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somehow this was the image beneath this post and I can only laugh because it's so fitting

Virgin!König x You - the final instalment 👀

It’s happening guys and König is not cool about it. Thank you so much to everyone who’s sent me kind words about this fic! Also thank you to @blacktacmopsi and @cutiecusp who had to deal with my endless struggle rounding this part off.

MDNI ta this is smutty. X

“Bitte Maus, just one more!”

You slap away his pawing hands, struggling to get out of your bed, as one closes fast around your wrist.

“I’ve gotta go to work!”

König ignores you entirely, now wrapping both arms around your waist and cuddling you in a death grip.

To be honest, it is comforting, lying in his burning embrace. You’ve had to open all the windows, because he runs hot and you’re not about to sweat through your sheets. König insists on making you sleep close beside him, even when he’s out for the count, his warm body will find yours however much you wriggle away.

Post shower coffee turned into an afternoon spent dry humping on every surface available in your flat. Then that transformed into a lazy Sunday of cuddling and giving each other head until you both passed out.

Monday mornings are always grim. The unhelpful comments König keeps slyly slipping into your ear about taking a sick day, are making it even worse.

He’s gone from barely being able to touch you without shaking or flushing red, to being utterly and inexcusably feral. His desire causing him to pant after you most of the time, cock at half mast and fingers trying to slide into your bra or under the waistband of your panties.

His exhausting behaviour is only excused, because he’s made you cum hard each time you’ve relented, and let him go down on you. There’s a slight cockiness to his face now as it hovers above your pussy, but that’s not unwelcome. It’s sweet, how avidly he relishes eating you out.

Niggling at the back of your mind though, is the fact König hasn’t tried to fuck you yet. Every time you get vaguely close to suggesting it, his previous awkwardness returns immediately and he clams up faster than a teenager who’s been caught sneaking out to an illicit party.

His strange reaction has run in circles around your brain. König must be about your age, maybe a bit older. Does he not enjoy having sex? Or is it you? He’s extremely willing to put his tongue and fingers into your core, but when it comes to anything else he freezes up.

Self doubt isn’t something you usually pay attention to. But now it’s eating away at your ego. So with a raised eyebrow, you decide to strike a deal.

“I’ll take a day off…if you stay here and screw me.”

Predictably, König starts flushing scarlet. His arms loosen as he rubs his face into the pillow. Though you don’t seem to mind his clumsy inexperience, he’s extremely anxious now about letting you down.

“O-okay.” He stutters eventually, lashes flitting over his baby blues with nerves. His stomach tightens, knotting until he starts to feel slightly nauseous.

You roll back over to face him, eye to eye with his scarred features. Softly you run a hand down his chest, watching goosebumps rise in your wake.

König starts to press sloppy kisses all over your face, trembling slightly as you reach the hard muscles forming a V above his cock.

Pulling him onto you, your lips meet. His body is tense, weighing down on your own with almost suffocating pressure. But any confidence you gave him over the weekend, seems to have evaporated in seconds.

He’s fumbling, uncoordinated and awkward. As the head of his length rubs between the folds of your slick, he freezes.

“Are you okay?”

König hears your vaguely concerned voice as he bites holes in his lip. But how can he possibly explain his thoughts? Not only is he within an inch of finally getting laid, but it’s with someone he genuinely cares about.

What if he cums the minute he gets inside? He can already feel how wet you are, the anticipation of a good hard fuck has made your pussy cream. His mind goes entirely blank, then the panic starts to creep in like a spectre over the bed.

Huffing and holding it together with everything he has, König tries to find his way into your wet heat. You yelp loudly as his thick cock pushes against your puckered and thoroughly unprepared arse. Not the intended target, for now anyway.

“Umm wrong hole buddy.”

König gulps audibly, then looks up at you with a stare that could melt the coldest artic frost. Your voice is sweet and teasing, but your face is confused, brows creased as you watch him grinding to a halt in front of you.

Then, something clicks in your head, the reason for the premature releases and the overwhelmingly feral need to get into your panties.

“You have done this before…right?”

Now he won’t even look at you, staring at your chest like he’d rather be anywhere else. One small jerk of the head left and right, is the only answer you get.

Eyes wide, you quickly try and wipe away the surprise threatening to leach into your expression. Shame stealing over him, König rolls off you and moves to escape across the bed.

