Aemond Targaryen is both the cause and witness to the greatest humiliation of your life. You would rather die than see him again. Yet summer at court and the precipice of civil war have other ideas.
summary: after a break-in leaves your apartment unsafe, König insists you stay with him. what begins as one night under the same roof slowly becomes something neither of you can ignore.
pairing: könig x reader
word count: 5,017 words
themes: dark romance • gothic atmosphere • aftermath of violence • neighbour König • emotional slow burn • yearning threaded with dread • devotion mistaken for damnation • restraint and release • obsession softened by tenderness • sacred intimacy • body as sanctuary • grief for the life left behind • "I'll keep you safe" • religious imagery • healing through love • home as refuge • explicit intimacy • 18+ • slight mask kink
author's note: this is so blerg. but i can't get him out of my head. as always, listen to ethel cain while reading this <3 also can't get josh from lights out of my head so idk if thats where the mask thing came from k byeee
König woke to a scream.
Not slowly, not with the dull confusion of an ordinary man who was dragged unwillingly from sleep, but all at once, every nerve in his body snapping awake before his mind had decided where he was. For one suspended second there was only darkness, the faint silver of rain against the bedroom window and the low hiss of the radiator beneath it.
Then the sound came again—muffled this time, strangled somewhere behind a wall—and instinct finished what consciousness had begun.
He was already out of bed.
His hand reached automatically toward the bedside table, searching for a weapon that had not been there in years. His fingers found only the folded black balaclava, placed precisely where he always left it, and he dragged it over his head as he crossed the room. The fabric settled over his face with the familiarity of skin. There had been a time when he had worn it because anonymity was useful, because a man became something else when his features disappeared and all that remained were his eyes. Now he wore it because being seen without it felt more naked than undressing.
Another crash sounded from across the hall.
Wood splitting.
A man swearing.
Then your voice, sharp with panic. “Get away from me.”
Something inside König went silent.
Not calm, calm was human. This was the absolute stillness of an animal lowering itself into the grass before it struck.
“Liebling,” he breathed, though there was no possibility you could hear him through the wall.
He opened his apartment door.
The corridor beyond was narrow and dim, lit only by the jaundiced bulb near the stairs. Your door stood partly open, though not because you had invited anyone inside. The frame had given way around the lock, splintered wood hanging from the wall in pale strips. A crowbar lay near the threshold and one of your shoes had been knocked into the hallway.
The man inside your apartment had his back to König.
He was average in every way that mattered—average height, average build, the kind of man who had probably spent his whole life mistaking women’s fear for proof of his own power. He had one hand twisted into the sleeve of your shirt and the other raised in warning while you fought to pull away from him.
“Stop moving,” he snapped. “I said stop.”
You struck at him with your free hand.
It was a poor blow, clumsy with terror, but it caught the edge of his cheek. His expression changed instantly and whatever he had come there to steal became secondary to the humiliation of being resisted.
“You little—”
The floor creaked behind him.
The man turned.
At first he looked irritated, then his gaze travelled upward.
And upward.
The corridor seemed to contract around König’s body. He stood barefoot in black sweatpants and a dark shirt, shoulders so broad they nearly filled the doorway behind him. At over two metres tall, he had grown accustomed to making rooms feel inadequate, but in that cramped hallway his size became something obscene. The ceiling seemed to lower over his head and the walls appeared to close behind him, sealing the only way out.
The balaclava erased his face completely.
There was no mouth to reason with and no expression from which to measure mercy. Only two pale eyes remained, fixed without blinking on the hand gripping you.
He looked less like a neighbour awakened by noise and more like the thing the noise had summoned.
The intruder released your sleeve.
“What the fuck?”
König said nothing.
He stepped inside.
One step. Slow and measured.
The man stumbled backward.
There was something deeply wrong about the quietness of him. A man of König’s size should have moved heavily. He should have announced himself in groaning floorboards and laboured breath. Instead, he crossed the apartment with the silence of something that had spent years approaching sleeping men without waking them.
“Stay back,” the intruder warned.
König’s gaze moved briefly to you.
You stood beside the kitchen counter in a thin sleep shirt and bare feet, one hand pressed against your throat. There was a red mark around your wrist where the man had held you, and a thin line of blood at your temple.
You were alive.
But you had been touched.
The distinction mattered terribly.
“I’m here, Schatz,” König said, and the tenderness of the words was made monstrous by the way he continued staring at the intruder. “Look at me. Not him.”
Your eyes found his.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Keep looking at me, mein Herz.”
The intruder reached down for the crowbar.
König crossed the room before the man’s fingers touched it.
The years of violence had taught him that speed was not frantic. Real speed was economical, that there was no wasted movement, no flourish, and no warning. One moment the man was bending toward the floor and the next König’s hand had closed around the back of his jacket, gathering fabric and flesh together in a grip so complete the man’s breath left him before his feet did.
