tags: f!reader, ghost x reader(kinda), tongue piercing, masturbation
summary: drinks with the team can happen at any moment, but what other chance will you get to have a personally escort to your bed by none other than your favorite lieutenant?
can i pls request könig just being utterly desperate for reader?, like he's practically dry humping them and they're being a little mean about it but he doesn't even care because he's so far gone?
ok so könig doesn't fall in but...they're both cold so it counts, right!!
könig x reader || 6100 words || 18+ ONLY. AFAB/fem reader, no description, use of y/n, pronouns, or gendered language. frottage, size kink, and könig being a smug little shit
Fuck — everything hurts. Everything really fucking hurts. It’s cold, and your socks are wet, and you are absolutely fucking miserable.
And everything. Hurts.
Even your face. The chill is biting, the sort of sting that lights up your animal hindbrain in aversion. Warmth, it tells you shelter, fire, food. Warmth! You’re close to tapping out, close to saying fuck it and lying in the snow and hoping for the sweet, sleepy release of death.
A branch catches you across the cheek sharply, a worse snap of pain than wind and cold combined, and you cry out, gloved hands coming up to clutch it.
“Ah!”
The huge shadow moving several feet in front of you pauses its long, quick stride. Turns slow, facing you with the hooded visage you’d come to acquaint yourself with in the last few days. He still scares you, but you’ve gotten relatively decent at reading him in so little time. You can tell he flashes no anger, no impatience, just concern.
“Shit!” He catches the branch before it can swing at you again, brand your cheek in another red line, and shoulders the mass of shrubbery so you can pass by on the meager trail.
He’s nice. As nice as a stranger could be, you suppose. Also… very peculiar. Since he’d picked you, your friend, and her boyfriend up at the basecamp several days ago, that quality has become increasingly apparent. But you note it with no judgment nor malice — he’s weird with a certain charm. You find it remarkably endearing.
He had, admittedly, not been the sort of person you wanted to see upon being assigned a guide for the little excursion. You had followed along your friend on the ill-conceived trip because her new piece was an aspirant survivalist. Had, he claimed, watched enough documentaries to survive in the arctic for at least a month. You doubted it, but kind of wanted him to attempt such a feat anyway — he never did the dishes, your friend said, and often made snide comments to explain something she already knew. For all you cared, the arctic could have him.
She’d convinced you to join them for a trip into the Austrian countryside, a fun vacation that was much needed on your part. A way to disconnect, a short excursion, and one that, if you agreed, her latest obsession would fund. You expected a bougie ski lodge or humble touristy food-circuit with a view of the Dolomites.
Not, you’d snapped at her upon arrival at your destination, the fucking Alps.
Her boyfriend had tracked down and hired some obscure survivalist tour group. Signed the three of you up for a week-long ‘extreme camping’ experience — safe, he’d promised, because the excursion came with a trained professional to direct the trip and negate any risk.
Not all of it, though. Because, as is the depraved character of nature, shit had gone fucking south.
The snowstorm had come out of nowhere, despite reports of clear skies and moderate to mild temperatures. Overnight, too, so you had the distinct luxury of waking up shivering to a tent covered in snow and ice. As conditions worsened your terrifying guide — König, all he’d introduced himself by — made the tough decision to end the trip early.
Your friend’s boyfriend fought back, empty-handed on a refund. The two of them had packed up and disappeared after a lunch huddled around a flickering campfire König had barely managed to get started in the wind. Off on their own adventure, or chasing their own death. You weren’t sure. Were too cold to care, frankly.
König’s mood seemed to chart similarly.
“I am so…well. Mad is the word I want, but worse.” He grumbles, moving his hands in circles as he speaks. A tight, barely-controlled gesture of frustration, focused now on little else than getting you both to relative safety. Translation doesn’t seem too high on his list of priorities, if the adjoining string of German that spills forth is any indication. “How could they be so stupid?”
“Angry,” you offer, teeth chattering. You’ve slowed your pace substantially, muscles tight with exhaustion, achey with something more compellingly unpleasant than a fever. You just want to sit down. Rest, for five minutes. Chilled to the fucking bone, apt as the saying could be.