“Hey! Come back here!” You snatch at his arm and try to tug him down. He resists, blushing again furiously.

“It’s not a problem okay, you don’t need to freak out!”

König lets out a low hiss through his teeth, looking almost painfully mortified.

“I have to leave, I forgot about something!” His face is so miserable, hastily retrieving his clothes from the floor and throwing them on haphazardly.

“König, don’t go!” You plead, but nothing you say seems to make any difference. With his unnaturally long pace, he’s already at your front door before you can scramble out of the covers.

You hear the slam of the lock just as you reach the foot of your mattress. Body slumping in defeat, you sink onto it, wondering what the fuck that was all about.

Truthfully, you should have twigged it sooner. He’s so unbearably self conscious, it’s written all over the rounding of those broad shoulders and the little nervous ticks he gets while he talks.

Sighing, you decide the best option is to let him simmer on it. So you start getting ready for work, trying to make sense of the confusion in your brain. After pulling your shirt on back to front twice, it becomes apparent you’re not making it into the office today, at least not presentably anyway.

One hour passes, then two. König still isn’t at your front door mumbling an apology or holding more of those expensive roses. You check your phone several times, but no weird little text arrives.

König’s playing serious hard ball with you. Well fuck it. You’re going rogue. He’s had enough time to think.

Back in his apartment, König is pacing like he’s in a cell on death row, his broad palms rubbing his face as he beats a path over the neutral beige carpet. It’s a rental, so nothing has any flavour or personality.

Under the furious embarrassment, König has a crushing sense that he’s ruined any chance of laying a sensual finger on you again. He’s just had the best weekend of his life, only to end it by letting his withering insecurities consume him.

Occasionally he peers out of the window, wondering if you’re still in bed. Maybe he could get on his knees and beg to join you in it again?

When there’s a soft knock on the door, König almost falls over his own feet to get to it.

“You done?” The words come out in a huff of sullenness. His gaze is swimming as he stares down at you. The deepest pools of liquid cornflower blue turned glossy azure.

“Don’t need to get all gooey eyed on me Jesus.” You mutter mutinously, stepping around him. König trails after you with shuffling feet, obviously at a loss for anything to say.

“Boring in here isn’t it?” You glance around at the magnolia interior, the lack of any personal touches to a blank canvas. He just nods sadly, reminding you of a puppy who’s been kicked by his beloved owner accidentally.

“Should have told you maus, I’m sorry.” He speaks in a rush, words tumbling over his tongue like he can’t hold them in any longer. You just shrug and the action makes his chest loosen a little bit. Gradually he starts to breathe easier again.

“I meant what I said.” You eye him with sincerity. “I like you the same, virgin or not.”

König’s entire body seems to sag with relief at that. Shyly, he grabs your hand in one big paw and starts peppering kisses on it, his stubble tickling your inner wrist.

“Do you want to? With me I mean?”

“Yes!” König replies so forcefully it makes you jump. “I would love that!”

He looks so vulnerable, baring his odd soul to you on a silver platter, twitching with need and humiliation. In the strangest way, it’s sexy, the desperation leaking out of those big pacific coloured eyes. The primal want echoing in his stern features, in contrast to the boyish pink tone of his cheeks.

You hold your arms up and smile.

“Then take me to your chamber my king!”

He snorts, but scoops you up easily. Your lips meet, tongues tangling as you back towards his sparse bedroom. With giggles and soft touches, you strip him of his clothes while he peels yours off in return.

It’s messy. Limbs everywhere and unchecked roaming kisses. His prick is already hardening at the sight of your bra falling to the floor. Your knees hit the bed and he tumbles onto you, narrowly avoiding crushing your form.

Whatever odd tension was lurking in the corners of your relationship has broken. König is grinning through his flushed awkwardness now, it’s sweet, seeing him embrace the clumsiness of the moment. He whimpers happily when you give him a few firm pumps in your hand, shaft now rigid with anticipation.

In a heartbeat, you roll him over and pin him with your thighs, while his big palms come to rest on your hips. Not giving him time to second guess what’s happening, you start to work him inside you.

König is blown away, pupils swallowing the irises as your slickness starts to engulf him. He’s panting, grip bruising as inch by struggling inch you take his thick cock like a champ.