König lifted him.
A grown man came off the ground as effortlessly as if gravity had chosen not to apply in König’s presence.
“What—wait—”
König drove him into the wall easily.
The plaster cracked outward behind the man’s shoulders and a framed print fell and shattered. Somewhere in the apartment your cat hissed, but König barely registered the sound.
The intruder clawed at his wrist.
König’s arm did not tremble.
It was not simply that he was stronger, strength implied a contest, but that this was something else entirely. The difference between them was so complete that the man’s resistance became embarrassing, the frantic kicking of an insect caught beneath a glass.
“You broke into her home,” König said.
His voice was quiet beneath the balaclava, almost gentle.
That was what finally broke the man’s nerve.
“I didn’t—”
“You put your hands on her.”
“Listen, man—”
König slammed him into the wall a second time.
“I am listening.”
The bulb above them flickered and for half a second König disappeared into darkness, and when the light returned he seemed to have moved closer without crossing the space between them.
The man began to choke.
He was beginning to realize that whatever rules governed ordinary violence did not apply here. There would be no shouting match, no exchange of threats, no opportunity to run while anger made the larger man careless. König was not angry in any recognizable way. He was attentive, deliberate and horribly present.
“Please,” the man whispered.
König tilted his head.
“You did not stop when she said that.”
Then, he threw him.
___
Later, when König caught you before your knees struck the floor, the violence vanished from him so suddenly it might never have existed.
One moment he had been kneeling over a ruined man with blood soaked into the fabric of his shirt and pants; the next his arm was around your waist, holding you with such restraint that even his fingertips seemed afraid of leaving another mark on you.
“I’ve got you, Liebling.”
“I can stand.”
“No.”
“König—”
“No, mein Herz.” His voice dropped until it was meant only for you. “You have been brave enough. Let me carry you now.”
He slipped one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back. Your body left the floor without effort. There was no grunt of exertion, no need for him to adjust his grip. He simply rose, unfolding to his full, impossible height with you held securely against his chest.
Your cat brushed against König's boot, purring quietly before following a step behind him.
König glanced down briefly. "Persistent."
"So is he."
His eyes lifted to yours.
"Let's go."
____
When the officer told him to put you down, König’s arms tightened almost imperceptibly around you.
“Sir,” the officer repeated, his hand hovering near his holster, “put the woman down.”
König looked at him.
The officer was not a small man, but beneath König’s gaze he seemed to become aware of every vulnerable part of his own body. His throat, his wrists, the unprotected space beneath his ribs.
“She cannot stand,” König said.
“We have paramedics coming.”
“Then they can examine her inside.”
“You don’t give the orders here.”
König took one slow step forward and the officer’s hand closed around the grip of his weapon.
You felt the change move through König’s body. Not tension, but readiness. Beneath your cheek, his heartbeat remained unnervingly slow.
“König,” you whispered.
His eyes lowered to yours at once.
“Please.”
That single word did what the officer’s weapon could not and König stepped back.
“Of course, Liebling.”
The officer stared at you, then at the giant masked man who had obeyed you without hesitation and something like unease crossed his face.
Not because König was out of control.
Because he clearly was not, but because everyone in the corridor had just learned who controlled him.
____
The couch was comfortable.
More comfortable than you had expected, actually. König had argued against it the moment you insisted, standing in the middle of the living room like a dark, immovable monument while you pointed out the obvious.
You fit on the couch.
He did not.
Even sitting, his knees nearly reached the low table in front of it, and the thought of all six-foot-ten of him folded awkwardly beneath a blanket had been enough to make the decision for both of you. He had protested anyway, of course, his voice low and stubborn behind the balaclava, but you had refused to let the man who had already thrown himself through your front door and nearly beaten someone to death for you spend the rest of the night twisted painfully across a sofa half his size.
Eventually, he had given in.
Reluctantly.
Now, lying beneath one of his blankets with your cat curled against the bend of your knees, you almost regretted winning.
The fabric smelled like him.
Clean soap, something earthy, and the faint trace of gunpowder that seemed to cling to him no matter how many times he showered. It should have been comforting. Instead, it made you painfully aware that he was only down the hall, behind a half-closed door, separated from you by a few metres and every feeling neither of you had dared to name.
You stared at the ceiling until your eyes began to burn and the ache between your legs only spread hotter.
It was no use.
You shouldn't have been thinking about him like this, not after everything that had happened. But every time you closed your eyes, you saw him standing between you and the man who had broken into your home. You remembered how effortlessly he'd lifted you into his arms, how easily he'd carried you to safety, and the memory sent a slow wave of heat through your body that you couldn't bring yourself to fight.
Carefully, you eased your legs out from beneath the cat and stood. He lifted his head, blinked at you once, then tucked his nose beneath his paw and went back to sleep.