It’s hard to think of more words, but König shakes his head, fist shaking in a more! gesture. Something tells you to keep using your brain, to stay conscious, and you figure a little verbal thesaurus rant might just be the thing to keep yourself present.
“Uh,” you say, words coming short. “Mad?”
König stops so suddenly you nearly bump into his broad back. He turns to look at you, hood dashed and sprinkled like powdered sugar in the surprise flurry. The snowflakes glisten against the fabric, crystalline and delicate, and your eyes focus hazily on the contrast of dark material and diamond-shine flakes.
“We started there, at mad.” König points out. His head tilts down, finding your gaze distant, and then to the side. A curse flutters out, lost to the wind. Suddenly, big hands clutch your shoulders. Shake you a little. “Verdammt. Your lips — why didn’t you say anything?”
You blink at him slowly, rubbing them together. You can’t feel it. “I d-did. Say things. Angry…m-mad.”
König swears again, much louder. His hands fall away and you rock forward, chasing the warm spread on your body. Instead, he walks in a quick, manic circle, both palms flat on the top of his head. They tap rhythmically, little pap paps like he’s drumming a beat into his skull.
“Wappler. Fucking. Two months on the job, and now you’ll be fired for getting a fool tourist kill—““ König stops the rant, interspersed throughout with words in his native tongue. He turns to look at you, eyes roving over your form. “Hey. Hey, listen. Are you going to die?” He asks, shuffling back through the snow to take you in hand again. One on top of your forehead, adjusting your jacket’s hood, and the other fisted in the front of it.
You sway a little where you stand, eyes lidded.“I’ll h-haunt you if I die out in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
König laughs. It snips high at the end, like he can’t quite manage the excitement — or, perhaps, relief.
“Ok, I think you… will hopefully be fine.” He tilts your chin up, gloved index finger tucked into the curve, and peers at you from under the mask. His eyes are gorgeous, lit inhumanely bright with the sun that reflects off fresh snow. The pallor of them, just like the rest of his imposing figure, is intimidating, but again — you’ve simply embraced that you find all his fantastic curiosity compelling.
Attractive, even, which is ridiculous because you haven’t even seen his goddamn face.
“Although it would be better if you had not fallen into that puddle.” König mutters.
“W-wasn’t a puddle,” you argue, dancing in place. Your feet, damp from the embarrassing spill you’d taken and barely protected in hiking boots, are starting to numb. “Practically the ocean.”
“Stupid. Come, we should keep moving.” He laughs again and rubs your arms vigorously. A friendly gesture, one meant to comfort and warm you. It does…perhaps just not the way he intends. König’s big, and you’ve spent the last several days staring at the wide splay of his shoulders, the obvious dents and curves of muscle underneath his turtlenecks, and the tantalizing patch of skin you’ve glimpsed when he stretches.
You wonder what he looks like. You wonder what he looks like face flushed in the cold. You wonder what he looks like face flushed with arousal.
The collage of thoughts, blurry without detail and obscene nonetheless, makes your head swims. It’s no small blessing that he mistakes your accompanying whimper for a noise of discomfort or exhaustion.
“I know, I know. We’re almost there. Just a ways more to go, and then you will be warmed up and we can eat.” He’s nodding as he speaks, empathetic. Voice rousing like a trained orator. Convincing you, convincing himself, and staring at you while he waits for a response, intense and dazzling. Beseeching in a manner that hypnotizes you in place, along with the grip of his hands around your biceps.
“Can you go just a little longer for me, mauschen? I think you can, right? You’re doing well and being brave about this. You can take a bit more.” He squeezes.
You’re nodding before he finishes the sentence, eyes wide and stinging dry against the wind. Fuck, you’re not sure if he’s doing it on purpose, sounding like that. Maybe you’re delirious, maybe then cold is getting to you quicker than you thought.
“C-came with her to make sure she wouldn’t get, like, fucking murdered in some college-slasher B-movie horror type shit.” You explain, shivering so violently you nearly bite your tongue on the words. “And I might just die a popsicle instead. That’s way less badass.”
König laughs heartily, head tossed back against the wind, and pulls away with one less pat. “Yes, it is. So you’ll have to not die that way, yes?”
He trudges forward, and every step he takes sweeps an extra six inches to the side — clearing an easier path for you in the building snow.