You let out a little puff of air as the stretch of him hits you. The pulsing veins wrapped around his length perfectly complimenting the shape of your core. König doesn’t move a muscle, it’s costing him everything he has not to bust immediately. You’re so tight, hotter than hell and infinitely more sinful.

“Gimme a minute.” You whisper as he watches you rock against him. Teeth gritted and sweat sheening your skin, you try and relax, letting yourself adjust to his sheer volume.

As you rub your clit to distract from the intensity of it, his calloused thumb nudges your finger aside and takes over. König rolls it gently, using it as a focus to help his mind calm. He sucks his now slightly swollen lip into his mouth, concentrating so hard it looks painful.

There are torrents of energy shouting at him to snap his hips up to meet yours. The selfish part of him wants to use your body like his flesh light, so much better around his shaft than the cool plastic. Reshape you to fit him, carve himself a new niche to settle in.

But you’re plush and soft inside. He doesn’t want to hurt you, fucking you the same way he does his fist. After what seems like way too long, you finally sit flush against him. König’s mouth is firmly closed, but a guttural groan sputters through his teeth, wrenched out by the force of your walls milking him unyieldingly.

“Oh fuck!” He cries as you place your hands on his stomach and start to ride him. It just feels so good, his body burning up under your palms as he struggles to suppress the pleasure building at the base of his cock.

You still your movements, biting your lip. He’s filling you up so thoroughly, that every sensitive spot inside your cunt feels pressured to breaking point.

“Move again! Bitte Liebling!” König begs, almost painfully oversensitive now. Taking in a deep breath you fuck him, while he pulls you down to lie over his chest, whining into your mouth. Against him, you can feel his heart pounding in time to your own.

“I’m going to cum! Fuck maus I’m sorry!” He moans, feeling the tightness of your core shift to a new angle. You’re beyond an intelligible response, his thick body rubbing against your nerves with rigorous repetition, edging you on without mercy.

Grunting, König empties himself inside you, every pulse of his load drives you closer to your own peak. Unable to help it, you keep rocking on his now slowly softening shaft until it dissolves you too.

König’s toes curl with the sensation of your wetness leaking onto his thighs. It’s enough to make him see double. He cuddles you tight, still huffing erratically into your ear, sniffing the scent of your shampoo as your hair tickles his face.

“Did I do okay?”

His voice is slow but piled high with trepidation.

“You did good big boi. Real good.” You pat his rough cheek, still absolutely out of it yourself.

You’re going to be sore for days, it’s settling in your belly already, that pressing ache from a heady orgasm. The fire of his hung cock splitting you open for the first time, will act as a reminder of it.

König rubs a battle worn hand up and down the curves of your body, until he settles it on your lower back. It’s hot and firm against your cooling skin, both of you basking in a post orgasmic haze. Softly, his baby blues find your own sleepy eyes.

“How do you feel then huh?!”

He thinks about that one for a moment, then nuzzles into your neck.

“Like I want to go again Schatz.”

Kapowwww cherry popped! 🍒

@cutiecusp @pxssygxblin @sigrid666 @mudisgranapat @spxctorsslut @warrior-of-justice @milenko115 @nexthyperfix @sullyoung @demothers-empty-blog @confidentialcove

@murder-hobo @drewsuncrustables @asaha81 @rmxbzzz @sullyoung @misshugs

#virgin!konig #i love him

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how come no one talks about those days where your mental health just crashes down randomly and you start feeling ashamed of yourself because you were doing so good and now you feel like a complete failure because you can’t figure out where you went wrong.

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The person I reblogged this from deserves to be happy

I tried to scroll past this. I really did

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THE ENDING AOISJ;OFIJEOIJASDF which mofo locked the door behind him WHICH ONE my guess is John maaybe Kyle? Simon was to apathetic during that phone call for it to be him. It also doesn't scream Soap from those few lines but hey I could be wrong lol. UGH I screamed when I saw you put up this part hhhh. I love the group lunch with besties :') you're really building me a world to fall into here and I love it

Part Three

Warning: If you don't like Taylor Swift, you're not gonna like this chapter that much, homie. But So Long, London is so fitting for this drabble series. (I guess a series since it's longer than a drabble at this point)

Can’t stop thinking about reader just trying to move on

You had to remind yourself several times not to check in with the guys. It had almost become second nature doing something big like this. But going to another country…

Not that they would care. You told yourself. It was for the best that way.