The hallway was dark, lit only by the weak silver of rain slipping through the windows. You moved quietly, though you knew it was pointless. König seemed to hear everything. A shift in breathing, the smallest catch of fabric, the soft press of bare feet against hardwood.
His bedroom door was open.
You paused outside it.
He was awake.
Of course he was.
König sat against the headboard with one knee drawn beneath the blanket, a book open in one hand and the lamp beside him casting a low, amber glow across the room. He had changed into a black T-shirt and loose sweatpants, but the balaclava remained in place like it always did.
The moment your shadow crossed the doorway, his head lifted and the book closed immediately.
“What’s wrong?”
There was no sleep in his voice. Only a quiet, instant concern that settled over you more completely than any blanket could have.
You curled your fingers against the doorframe. “Nothing.”
His eyes narrowed slightly at your unconvincing answer, and both of you knew it.
“I can’t sleep,” you admitted.
Something in his shoulders loosened, though not entirely. “Come here.”
The words came so quickly that for a second you wondered whether he had been waiting for you.
You looked at the bed, then back at him. It was large, made larger still by how little space he seemed to occupy despite the impossible breadth of him. He had kept himself confined to one side, as though some part of him had already imagined making room.
“König—”
“Liebling.” His voice softened. “Come here.”
That was all it took.
You crossed the room and slid beneath the blanket, keeping a careful stretch of mattress between you. The bed dipped beneath your weight, barely noticeable compared to the deep pull of his body beside yours.
König watched you settle.
Then he looked at the space between you.
“You can come closer.”
Heat climbed into your face despite the coolness of the room. “I’m fine here.”
“You came into my room because you couldn’t sleep.”
“That doesn’t mean I need to be on top of you.”
A pause.
“No,” he said, quieter now. “I suppose it doesn’t.”
Something in the way he said it made your stomach twist. You turned onto your side, facing him. “Were you reading?”
“Trying to.”
“You were waiting.”
His eyes shifted back to yours, but he did not bother denying it.
The silence that followed was different from the ones before. It was no longer empty. It felt full to the point of breaking, crowded with the weight of everything that had happened and everything that had nearly happened with it.
König set the book on the nightstand.
“I heard you moving around out there,” he said.
“You could have told me to come in.”
“I wanted you to choose it.” The words settled somewhere deep in your chest.
Outside, rain dragged slowly down the glass. Inside, the room felt too warm.
You moved closer before you could think better of it, not enough to touch him, but enough that the distance between you no longer felt deliberate.
König went still.
His breathing changed. Barely, but you noticed.
“You look at me like that,” he said after a moment, “and then you wonder why I cannot sleep.”
Your pulse fluttered. “Like what?”
“Like you do not know what it does to me.”
His voice was rougher now, stripped of the careful steadiness he usually held onto so tightly.
You swallowed. “What does it do to you?”
For a long moment, he only stared.
The mask hid almost everything, but his eyes had never learned how to lie to you. Not when he was angry, not when he was frightened and certainly not now, when they dragged over your face with a hunger so controlled it became more intense for all the restraint wrapped around it.
“It makes me want things I have spent a very long time trying not to want.”
Your breath caught.
“König…”
“I have been careful with you.” His hand shifted against the blanket, fingers curling into the fabric. “More careful than you know.”
You looked down at the movement, at the tension running through his knuckles.
“Why?”
A humourless breath left him. “Because once I start touching you, I do not think I will want to stop.”
The room seemed to narrow around you.
He turned his head away, as though the confession had cost him something.
“I have imagined it too many times,” he continued, each word quieter than the last. “What you would feel like beneath my hands. What sounds you would make if I touched you properly. How long I could keep you there before you forgot everything except me.”
Your whole body went warm.
He looked back at you then, eyes sharpening as if searching for any sign that he had gone too far.
“I should not be telling you this.”
“Why not?”
“Because tonight frightened you.”
“You didn’t.”
His gaze dropped.
“You saw what I did.”
“I saw what he did first.”
“That does not make me gentle.”
“No,” you whispered. “But you are with me.”
Something in him broke at that.
Not loudly, not completely, but just enough. His hand lifted, hovering near your face without touching. Even now, even after everything he had said, he waited.
You leaned into his palm.
The contact was immediate and careful. His hand cupped your cheek, warm and impossibly large, thumb resting just beneath your eye. The tenderness of it stood in brutal contrast to the memory of those same hands bloodied in your kitchen.
König’s breath left him slowly. “You should not make this so easy for me.”
“I’m not.”
“No?”
You shook your head against his palm, pressing a kiss to the calloused and rough skin. “You’ve been making it hard for both of us.”
For the first time that night, something almost like a smile softened his eyes before it disappeared again, swallowed by the weight of everything that had happened.