●
As promised, shelter isn’t much further along the trail. You’d prefer a resort, or perhaps somewhere with central heating, but the ancient, tiny A-frame cabin tucked against a hillside will have to do. It’s probably gorgeous in the summer, with the creak thawed and flowing, the surrounding forest thick with the scent of rain and green, lush life, wildflowers and fauna and the dazzling expanse of blue Austrian sky.
So you try not to swear at it too hard as you cross the threshold, find it nearly empty and sparsely supplied. Keep that warm image in your head: in the spring, it’ll be pretty. If you make it past this forsaken fucking storm, you’ll come back and witness it for yourself.
König practically shoves you through the doorway and makes a beeline for the humble fireplace. The floorpan is open, so you stand in the center of the space and watch as he leaps into motion, into emergency mode. You haven’t seen him so frantic up until this point, and the concerned glances he keeps tossing your way make you anxious.
“What. H-have I turned into an…an i-ice cube?” You quip, arms wrapped around your torso while you watch him wrench open the oven and check to see if the power is on. He swears colorfully and slams it shut, pumping at the sink handle without results.
“This is not ideal.” He mutters, returning to his task of stoking the fire. It flickers gently, flames licked promising at the dust settled into the crevices a fir log found next to the mantle. “It will be awhile before it’s is warm enough, and you’re still soaked.”
You glance down at yourself, the puddle of brackish water pooled at your feet, and lift a boot. “I think coming inside was enough, actually. I’m starting to warm up.”
When you look at your guide again, his eyes are wide with panic behind the hood. “You are…warm?”
You nod, unaware of how stilted and loose the motion looks. Everything in your skull feels syrupy, your thoughts starting to whirr together in a pleasant buzz that leaves your vision blurring. Swaying where you stand, kept up only by the hand König places on your shoulder.
“Oh,” König says, staring at his gloved hand. Unnaturally cold to the touch, your wet jacket — certainly not warm enough for the weather. “Scheiß. This is…” His gloved hand cups your face, turning it this way and that. Your eyes flutter shut. “Ah, fuck.”
“It’s fine. I’ll warm up if I just lay down for awhile.” Heavy, trudging steps carry you towards one corner of the cabin, where a plainly made mattress and pile of blankets have begun to sweetly call your name.
König grabs you by the wrist, tutting. “You are not allowed to sleep, mauschen. Don’t even think about it.”
You pout up at him, but he’s unswayed at your attempted manipulation.
“You are hypothermic. Or nearly there.” He says, the word clipped and precise in his accent. “If you go to sleep now, you might not wake up.”
The exhaustion is really getting to you now, a lull that tempts you to pull away, sit on the ground and surrender. It will be the best sleep of your life. It will probably be the last.
“Okay.” You shrug as König pushes the hood from your head. Underneath, your hair is damp with sweat and droplets of water and snowflakes. With your temperature low as it is, the tiny gleaming bits are lingering, stubborn to melt. “And? No more taxes.”
He huffs, amused despite the narrowed, worry sliver of his gaze. His fingers pluck deftly at the buttons of your jacket, quicker than you could manage right now. “Don’t joke like that.”
“No more streaming service subscriptions.”
“Stop,” he warns, and you imagine he’s biting his lip under there to keep from laughing.
“No more porn ads when I’m trying to read the news.”
Now he does chuckle. Muffled and low from beneath the fabric, but the sound of it is endlessly charming.
“Give me your hands,” he demands, reaching for the wrists that have already floated up towards his grasp. König’s confidence and readily-shared accumulation of survivalist tips, animal facts, and botanical knowledge had been just a few of the things that immediately enthralled you. Hearing him speak with authority on the subjects that interested him, eager and passionate, had been the source of your only true smiles during this fucking trip. The demand from him now, warm with fondness and yet unwavering firm, makes heat pool into your belly.
It’s not much: a faint, flimsy battle waged in certain doom against the hypothermia numbing you. Still, it’s something.
“Oooh,” you coo, flirtatious without much more detail, and grin when his fingers fumble on the clasps of your gloves. The idea that you’ve made him nervous is like catnip. “K-keep telling me what to do.”
König shakes his head — either amusedly chastising or dismissive. You know which you’d prefer. “I really do not think this is the time.”