The expo went better than you expected. You didn’t believe that there would be a line out the door of eager readers wanting to read your book, but you got a decent amount. More than a few told you they couldn’t wait to read it. Several asking for photos and asking questions on any future books, a spin-off or even continuing the series.

When one a particular large group of girls your age asked for a group photo, you could have cried. They were had found each other in an online book club. You had given them your book several months ago. All copies signed with a note thanking them for taking the time to read what you had poured your heart into.

You had spent a large chunk of your free time talking to them. Bonding more so as women than over your book.

"Have you listened to Taylor's new album?"

It had only been out for two days and you had been able to avoid it like the plague. You didn't need to even listen to 'So Long, London' to know it would fucking gut you. So you would enjoy your time in the states. Save the listening experience for when you were packing up their stuff.

They had posted and tagged you before continuing on with the rest of the expo. You had reposted the photo to your own social media. Or at least one attached to the pen name you had crafted. You only had twelve thousand instagram followers, but it was something.

The first day was much like the second. You had attended several Q & A sessions with a panel of more experienced authors and managed to go to a few meet and greets. Before you knew it, it was time to pack up shop.

The agent the publishing house had assigned to you had stuck with you for most of the day. You were able to pick her brain a bit about new ideas for possible future plot lines and her thoughts. Overall, the trip was great.

Not only were you able to make great connections and take a lot back home with you to reference, but for a few days you forgot what waited for you back home. Or rather what wasn't waiting for you.

By the time your plane landed back in London you could barely hold yourself up. You left the expo, went straight to the hotel to shower, pack and head to the airport.

Your flight was delayed. Your luggage was taking forever to get onto the belt. It was only seven, but fuck if you weren’t ready to just call it a day. Tomorrow you would have to start again. Opening up the shop. Coming back to an empty flat. Maybe start gathering up the items the boys had left behind.

Should you give them in separate boxes or just one giant one and let them sort it out themselves? It was easy to discern whose sweatshirt and t-shirts belonged to who, but when it got to things like socks and chargers...

Yeah.

They could sort it themselves.

You could drop it off at Kyle's when you knew he would be at the gym. He was good at avoiding you anyway.

It wasn't until you stood in your apartment did it hit you.

You were alone.

For the first time in over a year you couldn't call one of them over to soothe that ache of loneliness.

For the first time in over a year, you had to relearn how to handle just being alone.

You usually showered at night. Washing away the grime of the day before settling into bed. But today was a new chapter. You woke up wanting to start it on a good note. Plus you went straight to bed after getting home so you still had a bit of airport funk on you.

It had been a week. One official since you had sent that text nailing the coffin shut. You had touched base with your friends who didn't bat an eye at you dating four men at once. They liked them, even if Simon scared them. You didn't give them the details of the breakup or the cause. You were pretty private in your problems and if you wanted relationship advice, you would seek an unbiased unopinion.

You had a good group of friends, but the moment you told them that you were well and truly heartbroken, they would insist the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. Something you were nowhere near ready for.

So you needed to look like you had your shit together. You put on a dress that was feminine and, most importantly, comfy as fuck. An A-line floral frock paired with a light sweater and some white trainers. You knew a few of your friends would be stopping by for tea so you need to look like you were taking the separation well. Even if you were barely holding it together.

With makeup and perfume on, you started the early morning stroll to your shop.

You loved openings. Starting up the register and selecting the playlist for today. Picking out the essential oil to put in the diffuser even though you mostly stuck with a lavender and vanilla blend during the spring months.

For the morning you stuck with a Taylor Swift Instrumental playlist you had found initially for studying, but you liked the peaceful feeling it brought. Even when it covered the most gut wrenching songs.

You had started to collect the online orders that had accumulated over the last week. Sending out the e-mails alerting to your patrons that their orders were ready for pick up. Luckily you weren't set to receive a delivery until tomorrow.

It was eight and everything was set. Although not many people came to a bookstore at eight in the morning, it really didn't bother you opening up that early considering you were the only employee that was on the payroll. It gave you the possibility of making money, but mostly you spent the morning reading or writing.

You flipped the sign over from CLOSED to OPEN. Ready to start take on the day.

You had turned the kettle on in the back room when your friends had stopped by around lunch. You always said it was just tea, but you always had an array of snacks on standby for you all to munch on.