His thumb brushed lightly across your cheek, careful enough that you almost wondered if you'd imagined it.
"I've been trying very hard not to cross this line," he said quietly.
You searched his face, finding only your own reflection in his eyes.
"What line?"
"You."
The word barely rose above a whisper.
"You've been my neighbour for months." He let out a slow breath. "Every morning I'd hear your door before mine. Every evening I'd wonder if you'd made it home safely. I told myself it was nothing."
His gaze drifted away for a moment.
"It stopped being nothing a long time ago."
Your heart stumbled. "And tonight..." His jaw tightened beneath the balaclava. "When I heard you scream..."
He didn't finish the sentence, not that he had to.
"I thought I was too late."
The confession settled heavily between you. Before you could stop yourself, you closed the distance without thinking, your hand finding his where it rested on the blanket.
His fingers twitched beneath yours but didn't move.
"You weren't," you whispered.
"No."
"You found me."
His eyes closed briefly, as though hearing those words eased something that had been holding him together by sheer force of will. When he looked at you again, the guardedness he'd worn since carrying you out of your apartment had finally begun to crack.
"I don't want anything from you tonight," he said. "Not an answer. Not an explanation."
His thumb turned beneath your hand, carefully lacing your fingers together.
"I just needed to know you were alive."
Emotion tightened your throat.
"I am."
"I know."
His voice was impossibly gentle. "I've been repeating that to myself for the last two hours."
Silence settled between you again, softer this time and you shifted a little closer, until your shoulder rested against his arm. He looked down at the point where you touched, then back at you.
"Is this alright?" he asked.
You nodded. "It's more than alright."
Only then did he lift his hand to your face again, resting it lightly against your cheek as though he was still afraid you might disappear before moving down to cup your jaw.
You moved closer again, until your knee brushed his beneath the blanket and König’s fingers tightened lightly at your jaw.
“Liebling.” The warning in his voice was thin.
His eyes searched yours before the words that broke his composure tumbled from your mouth.
“Touch me.”
The air shifted and for one suspended second, neither of you moved.
Then König’s hand slid from your jaw to the side of your neck, his palm covering nearly all of it. His thumb rested beneath your jaw, feeling the frantic beat of your pulse. He drew you closer slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away.
You did not.
His forehead pressed against yours, the fabric of the balaclava rough against your skin.
“Tell me if I frighten you.”
“You don’t.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“You don’t frighten me.”
His eyes closed.
It was the closest thing to relief you had ever seen from him.
His other hand found your waist beneath the blanket, settling there with such restraint that it almost hurt. He held you as though he had imagined this exact moment so many times that reality had become something sacred, something too fragile to rush.
“I want to touch every part of you,” he murmured. “I want to learn what you like. I want to know what you sound like when you cum.”
Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.
“König…”
Your fingers caught the front of his shirt, tugging him toward you as you swung one leg over his lap. König's hands found your hips almost instantly, steady and impossibly warm as he guided you the rest of the way until you were settled against him. From where he sat, he had to tilt his head back to meet your eyes, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands as he kept you securely in his lap.
"This is better than I have ever imagined." He whispered.
Your hand slid from his shoulder to the edge of his balaclava, your fingers catching the worn fabric between your thumb and forefinger. You held his gaze the entire time, giving him every opportunity to stop you.
He didn't.
Slowly, you folded the fabric just high enough to uncover his mouth.
His lips parted on a quiet breath, but there was no hesitation in his eyes. If anything, they darkened.
"So," he murmured, his voice lower than before, "this is what you've been thinking about."
Heat rushed to your face.
"I..."
A corner of his mouth lifted into the faintest hint of a smile.
"I was wondering how long it would take."
Your fingers were still resting against the fabric when his hand closed gently around your wrist. Not to stop you, just to keep it there.
"You should know something before you keep looking at me like that, Liebling."
Your pulse hammered beneath his fingertips.
"If you kiss me..."
He leaned in until only a breath separated the two of you.
"...I'm not going to pretend it doesn't mean anything."
You searched his eyes for even the smallest hint of doubt, but you found none.
"Kiss me," you whispered.
"I was planning to."
The words had barely left his mouth before he closed the distance.
His lips found yours with quiet certainty—unhurried, deliberate, as though he'd imagined this moment enough times to know exactly how he wanted it to happen. One hand settled firmly at your waist while the other remained around your wrist, his thumb brushing absently over your pulse as he held you there for a heartbeat longer before finally pulling back.
When he opened his eyes again, they hadn't left yours once.
"...There," he said, his voice rough with satisfaction. "I've wanted to do that for a very long time."
You moaned softly when he rolled his hips up against yours. Shit, you thought, there was no way. He felt impossibly big under you, but the thought of being spread open like that, cunt stretching around him, only made your panties even slicker.
There was no turning back now. The look in König's eyes made that abundantly clear.