You tip your head down, try to find his eyes as his face is bowed over the gloves giving him trouble. When you catch them, you grin saucily. “You’re saying there will be a time, though?”
“I am trying to save your life.” He chides, and finally manages to get a glove off. He tucks it between his arm and rib cage to warm your shaking fingers, moving onto the other. “Stop distracting me.”
“Am I?” You murmur, voice dropping. König glances briefly at your face and then studiously back down, working the button on your glove with fingers that are less sure than a moment ago. While he’s engrossed, you take the opportunity to wiggle your hand against his side, banking on —
König jerks away, folding protectively as he pulls from that provoking touch. He makes a fucking incredible noise, something pitchy and rough in his throat that teeters off breathlessly.
“No way,” you snicker, doing it again for a mirrored reaction. “W-wow. That’s great. Big guy like you? Ticklish?”
“Don’t,” he warns, but it stutters out on what is undoubtedly a giggle. As a result, it sounds significantly less solemn than he intends. “I will throw you out into the snow.”
“No you won’t.” You call his bluff, eyes fluttering. He’s taken both your hands in one of his huge paws now. You’re hypnotized by his movements, the free hand that pulls the zipper down his coat and guides all your frigid digits inside. Cocooned between his body heat and the down fabric, they ache at the temperature change and make you shiver. It hurts, your fingers reddened by the cling of wet material and blistering wind, but the pain is a sweetly removed inconvenience against the thing that settles like a blanket over the two of you.
König stares down at you, his fingers stroking over your wrists. Beneath the curl of your knuckles, his torso is firm. You want little more than to flatten your hand and explore the breadth of it, slip your hands over the muscle that you know lies beneath. Chisel away at that disguise, peel back layers until you find out what color his hair is, what his skin looks like flushed.
Your teeth chatter suddenly, loud in the deafening silence, the quiet crackle of flame in the fireplace, and he jumps as if startled.
He releases your hands, lets them drop to your sides, and steps away. Putting distance, maybe, as he assesses you. The concern wipes away whatever gentle spell had just fallen between you, and the return of it makes you frown. His eyes pull at the edges.
“Are you feeling much better?”
“No,” you admit, because your toes could be a country away, for as distant as they feel. “I’m really tired. Can’t I sleep while you go look for them?”
“No,” König echoes much more brusquely. Annoyed, almost. “You are not sleeping. They can figure it out themselves, if he is so confident. Oaschbrunzer.”
“Compliment?”
König reaches for you, grumbling, peeling now at the jacket and your windbreaker underneath. “Yes, sure.”
“W-whoa,” you murmur, chin tucked to your chest as he pulls at you. “Not complaining, but I thought you didn’t want a distraction?”
His hands snap away as if burned, and you kick yourself for even saying anything at all. König’s nice, but flighty; sometimes all it takes for him to withdraw inwards is the wrong word, calling attention to something he hadn’t meant to show.
“Sorry,” he says. “I should — we need to get your clothes off.”
You spread your arms, eyebrows raised, in open invitation. “So down.”
He reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose over the hood, sighing. Done with your fucking antics, it seems. “Not like that. The fire won’t be hot enough for at least an hour. You are going to die if you stay in wet clothes.”
Blinking rapidly, you admit: “I don’t have any spare. They’re in my friend’s pack.”
“I —“ König trails off, eyes glazing a little as they trail over your shoulders. Pointedly, it seems, staying away from the center bits of your torso. Like he’s trying to be respectful, trying not to piece together a mental image. “We need to get your clothes off.”
“You said t-that already.” You point out, rubbing your hands together, seeking heated friction — anything, really, to pull life back into the tips of your fingers.
König shrugs, helpless, and then seems to steady himself. He reaches for you once again, pushing your sopping outer layers off your shoulders. They plop into the puddle you’ve left, streaks of mud and snow on the floor. Any sort of tension you might be keen to act on dissipates under another violent shiver. He notes the intensity of it and speeds up his efforts. A sounder mind would be more concerned with the panic of those movements, but you’re only distantly aware. Everything edges black, you sway in place, and König must help you over to the cot. Jostled and guided about like a puppet.