Meredith was complaining about what a dick the new client at the law firm was being. An absolute slime who had been married to his wife for almost twenty-five years before he decided to fuck his twenty-two year old assistant.

Tabitha didn't want to talk about work. To her, her career in tech was just a paycheck. She did what she needed to do and left when she was done.

You talked about the expo and how your book. Although neither of them really read, they had promised that they would read your book. You didn't hold your breath. They had reposted your posts as well as making ones of their owns in celebration of you. Words of praise about your dedication and hard work.

You realized that even though they couldn't give you the support you needed as readers, they supported you blindly. You could have written absolute garbage, but they would still support you.

You talked about how many people liked your book and wanted pictures and to sign their copies.

Then came the question you had been rehearsing since you had texted them a week ago. They both shared a look before Meredith finally asked.

"How are you holding up?" You gave a half-smile and a shrug. So perfectly rehearsed in your head you were ready to deliver your lies lines.

"I'm fine," you lied. "It was just fading so there isn't much of a difference, I guess." Not necessarily a lie. "We just wanted different things and were on different paths in life." Not a lie. "It's for the best." You weren't sure if that last one was a lie or not just yet.

They both shared a passing look before returning their gazes back to you. "You know you can come to us about this stuff." Tabitha's hand reached across the table, placing a hand on top of yours.

"It wasn't going to work out." You added. "Situations like that don't and I should have known better."

"A situation?" Meredith asked. "When have you ever called it a situation?"

"It always was one."

"I love you enough to call bullshit." She raised her eyebrow at you, crossing her arms over her chest. "You loved them and you need to stop pretending this is easy."

"You're a divorce lawyer, Mere," You reminded. "You see marriages fall apart every day."

"I do. I get to see from across the table how a woman is still willing to take her cheating arse of a husband back. So the fact that you went from on cloud nine with all of them to not even talking about the break up is concerning to say the least."

"Tabitha," you looked at your only ally left. "A little back up would be nice."

"I'm with her on this one." She confirmed. "You loved them. Not that I cared, but if you weren't talking about books or the shop, you were talking about them. What you did, where you went. How they fucked you."

"I think I'll miss that part the most." Mere sighed. "I lived vicariously through you."

"You know you could actually date people." Tabitha suggested.

"I'd rather live with chronic carpal tunnel than a man." You almost choked on your tea. If you were wearing pearls you would have used the comedic relief of clutching them to break the awkwardness of the current topic of conversation.

"That should be put on a t-shirt." You suggested

"I wouldn't mind it on a welcome mat to be honest." Tabitha added.

"But in all seriousness, cut this bullshit." Meredith gave you an sympathetic smile. "We're here. Good, bad and ugly."

You returned her smile. "I know."

You had closed up shop for the evening. Your lunch had gone longer than expected so now you were left doing the dishes and clean up during closing. You were setting the last cup on the drying rack when you heard the front door chime.

Shit.

You must have forgotten to lock the door when you turned the sign.

“I’m sorry!” You apologized, making your way out of the back break area and to the front of the store. “We’re-”

“Closed.” He said, locking the door behind him. “I saw the sign.”

#fic recs #honestly i've already reread the first two parts again because i love me some good hurt

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gaz is the type of man who keeps eye contact with you when you're talking, he makes sure you know that he's hanging on to every word you're saying as if it were scripture; he makes you feel like the most important person in the room. gaz is the type of man who silences his phone when it rings, telling you to continue what you are saying, that you're more important than a call. gaz is the type of man who doesn't just passively nod and agree with you; no he asks questions, gives advice, and is genuinely invested in what you're talking about. gaz is the type of man who in his presence, makes it known that you are the center of his universe.

#ima be honest i wouldn't be able to handle it #i would run in the opposite fucken direction from this man the second he starts on this shit

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Who's your starter?