With effortless strength, he shifted your weight beneath him until your back met the mattress. This close, there was no mistaking the heat of his cock pressed against your core. He didn't say a word—he didn't have to. His mouth found the curve of your neck as one hand settled against your hip.
"Are you going to let me take care of you now, Schatz?" he murmured against your skin.
"Yes," you breathed, the word barely more than a whisper.
He barely looked human like this.
His eyes were dark with restrained desire, the balaclava still concealing most of his face, leaving only his mouth exposed. His jaw was tense, one sharp canine catching his bottom lip as though he was holding himself back by sheer force of will.
The thin fabric of your sleep shirt disappeared in one swift motion, leaving your skin exposed to the cool night air. A shiver ran through you as his hand settled at your waist, his fingers catching the waistband of your underwear while his gaze roamed over you with quiet, unmistakable hunger.
"I need to see you, Liebling," he murmured, his voice rough. "I need to taste you."
A low, restrained sound rumbled in his chest before he settled between your parted legs, staring at your begging cunt with nothing but greed in his gaze.
"Scheiße."
Then his mouth found you with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. He lingered there, relentless and unhurried all at once, as though he couldn't get enough of you, as though every second only left him wanting more. Your body trembled beneath him, your fingers twisting the sheets while he held you there with unwavering focus, utterly consumed by you.
"You are," he licked a stripe up your pussy, "trembling" He sucked on your clit, popping it from his mouth only to look up and witness just how fast you were falling apart.
The laugh that left your lips was humourless. I'm going to die, you thought, when he slid two fingers into you and began pumping them in and out while hooking them deep inside of you.
You barely had time to recognize you were going to come, your walls clenching around him, legs shaking on his shoulders.
"That's it," Oh God, he was going to talk you through it.
Tears welled in your eyes, almost burning as hot as the knot in your core was.
"Stay with me." He said against your spasaming pussy. "I've got you, Liebling. I'll catch you."
You came apart beneath him, a broken sob catching in your throat as you bit down hard enough on your lip to taste blood. The intensity left your head spinning, every coherent thought slipping away while he kept you firmly beneath him, completely at his mercy.
"You have no idea what you've unleashed," König growled.
In one swift motion, he pulled his shirt over his head before discarding the rest of his clothes without ever taking his eyes off you. The balaclava remained firmly in place, concealing everything but his mouth as pale moonlight carved sharp lines across his broad shoulders and powerful frame.
"Fuck," you gaped at him.
His cock stood tall, proud at the way it twitched when his eyes focused on your dripping cunt. Big was an understatement, he was massive.
When he settled over you, his forearms braced on either side of your head, holding you effortlessly beneath him, you realized there was nowhere else you'd rather be.
"Will it..." you stumbled awkwardly, "fit?"
A faint smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth, followed by a low, amused chuckle.
"I will make sure it fits, Liebling."
With one hand at the base of his cock, he pushed the head through your folds, collecting the remnants of your orgasm and slick before you felt him prodding at your entrance.
"Breathe," was all he said before he inched in.
You forgot how. Every muscle in your body locked tight as tension swept through you. A low groan escaped him, and he let his forehead fall against your shoulder, lingering there for a moment as he fought to steady his breathing.
"Schatz," he nearly begged. "I won't ask twice. Breathe."
You exhaled the breath you were holding, willing yourself to relax and he pushed further and deeper in. The stretch burned, but the fullness was otherworldly.
When he bottomed out, his eyes met yours again.
"I knew I'd fit here." His voice wrecked as he applied the slightest of pressure on your lower belly.
Then, his hips snapped against yours. A brutal pace that cause his headboard to knock against the wall with such force you thought you'd end up in the apartment next door.
But you couldn't bring yourself to care—not when König looked as though he was hanging on by the thinnest thread of self-control. A mix of English and German falling from his lips while his eyes were locked on where he disappeared inside of you.
"König," his name fell from your lips naturally and you noticed how his rhythm stuttered when you did.
He liked hearing his name.
So you spoke his name again.
And again.
Until it became less a name and more a prayer, whispered into the darkness like a hymn neither of you deserved to hear. Each repetition unraveled another thread of his restraint, until the man who had survived battlefields and bloodshed sounded as though he was pleading for a salvation only you could ever grant.
"I'm yours, tell me, Schtaz. Tell me I'm yours." He begged as his hips bore in and out of you at a bruising pace and fuck how could you deny him.
"I'm yours. All yours."
A raw, broken sound escaped him as the last of his composure gave way. He sank his teeth against the curve of your neck, holding you with a fierce, almost desperate tenderness, as though he feared that if he loosened his grip for even a moment, you might disappear.
His cum came leaking out of you almost immediately, coating your thighs and the sheets as he barely held himself up over you, breath fanning over your face.