“If I d-die you should definitely d-de…delete my phone history.” You request. Your skin prickles in goosebumps as König drags your thermal undershirt over your head, fingers quick and assured but surgical. He’s being very careful not to touch any bare parts that are revealed, keeping everything polite. Proper. You wish he weren’t.
“You need to stop talking about dying.” He grumbles, and the end of the sentence trails quieter as he gets to his knees. You reach out and steady yourself on his shoulder, noting the tense flex of it under your palm before he relaxes slightly. Your trousers and fleece leggings follow, thrown into a pile with the rest of your clothes. “What’s on it?”
He’s trying to keep you present, keep you talking. “Weird porn.” You tease, just to make his movements stutter. “Pick up lines in Austrian.”
“Sit down,” König grits out, and you fall to the edge of the cot with a speed that would be embarrassing, were you able to process such emotions at the moment. You grimace at the tug of wet boots and socks from your feet. Curl inward a little, because you’re now at least slightly aware of the situation. You wish you’d picked more flattering undergarments, or at least underwear without a threadbare hold at your hip. At least something that matched.
König’s not looking, anyway. In fact, he’s looking desperately anywhere else — icy eyes dancing over your face, dipping never lower than the top of your naked shoulders, bouncing around the corners of the room like a DVD logo.
“This — uh. I’m not trying to be. Perverted,” he says. For all he stutters and hesitates over the words, you’d think he were the one at risk of passing out. “But we…the best way to warm up is, uh. Skin to skin contact.”
You blink at him, just once, and then laugh. “Oh man. Is that real? I always kinda thought it was an excuse to fuck? Like, a porn plot device.”
“It’s not!” He says defensively, wringing his gloved hands. Still not meeting your eyes. “I mean. I suppose that it is? Not now, shit, I’m not saying I am trying to get you naked —“
“A-aren’t you? Shame.” You fall back on the cot, reaching for one of the two fuzzy duvets at the foot of it. When you can’t manage the energy to reach for it, König leans down and wraps it around your shoulders. “Already did that, anyway.”
“Not entirely,” he laughs nervously, and then hiccups a sweetly shock “O-oh!” because you shoot him a challenging glare and peel yourself out of the ragged sports bra. Your underwear follow, even though the motion of kicking them off makes you dizzy.
“I. Okay. Well,” König tries several times to make the words come out, and then seems to give up. You watch with bleary, interested eyes that flutter sleepily as he undoes the belt on his pants, kicks off his boots, and then reaches for the hem of his shirt. “Okay.”
A little showier than necessary, you think, because he arches into the motion as it pulls over his head. No complaints — you get a front-row seat as firm, pale muscle is revealed. He’s got a spray of freckles over his hips, up his side, splattered along the center of his chest, and —
His hood comes off with his shirts and jacket, tangled in the fabric, and König is…oh. You bite your lip.
“Damn. Hi. You h-hide that for a reason?” You ask, gaze darting around the regal arch of his nose and angular features. He’s handsome, that sort of weird-attractive that you feel foolish for not expecting.
“Huh?” He brushes a hand through his hair — auburn, messy waves cut below his chin that have fallen out of a tight bun at the nape of his neck. It’s a few shades darker than maple-spiced cider, a hue that reminds you of dying, crunched leaves. He’s as huge out of his clothes than in them, built with a generous but lanky muscle that makes you think he has to work hard for it.
“Your face,” you breathe, dragging your gaze back up his torso to find said feature. There’s a delectable spray of pink over his cheeks, almost boyishly shy at your compliment. Invigorated, you offer: “You’re really cute, König. Bet you’d get more business if you advertised this way.”
He gapes at you like a fish out of water, scooped up from whatever depths he frequents by your hand, yanked rather than coaxed to the surface. Baited by the worm — your compliments, freely given, wriggling at the end of the hook. He seems wary of it, and rightly so. You liked him before, his quick wit and intimidating charm. Now that you’ve seen him laid bare, all you want to do is sink sharp into him, find the soft parts and pierce, attach yourself.
“This is going to be much more awkward if you keep doing that,” he mutters, taking several steps forward. Lingering in front of you, staring down the bridge of his nose from all the way up there. Eyes hooded as they travel over you freely now, tracing your bare arms and down, a polite yet admirative pause at your unclothed chest.