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simon riley who you "meet" through a program where you can send care packages to soldiers. you don't think much of it at first, just a simple package with a few necessities and treats. and along with that, a short, but genuine and handwritten letter thanking the unknown soldier to you for their service.

and when you go to retrieve your mail a few weeks later after getting home from work, brows furrowing together as you shuffle through the stack of envelopes.

bill. another bill. advertisement. paycheck. handwritten addressed envelope from 'ghost'.

your brain doesn't even connect the dots until you are inside, fingers gently picking at the envelope until your able to drag a finger through the seal to open it. a simple piece of what looks like notebook paper is pulled from inside. unfolding it, eyes quickly scan the letter to get an idea what it's about.

you've done plenty of care packages before. never did you get a personalized thank you letter back, so, this was a first. the letter starting off by thank you for the package and that he enjoyed the items, especially the "sweet treats". the two words put in quotations as he referred to what you referred to them as in your own letter. your own brain cringing slightly as you remember what you wrote.

again, thank you for all that you do and enjoy the sweet treats!

and while you expected the letter to end after thanking you, it didn't. additional lines asking about you. the sets of questions ranging from asking how long have you been doing the care packages to general questions about yourself. then, at the very end, after signing off as 'ghost', you couldn't help but notice the chicken scratch of handwriting that added:

p.s. you don't need to respond back if you don't want to, just figured it be nice to get something back in return. thanks again.

#i uh i would like some more plez

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#extra points if its at a fancy dress gala event of some sort and between you and him are both his superiors and yours

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𝓞𝓵𝓭𝓮𝓻 𝓚ö𝓷𝓲𝓰 𝔁 𝓢𝓾𝓰𝓪𝓻𝓫𝓫𝔂 𝓨𝓸𝓾

➽─────────❥

I can already tell I’m gonna want a masterlist for this 🙄 💎💲💘 MDNI ta xox

❥ The Meeting

❥ TBC…

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There are men across the street.

The house (and you use the term generously) that slumps there has been vacant for some time now. Ever since you moved in a couple years ago, actually. It’s an eyesore for sure. Graffiti on the walls, boards on the windows, a basketball-sized hole in the roof. The porch is the worst of it. Sagging in the middle and crumbling on the ends, stripped and moss-encrusted wood.

But today there are men there, stomping up and down the groaning steps in big, steel-toed boots.

You watch for a bit from the safety of your kitchen window, sipping coffee and batting your cat off the counter. They don’t look like a normal construction crew - wearing all black and not so much as a hammer on their belts. Three of them that you can see, one about average height, one tall, and one very tall. The tall one tags after the shortest of them often, gets pushed and shoved and snapped at it seems like.

You lose interest when the coffee runs out and your phone chimes, shooing you off to the grocery store. All three have disappeared inside by the time you saunter out, keys jingling and reusable bags in hand.

Margot says they’re renovating - likely some rich man’s retirement project. The same thing happened just down the street six months before you moved in, and now Joe has solar panels.

She postulates over the situation across the street while taking delicate bites of the cheesecake she brought over. (A test recipe for her niece’s baby shower in a few weeks. You don’t tell her that it’s too sweet and just sip your tea between bites.) She hypothesizes that one of them is this hypothetical rich man’s son, bringing some handy friends around for extra hands to work.

It sounds about as plausible as Agatha’s mutterings that they’re drug lords, so you nod along and watch your calico sneak up on your tuxedo behind her.

The garden is your own little retirement project. (You’re not actually retired, no matter what your sister snipes. But some smart money moves and a successful writing career is virtually the same with no kids and no spouse.) It’s going about as well as the renovations across the street - which is say, better and quicker than expected.

You planted clover in the yard, and are working on wildflowers in the boxes. The clover is already blooming, little flower tufts springing up for bumblebees to perch on. The wildflowers are mixed success so far, but nothing is dead yet.

You mostly just tootle around to be outside - allotted sunshine lest you become the shut in Bertram accused you of your first couple months.

The cats watch you pick at weeds from the window. Or two of them do. The other one is glaring from the fridge, angry that you tossed her back inside when she tried to slip past your ankles. (With any luck, you’ll have another sibling for them soon, but the handsome orange thing that keeps coming by at dawn and dusk is too stupid to be caught.) All three of them shift to look at something over your shoulder.

“Excuse.”

You don’t startle, thankfully. The voice may be unfamiliar, but neighbors stop by consistently enough that you’re not surprised to have your solitude interrupted.

What you are surprised by is the tall (very, very tall) man standing at the edge of your front yard. One of the renovators.

“Hi,” you say, straightening.

He points a gloved finger at you - no, not at you. Past you. At your cats.

“May I see them?” He asks in a thick German accent.

You blink, surprised and confused.

He’s a big man. Not just unusually tall, but broad as well. Muscle tugs at the fabric of his shirt, cargo pants clinging to his thighs. He also hasn’t bothered to take off the heavy duty dust mask, black sunglasses, or jacket hood obscuring his features. Looks like he’s about to rob you, honestly.