He looked at you for a long time, saying nothing. Whatever storm had lived behind his eyes all night had finally settled into something far more dangerous—certainty. There was no hesitation left, no doubt, only the quiet acceptance of a man who had reached the end of one life and stepped willingly into another.
"Whatever I was before tonight died in your apartment," he said, his voice so soft it almost disappeared into the dark. "Everything that lives after this belongs to you."
könig buried to the hilt inside of you, your legs bent and pressed to his chest. his body keeping you pinned against the mattress while he has a vibrator on the highest setting pressed against your clit as he whispers “one more, liebling, give me one more.”
before he’s coaxing and talking you through yet another orgasm that has you spinning and tears rimming your eyes. he’s made you cum 3 times without a single thrust , whispering “this is all about you, schatz. you feel this?” as he flexes his dick inside of you, making you whimper.
“this is all yours. remember that, maus. this is yours to use.” before he’s slowly rocking his hips against yours, bringing you to one more orgasm before his breathy moans fill the room and you’re spent—absolutely exhausted. “don’t worry, schatz. i’ll clean you up.”
before his head is in between your legs, lapping up both yours and his arousal and humming like the sick fuck he is because he just can’t get enough of you. all he wants is to be buried between your legs, watching as he’s the reason you’re seeing stars.
Chapter 5 of 'Feral Yield'
Part of The 'Eyes of Lilith' collaboration
Nikto x Afab!Reader || 2.2k
CW: This chapter contains depictions of coercive power dynamics, developing obsessive attachment between characters, sexual tension, intense observation, groping, voyeurism, male masturbation, smoking, forced proximity, hand-job, ejaculation, instructions, dom/sub vibes, mutual attraction, teasing.
At first, it's easy: noting the size, his breathing, the arrhythmic jerk of his cock in his own hand, as if this were a mere specimen display in the greenhouse or a time-lapse of root growth. But the protocol demands detail, and you give it, jabbing your observations into the margins with a mechanical thoroughness: length at rest, incremental hardness, the exact rhythm of his bones beneath tendons and skin.
But then something in you edges sideways and you find yourself watching not just the mechanics of this animal act, but the mood.
Nikto is not slick or desperate or theatrical about it, no. There is a laziness to how he strokes himself, one-handed while the other routinely pulls the cigarette to those chapped lips of his. He moves like a scribe or a craftsman, like the work is deliberate, the tempo regulated by need alone. And he watches you just as steadily as you watch him, and the eye contact is a challenge, or a dare, or maybe just a record of mutual complicity. You are allowed to look, and he is allowed to show, and the permission is a currency that neither of you can afford to waste.
But then you realize with a kind of horror - yes, horror - that it is not sterile at all. He turns the act into something protracted, patient, even respectful. At first, you jot a note about his focus, then realize he is not the only one hyper-attuned to the experiment. Your own pulse skips and you feel the flush up your neck, visible, you're sure. He tracks every minute change in your posture, the way your legs cross and uncross, the way your hands drift to your collar or up the line of your jaw and you catch yourself blinking too slowly, holding your breath too obviously, and you hate that you are letting the mask slip. You write down: 'Subject maintains deep eye contact throughout process. No visible signs of shame or discomfort. Possible exhibitionistic streak, or perhaps only transactional.' But then in the next line, your handwriting falters and you strike the pen so hard that the tip tugs the paper and rips it.
This does nothing to deter him.
He works himself in lazy, tireless pulls, not fast enough to finish, not slow enough to stall, and the head deepens in color then wanes, the shaft twitches under his thumb when he tells you to look closer, and you do, you do. "You wanted to see?" You feel the wild, humiliating urge to adjust your own posture, knees pressing together, blood everywhere at the surface as if you have been summoned for the humiliation rather than the observation. And for a full minute, neither of you say anything, and the air in the sanctum grows heavy, the plant trays sweating their oxygen into the heat, two animals locked in their tableau. The science of it is gone, the wet sound of his fist, the small grunts, the flat stare - these things are no longer data, but offerings.
You reach for the clipboard again and he shakes his head. "No more notes. Watch only." His voice is so certain, so at odds with the rough spectacle of his exposed body that you almost laugh in pure shock of it all. You are humiliated, yes, but more than that: you are split open, waiting, every cell alive with the thrilling terror of being observed in your own right. It is a study - no, an autopsy - of your composure. Yet you're not even sure who is performing it now.
He tips his chin, and the invitation is clear and unmistakable. You should break the tableau, regain the upper hand, reduce this to data again, but your body has already declared mutiny.
You don't reach for the pen. You don't look away.
Nikto's cigarette burns down between his fingers, ash collecting, unbroken, and all the while his hand keeps its rhythm, never ceasing the glide of fist along the thick length of him now slick (with what you can only assume to be pre or spit) and purposeful. He leans back so that his hips thrust forward on the edge of the chair, opening himself with something akin pride, and you realize you are standing as if summoned, not even sure when you'd pushed off from the table. And he likes that you're staring. He likes that you have abandoned the paper shield of your clipboard and the knowledge strikes you as violently as you'd expected it to.