You smile up at him, head tilted demurely. More bait: “Doing what?”
König puts a massive hand on your shoulder and pushes, guiding your loose, cold limbs to the cot. Before you can say anything, he slides in with you.
Breath caught in your chest, you hold yourself still as death while he pulls the blankets up both of your bodies. They’re not long enough to accommodate the absurd length of him, and neither is the cot. To get comfortable, König tucks his knees. The movement presses his thighs flush to yours, warm, firm flesh and tickling hair making you giggle.
“Compllimenting me,” he accuses. “And that. The laughing.” His hand, awkwardly flat on the mattress, slides across your forearm and squeezes.
You’ve never felt dwarfed by someone the way you do by König. Every inch of him is warm where it presses against your chilled flesh. The temperature difference becomes distinctly clear; you’re still not out of the woods yet, but the reality of how close you’d come to an irreversible edge is obvious to you now. He radiates heat, and you can’t tell if it’s because you’re so fucking cold or that he just runs that warm all the time. Like a furnace — you could get used to this.
Now that your body has enough energy to expend function to your brain, it supplies a series of sweet images. König fit awkwardly into your bed at the hostel, draped like a Renaissance nude under the cheap sheets, smiling up at you. Sitting shirtless at your kitchen table, bashful smile on his face.
Another, much less romantic, fueled by the image of his huge form guiding the three of you through the forest, eyes frighteningly keen, discerning. You’d clocked him as ex-military during that first meeting; something about being led into nowhere by someone so clearly dangerous had scared you. Had intrigued you, too. So for all your brain paints him in soft brush strokes and pretty reds, it hands you flashes of being pulled roughly into his lap. Pressed against a tree, into the ground, those hands clutching and demanding instead of reverent.
“You like me or something?”
König’s turn to still. He’s holding himself further from your body than necessary, stomach angled carefully, purposefully away. That tells you all you need to know about his answer.
“I was going to ask you out at the end of the trip,” he admits, breath pouring over your neck. You shiver. It’s not from the cold.
“Were you? That’s…really cute, actually.” Your fingers coast up his arm, blunted nails dragging through the hair. “I would have said yes.” Shifting a little, pushing yourself back against his chest, you purposefully shoves your hips back into him. “I’ll definitely say yes if you ask now.”
There’s no escape — he’s trapped between the seeking crawl of your body across the cot and its edge. You’re content to lay there, soaking warmth like a cat in a spot of afternoon sunlight. In fact, your breath begins to slow, chest rising with less frequency as the saccharine comfort of a body against yours lulls you further towards sleep.
A big hand taps your thigh, and you jolt.
“Stay awake, okay? Not in the clear, yet.” His hand lingers, then pulls away. Resumes its awkward guard in the center of the cot by your nose.
Fuck it. Officially the trip and story of a lifetime, you might as well have this Austrian excursion sprinkled with one more near-unbelievable detail. You lean forward, tilting that hand towards your mouth, and deliberately trace your lips over the delicate expanse of his wrist. Behind you, the man shudders. Sucks in a breath, noise at the start of it like he’s biting back something louder.
“Any ideas to keep me awake?” A whisper against his skin; it goosebumps under your mouth, tiny bumps against the softness of your lips, and it’s such a sweet reaction that you have to plant a kiss there.
“Several,” König chuckles. “I am afraid they are not all about treating hypothermia.”
You squirm, flipping yourself onto your back and then your side to face him. König holds still while you arrange yourself, an arm thrown haphazard over his shoulder, your leg tossed atop his hip with more possessive vigor than seems acceptable for a stranger. With your ankle pressed into his ass, you drag yourself closer, analyzing each twist of his face as more and more of your body comes into contact with him.
“What a coincidence. Me too.” You purr, angling your elbow so you can bury your hand into the messy tangle of hair on the back of his head. You brush through it carefully, rubbing any snags between your fingers until it unwinds. Eager to see how he looks with it down, framing his face, you find the hair tie and pull it free.
“I promise,” König cuts off to blow a piece of it out of his eyes, “I promise I…I really wasn’t doing this to sleep with you, mauschen.”
“Yeah, sure buddy.” You tease, shuffling closer to assess the exact shade of pink he’s turning. “Just trying to save my life, or whatever.”