But Agatha’s uncharitable muttering about delinquent men rings like a warning toll. You’re at risk of sinking into the judgmental sea of upper-middle class suburbia, and that’s not water you want to tread.

“Sure!” You reply, ignoring his lack of introduction. “One sec.”

The cats see you dart from view and hurry to meet you at the door, meowing and yowling. You crack it open only wide enough to snatch up your precious firstborn, his leggies sticking out in abject bafflement at being airborne. You make guilty eye contact with your other two fiends before swiftly wedging the door shut again.

Then adjust your son, his little paws resting on your shoulder as you turn. Your visitor is standing right where you left him, perks up when he sees the cat bundled in your arms.

“This is Guy.”

You step closer, ignoring that shred of nervousness that being close to any man (especially one so physically intimidating) brings. To his credit, he only shuffles just enough to offer his hand for inspection.

“Guy?” he asks.

“I wasn’t going to adopt him at first, so I just called him Little Guy for so long that he thought that was his name. And then I did adopt him and now he won’t answer to anything else.”

You come by the rambling honestly - an obligate introvert until you moved to this neighborhood. There are few things you ever want to talk about with strangers, but your cats are one of them.

“He is a little guy,” the man muses.

Guy has no reservations about rubbing his fat face on the stranger’s glove, a purr kicking up in his chest. You relax as the man keeps his touch gentle and slow, that little bit of paranoid tension trickling into the soil beneath your feet.

“The other two aren’t as well behaved, I don’t trust them without harnesses on,” you add, nodding at the window.

The man glances up at them. Doesn’t seem to realize that his demise (and yours) is imminent from their glares.

“What are their names?”

You flush. “Rasputin and Shithead. I tell everyone else her name is Susan though.”

A sharp bark of laughter splits the air like a falling ax, cracks right down the middle. It makes you jump a bit - Guy is expectedly unbothered - but still you find yourself gratified. Laughing is good, it means you’re doing things right.

“Sorry,” he says, “but my friend would like that name.”

You gesture at the house across the street. “One of them?”

“Yes, the short one.”

You only just manage not to snort in amusement, but it doesn’t stop him from noticing. The mask moves, you think he might be grinning underneath.

“Does he know you call him that?”

“Not if you don’t tell him.”

You doubt you’ll have the opportunity even if you wanted to.

Someone’s at the door.

You’re only half-dressed, waist deep in laundry you have no excuse for putting off so long. Aren’t expecting company either - it’s Sunday morning, everyone should be at their various churches or visiting relatives. Can’t remember the last time someone knocked before noon on a Sunday.

Still, it was a big solid knock. The kind that makes you think it’s not the usual neighbor come by to impose on your space.

You glance down at the hem of your sweatshirt, determine it’s far enough down your thighs to be acceptable, and pad to the door.

You open it to another of the renovators. The “short” one - though you readjust that measurement quickly. He’s still taller than you, it’s just that most anyone seems diminutive compared to his friend.

“Morning,” you chime.

“We need your driveway.” His voice is low and rough, blunt. A sledgehammer to concrete. Also German-accented, you note.

“Oh,” you reply, “what for?”

He grunts. “Work.”

And you, a longtime observer of politely shaking people down for information by this point, smile without teeth.

“Oh, a work truck? It won’t make a mess will it?”

“No.”

You hum, glance at your stupid little sedan parked in the middle of the driveway.

“Okay, I’ll move — Shithead!”

You scramble to grab at the black and white blur of evil, sweeping her up in your arms as she meows in complaint. One of her back feet catches in the hem of your sweatshirt and starts to pull it up as she kicks. You curl an arm under her butt for support, but mostly she just takes the opportunity to chomp down on the meat of your thumb.

You glance at the man. “Shithead is very interested in the renovations.”

He stares. “So that is actually its name. I thought you were being rude and Konig didn’t realize.”

Ah, so that’s his name. You never did get that introduction.

“No, yeah, this is Shithead, I’m sure you can see why.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as she unlatches from your thumb, only to bite down on your wrist.

“So! The truck - when will it be here?”

“Noon.”

“Great! See you around!” You shut the door in his face without getting a name.

You threaten, not for the first time, to turn her into a pair of mittens. She responds by attacking your foot until Rasputin tackles her. Guy cries at the door, probably missing a man he met for all of two minutes.

