arms draping around his neck as your lips ghost the shell of his ear and you whisper,
“Why don’t you come with me?”
And you’re so grateful that he does.
Sweat rolls down your torso as your bodies glide and grind against one another, moans and groans being traded back and forth in the low light of the VIP room.
Your spine presses against the slick leather sofa beneath you, sticking to it when the thrust of his hips coaxes your body to bow and bend to his will.
He slips a sure hand beneath your back, leaving one last trail of kisses along your neck before he readjusts. He kneels, seizing your hips with both hands as he changes tempo, driving into you with more purpose.
The hair that’s come loose from his messy bun frames his face. The soft glow of the light illuminates his toned body in an enteral manner. His eyes are dark and full of lust, fixed squarely on your lewd expression. You’ve never seen him so feral and you’ve never been fucked this well.
He drives his hips into yours like he’s got something to prove. Like he’s finally releasing all the pent up energy from your daily exchanges. The subtle flirtations. The lingering touches when you personally hand him his drink. The stolen glances from across the shop. It’s all finally coming to a head and it feels glorious.
You want to tell him how good it feels. How good he’s making you feel, but you can’t find them. All you can do is reach for him, sinful noises pouring from your lips.
He takes your hand, interlocking his fingers with your own as he press it back into the sofa, squeezing it tight while his lips crash into yours. He readily swallow every decibel of desire vibrating against his mouth, swipes his tongue against your bottom lip and bites down, nipping at your kiss bitten pout as a particularly erotic groan is ripped from his lungs.
His hips move faster, angling up in just the right way to set you on a crash course straight into oblivion. That all encompassing feeling lights up every nerve in your body, winding you up and up and up until you hit your peak and crest over it beautifully.
His names tumbles from your tongue over and over as you mindlessly writhe and whimper beneath him, inspiring him to join you in nirvana. Seeing you like this is more than enough to do him in. He’s never felt pleasure quite like the jolt that runs through him when he finally spills his seed.
His hips briefly stutter and then fall right back in time, rolling as he rides out his high, all breathless grunts and softer whines than he’s seem capable of on the surface.
The silence that hangs in the air isn’t like any that you’ve felt before. It’s not awkward nor full of regret. It feels.. warm. Comfortable. Made easier by the way his thumb brushes against yours and how the tip of his nose nuzzles your neck.
Laying there in afterglow, all tangled up with one another as comfortably as lovers who’d had the privilege of spending a lifetime together already; it just feels right.