König shuffles too, a nervous stretch that slides his groin against yours, and you gasp. He does too, and as shocked as you sound at a vague hint of his size, he seems much more ruined.
“Fuck,” he groans. Unprompted, like he doesn’t seem aware of the motion himself, König’s hand shoots up to grip your ass. He pulls you forward, fingers splayed over the entirety of it — just that fucking big. He palms at you, leading you to believe you might not be the only one feeling oddly possessive.
“I don’t — we can’t really, uh. I’m…” König breaks off, letting go of your body to wipe a hand over his face. “I want to fuck you, but it might not be. Uh, possible, without some — verdammt. The more I talk, the more I sound like…What is the word. Douchebag? I promise I’m not being egotistical.”
You tilt your head, mouth curled in a smile. You’re baking now, warm all over, slick with anticipatory sweat instead of snow and pond water.
“What, are you saying you’re too big to —“ you cut off, eyes shooting wide as they slide between your bodies, down to where König has pushed the hem of his boxers down. “Oh. Oh shit.”
“We can just — honestly. I would love to taste you, maus, we can just kiss or…”
“Fuck no, I want that,” you breathe out, letting go of his hair in favor of wrapping your hand around him. He’s half hard, but you can’t imagine he’ll get any more length. He’s already…Christ. You don’t want to say so, because there’s no way he doesn’t have an ego about this, but it’s without question the biggest cock you’ve ever seen.
Absurdly so, and that knocks a laugh from you. At the noise, he twitches against your fingers. You glance up at König, finding his teeth sunk into his bottom lip, eyebrows knit together.
You hum, rubbing your dry palm over the vein running along the underside of it. “No compliments because you like it too much, but I laugh at your cock and —“
“Shut up,” König whines. “Mein Gott, you are so frustrating.”
“Seems like it,” you respond airily, letting go of him in favor of scooting closer. You throw your arm back over his shoulder, elbow squeezing the back of his neck until he curls down closer to your face. With the leveraged you fit him between your legs, gasping as his cock slips against the wet seam of you. Just as undone by the motion, König matches your noise with an undampened moan, burying his face in the top of your head.
“M-Mauschen, oh,” he whines. With a steady hand on your hip, König ruts against your heat — because you’re warm now, and you can’t remember feeling cold. Not now, not stuck against him as the cabin fills golden with the climbing fire. It crackles just like each hitching rumble of his voice as you move together.
You’re wet, and he’s starting to dribble from the tip. His cock slips deliciously, easy, through your folds, right up against the stifling split, and on one particularly hearty thrust of his hips, it catches warningly on the edge of your hole.
It’s your turn to whine, because it breaches just a little bit, a sweet, promising cleave that gives you a dizzying hint of what it would be like to be fragmented whole by that thing. And you want that, now that the opportunity has presented itself, now that your body has a tease of what it would be like —
“I can’t,” König groans, chants it, even as he uses his vice on your hips to guide you into an angle that lets him do it again and again and again. Each time it incenses you more, sends you into a wracking shiver that threatens to tear you apart at every joint. You’re clawing at his chest, scratching over his scalp, writhing against him and begging for it. You’d be ashamed, might be later, if you could see yourself. But König’s face is just as ruined, sweat beading on his temple already, and his lips are slick with spit. Fucking drooling as he ruts against you.
“P-please?” You beg, scratching your nails down his collarbone, his chest. “It’d keep me awake for sure.”
He laughs despite himself, despite the hitching, panting breaths he’s almost struggling to take. Holding himself back — you don’t fucking want him to, you want him to let go.
“Stop me,” König says, snatching your wrist from his hair and guiding it instead flat over his abdomen. You pet appreciatively at him for a moment. “You — tap, if it is too much, I need to…fuck, I want to put it in. Just a little.”
“Yes,” you hiss triumphantly, instinctive about the way your hips tilt, widening so he can maneuver himself between them. He takes your knee over his elbow, opens you up in a way that makes you flush down to your chest. The inquisitive prod of his cock against you makes you jolt, arching away from the intrusion, but König holds you fast, drags you closer with an inescapable strength — another illicit reminder of his size, his capacity.