"Idi syuda," he says, "Come here." It's the first overt order you have heard from him. His voice is fractured, sharp-edged and fragile, but it lands in you like a spike. You don't move, but you do not deny him either, and so he says it again, this time softer as if to a child or a pet: "Come here, Warden." The sound of your own title in his mouth makes something pool between your legs, thick and honey-dark.
You swallow back and walk to him, slow and defiant as if hoping to savor and kill the moment at once. But he captures your wrist in one swift movement, his still-slick hand curling around your forearm with a heat that nearly scorches the delicacy of your skin. He doesn't drag you, but he doesn't let go either. He pulls you forward, just enough so that you are standing between his knees, so close the heat of his skin radiates up your thighs and chest.
You expect a show, a push for dominance, or maybe a calculated retreat, but instead, Nikto fixes you in place with the weight of his stare and with an ease that makes your own breath feel borrowed, he yanks you forward by the wrist - hard enough to nearly pull you to your knees, hard enough to erase the buffer of air between his hunger and your uncertainty.
"Observe," he says, in that same deadpan way as before, mocking your use of the word, but with the tiniest fracture, an edge of need you recognize from the world outside these walls, the Wildes, the memory of hunger stretched so thin it became its own source of power. He forces your fingers closed, not roughly but with the unyielding pressure of a man who has spent his entire life in deficit and now will settle for surplus only, nothing less. And you let him - goddess, you do - because at this point it is the only honest thing left. There are seconds where you just hold, the body heat of him burning into your palm, the texture all wrong and all right, velvet and skin and slick, the insistent throb of circulation making him seem less a specimen and more a living, bleeding animal, which is to say: exactly as you.
Your mind fractures into the two observers: the one who wants to claw her hand back, to reassert the rules and slap him for his audacity, to have him chained again like the beast he is.. And the other one who is shuddering down to the arches of her feet, savoring the forbidden, wet-hot throb of the skin in your palm, the little flexes of flesh like small questions you'll never have the language to answer.
He offers nothing more for a moment, just holds you there in the bright, annihilating focus of his gaze. He's watching you, no longer a predator, but a creature sizing up a new terrain. You hear the ragged intake of his breath as you tighten your grip around him and a low, involuntary growl escapes him and you wonder if he's ever been handled this way, if any of the other Seedwardens had ever breached the membrane of their own professional armor. Or if you were the first to allow, to want.
"Observation is…for both," Nikto mutters, his voice clotted with smoke and you nod, or at least try, but the world narrows to the pulse you feel under your fingers and the sweat beading at the base of his throat. Everywhere else feels too heavy to observe. He then shifts, widening his legs and drawing you closer, so the heat between you collapses into something singular. His cock is flushed and veined and leaking at the tip, and you work it in your fist as if coaxing a specimen from a seed pod.
"Like this?" you ask, the words softer and less clinical than you had meant them to be, and he nods once, a wild animal’s nod, and his grip softens on your forearm, allowing you the illusion of control. "Faster," he says, the order clipped and absolute.
You obey.
He goes rigid under your touch, every muscle in his thighs and stomach rendered in high relief, so much so that you want to reach with your other hand and map the terrain of him, trace the conflict and violence knitted beneath the skin and claim it was simply part of observation. But instead you work him, and with each stroke you feel your own composure eroding in molecular increments, undermined by the slick velocity of his cock and the way his eyes, always, always on you, begin to squint with need.
You wait for him to lose composure, to snarl, to goad you into a contest of will - but instead, he turns the tables with a cocked half-smile and irreverence. "You want results?" he pants, his voice torn from the place violence is born. "You are close now." He laughs, smoke-laced and beautiful. "Fucking good at your job, Warden." The word is spat with the kind of admiration that cuts, that wounds. He's so smug about it, too Not greedy. Just certain, a bruised wolf with a kill in his jaw. "You could do this all day, da?" His lips curl at the edge, the scar there making the smile doubly obscene. "Guess you pass your test, too."
You should hate him for it, the way he weaponizes your title, how it sounds like a pet name and a curse at once. But what you feel is not anger but the raw, collapsing gravity of need - need to crush him, to tame him, to invent a method of domination that the High Mother herself could not have anticipated. So instead of speeding your hand, you change tactics. You measure out the distance between pleasure and discipline and claim it as your own: slowing the pace to a crawl, squeezing at the base until he hisses, denying him every wave of pleasure until you can see the muscles in his neck go rigid with the effort to not beg.
"This is the test," you say, your voice so dispassionate it almost hums. "Stamina, endurance. You want to impress the council, you can start by showing control." Your hand is a vise, remorseless, keeping him just shy of the edge. The thick shaft is impossible in your grip, pulsing with every heartbeat, slicked with a kind of purity that makes your mouth water and your legs tremble. You hold him in the liminal space, not letting him seize or soften, just letting him hang like a trapped animal, all threat and no release.
He shudders and you want to see what happens if you let him break, so you squeeze tighter, twist your wrist, and watch as he bares his teeth and looks away, refusing your gaze for the first time as if the intimacy were a knife at his throat. When you finally relent and stroke him with purpose, he groans, and so you stop again, pull your hand away, and stand back, your arms folded as if this were a puzzle you expect him to solve alone.
"Show me again," you say, "from the beginning." Your voice is slicked with the honey of command, and it's only when you see him obey - see him take himself in hand with perfect, mercenary discipline - you realize that at this moment you are not a scientist at all. You are merely a witness to some wild, ancient trial.
He mutters a string of curses - "Cyka blyad…" hard consonants and Slavic vowels sliding off his tongue with the weight of real injury - and then does exactly as told, the heel of his hand slamming with a new, brutal velocity up the length of him. His eyes are murder, locked on yours, but the flush that breaks across his throat and cheeks is submission. The labored, rhythmic slap of skin on skin is indecent, almost violent, and you have to press your own thighs together to keep from swaying forward, forehead blooming with sweat. You move to the table as if to mark something on the clipboard, but your legs wobble and the word you write, 'compliance,' is barely more than a scribble, your pen splitting the page once again.
He keeps going, his knuckles whitening, and you are overtaken by the urge to direct, to catalog with audible commands. "Slower." And he slows. "Stop." He stops, his breathing ragged. "Again." He obeys, faster this time, his fist sliding so wet and wicked you're certain he must have spat in his hand, except you want so badly for it to be just him, leaking and eager and extraordinarily alive. He groans low in his chest, the animal part finally showing, and you realize with a kind of awe that you've never made anyone this way, never orchestrated the tempo, never been the reason for such naked, abject need.
You hover at the table, taking notes you cannot ever submit: how his nostrils flare when you tell him to pause, how his thighs jump at the command to resume, how 'keep going' makes his eyes close as if in benediction. "Just like that," you mumble, but he hears, and his mouth splits into a bent, mad little smile that makes you ache somewhere old and extravagant inside. He doesn't ask if you want to touch again, doesn't even offer. The power is the show, the proof of life he lets you see, and that is enough for now.
Your knees go soft and you grab the edge of the table to center yourself, pretending you need to record the length and color and reaction time and not the inhuman throb between your own legs.
"Goddess," you whisper, and he laughs a short, delighted bark that turns into a grunt as he arches off the chair and spills over his own belly, the pulse of it as violent and beautiful as anything you've ever grown. And for a moment you are both just breathing, listening to the hum of the AC unit to the slow collapse of tension. Nikto slumps back, his legs wide, cock softening but still flushed, and wipes his hand on the waistband of the shorts, looking at you with the flat challenge of a man who has just won and lost in the same instant.
"Is finished?" he asks, his voice harsh and accompanied by panting. You nod, stunned and slack-jawed, "For now."
You write something useless on the sheet and realize your hands are trembling and the heat between your legs unmistakable. You let your pen fall to the desk and for a moment, you can't remember whether you're a warden or just a witness. You reach for the tin, flick the lid closed, and say, "Not bad for an opener, but I'm afraid they prefer a multi-trial average." Protocol, again, yes - but there is no air of protocol in the way you watch drops of spend cling along the ridge of his navel, or the way your own pulse shudders when Nikto leans back, arms splayed, taking up space meant for you both.
You touch a napkin to the mess as if it were a swab, but he moves fast and closes a hand around your wrist, holding you there, his grip no longer bruising but poised - delicate, even. The briefest squeeze says, thank you for the cigarette, but the longer, quieter pressure is somewhere between gratitude and demand. He's testing you, and you know the game, and your body is already answering for you.
You just hope the way your pulse hammers against his grip, the way your breath catches in your throat, the way heat pools low in your belly - that all of it is worth the dangerous, exquisite results you're hoping for…
And you really thought Simon would be a little mean during sex. He had to be a sadist after everything he’s been through.
So, when he’s between your parted thighs, you’re shocked when he speaks to you so softly. Quietly begging in your ear, cock pressed to the hilt, for you to be good for him.
And everytime you let out a whine, fingers tightening at his shoulders because he’s massive and you feel like you’re splitting in two with every thrust; he shushes you. ‘You can take it. Yes—yes you can.’
And when you clench tighter around him because the cadence of his voice licks warmth in your core, he smiles. ‘There you go, baby. Just like that.’
blakekathryn
gracieabrams
kianamaiart
2087
theartofmadeline