You both groan as he slips in, the wide swell of him splitting you open. It’s not the part that requires your focus — despite his promise, König keeps fucking going, breathing harsh through his nose. Controlling himself, careful, and you wonder how many times he’s been in this position. Having to treat a partner like glass so he doesn’t hurt them, so he can still make it good. The idea has you moaning, your nails digging into his biceps, and he matches it happily with a grunt.
“You’re so hot inside,” he croaks, mouth against your forehead. “Maus, oh, please, oh. Tight — fuck, you’re small.” Not particularly so, but in comparison to him, absolutely. “More, darling? I think you can.” His hips rock, dragging the third of him you’ve managed to take and driving it back in. Steady, slow, but a purposeful punch of his hips at the end that has you seeing stars. “Doing so fucking well. You can take some more, right?”
“Oh, fuck off,” you whine, tossing your head back. It’s almost exactly what he said to you earlier, praising your resilience and survival drive as you trudged through the snow. “I knew you were doing that on purpose.”
König drags his tongue up your neck, tucking his face into the crook of it. “Not sure what you’re talking about, mauschen.”
He absolutely does, and so he laughs as he begins to fuck you in earnest. Joy and warmth and shimmery gold — sweet like summer. As promised, he keeps you awake.
I haven't posted anything in forever but if you are still interested in König from COD and miss the fandom, join us in this discord!!! The link will probably last a week so if you see this after that... tell me in the comments
"stop commenting on actress's bodies" nah actually I think I will continue to comment on the fact that since the rise of ozempic every second actress looks like she's about to blow away in a strong wind because I lived through heroin chic and normalised eating disorders and insane body expectations the FIRST fucking time and saw the damage it did so I'm personally not going to stay silent and let choice feminism make extreme weight loss "acceptable" just because tiktok has convinced some of yall that any choice a woman makes is Valid just because she's a fucking woman like are you all fucking serious right now
and I actually think we SHOULD be shaming these women like we should be calling them out for undoing 2+ decades of body positivity all so they can prance around with giant heads and skeletal wrists and visible ribs and I actually don't give a fuck about it being their "choice" because while they have the money and access to lose weight with a medication that wasn't fucking made for them (and then say oh no it's just a healthy diet and exercise tee hee 🤭), the 12 or 13 year old girls seeing them and thinking that's how they should look are going to use the only methods at their disposals to look like that and it is going to KILL THEM and I dont give a FUCK if it hurts some rich cunt's feelings or makes me a bad feminist if I say she's an irresponsible piece of shit for promoting such an extreme and unhealthy body image for the millions of young girls growing up on a new wave of insane body dysmorphia I don't give a FUCK!!!!!!!
You can enjoy things in fiction that would be awful in the real world. Like playing a murderhobo in a game! In the real world, being or supporting a murderer-thief would be pretty damn awful, while in the game it's just good fun. Same with anything else you choose to do with the pixels on the screen, like kinks that don't affect anyone real, so they're okay in fiction, but would be pretty damn bad in real life.
No one else is responsible for your online experience. They are required not to harass you, but they are not and never will be obligated to not post about ships, kinks, or tropes you dislike just to avoid you seeing them. It's up to you to blacklist words or phrases, block tags, or even block users as needed to avoid seeing content that upsets you.
No one can force you to read anything against your consent. Any content you don't like seeing can be instantly avoided by closing out of the offending post/fic.
You are not owed an online experience free of discomfort.
Nothing that happens in your imagination can ever make you a bad person. Words you write or read about fictional characters will never make you a bad person.
The claim that media consumption influences real-life behavior is intellectually dishonest and serves only to excuse the behavior of real offenders.
Fiction is a safe way to explore horrifying or confusing concepts. Therapists agree that fiction, even (or especially) about taboo topics is a good coping mechanism, especially, but not exclusively, for trauma survivors. Fiction is to adults what play therapy is to children. This doesn't stop being true if the work in question is of a sexual nature.
Sex isn't an inherently worse or better motivation than anything else. A work written to create feelings of arousal isn't dirty, shameful, or in any way less pure than works written to entertain, provoke moral questions, or for other reasons. And worth noting is that multiple purposes can exist in the same story, especially fanfiction.
You aren't entitled to an explanation for why someone reads, writes, or otherwise enjoys certain works, kinks, tropes, ships, etc.