The work truck stays through the night. Your cats spend all afternoon watching the men cross the street and back. Every once in a while, Guy puts his little feet up on the glass - Konig must be passing by.

You glance out the kitchen window only once and make hard eye contact with the third of their trio. He’s somehow even more covered up than Konig, and yet you get the distinct impression that your gaze is not welcome.

You blink and abandon the dishes for later.

The next morning, they’re already at it when you shuffle outside for the mail. Konig raises a slow hand in greeting, but visibly brightens when you smile sleepily and wave back.

You pass the work truck - the back panel is already open for them to unload wood beams and heavy-looking buckets. Construction stuff, as expected - and not messy, as promised.

You spot a red and white flag decal on the rear window. Austria, isn’t it?

“Did you just wake up?” a flat voice asks.

You squint a little through the morning sun at the man from the day before. The rude one.

You yawn. “Mhmm.”

He frowns at you, disapproval plain. Agatha will like him, you muse, shoving a hand in your mailbox. They both seem to have strong opinions about your sleep schedule.

“It is late.”

“It’s only 8.” You tug out a sheaf of envelopes and begin idly flipping through them.

“The sun is up.”

“So what?”

He clicks his tongue disdainfully. You absently click back. Then jump as a big body lands right in front of you. The third man, two wooden beams balanced on his shoulder. He makes brief eye contact with you again, then strides across the street.

“Shoo,” the rude one says. “Men at work, yes?”

You grumble. “See if I bring you cookies.”

Konig glances up from the truck bed, eyes shining. “Cookies?”

Well shit.

Rasputin keeps you company while you cook. He’s the only one allowed on the counter for any length of time. Shithead steals anything and everything, or bats at your hands while you work. Guy has the equal parts endearing and infuriating habit of touching everything with his paws.

Rasputin is the only one who will sit quietly to observe, leaning in for the occasional kiss. Today, he’s watching you bake cookies and assemble sandwiches. A dual-purpose welcome and peace offering to the three men across the street.

Is it too much? Maybe. But you’ve got nothing better to do and kindness won’t break your bank, so. Cookies and sandwiches.

You change clothes while the cookies cool on the pan - a sundress for the warm, late-spring weather. They’ve seen you in your pajamas far too much already.

At the door, you hesitate. This house doesn’t feel inhabited yet, but it also doesn’t feel right to just open the door. It’s quiet inside, so no power tools to drown you out. Making a face, you settle for a firm knock. It takes a minute or two - you think you might hear distant shouting. Then the door swings in fast and hard, nearly startling you.

It’s the third of their trio, the one you’ve yet to speak to. He’s covered head to toe, fabric around his head and face, leaving only sharp blue eyes to glare out.

“Hi,” you begin, hands thankfully too full to fidget. “I brought food.”

His eyes flick to the foil-covered platter in your hands. Then he swings the door wide and pivots on his heel.

“The cat comes too.”

Cat?

You glance down. Sure enough, Rasputin is standing by your legs, his remaining half a tail swishing. You sputter at him - didn’t even realize he snuck out - but all you get is his characteristic raspy “mah” noise. Right then.

He politely trots by your side as you enter, not even shy about your curiosity. The place is gutted, stripped walls and scuffed floors. It smells like dust and plaster and shaved wood. All the lights have been ripped out of the ceiling, exposing wires like nerve-endings.

There are two empty rooms to either side upon entry, a den and a dining room probably. The den even seems to be split into two, with one half sunk lower, accessible by a couple steps.

You follow your unexpected host through the “dining room,” which seems to be more of a satellite staging zone at the moment. There are piles of tools, stacks of materials, a little island of canvas bags. As you pass through, you notice a staircase, and even from the ground floor, you can see that it crosses over to the den on the other side.

The kitchen is stationed towards the back of the house. You try not to wince at the state of the counters. Pockmarked, blistered, scratched, burned, cracked laminate.

The floor has already been pried up to reveal smooth concrete. You scan it quickly for anything that could hurt Rasputin’s feet before entering.

Your neighbor gestures for you to set the platter down on an empty patch of counter, so you do, peeling back the foil.

“Cookies and sandwiches,” you explain just to have something to say.

“Why?” he asks.

You shrug. “To be nice.”

He stares. You blink back.

“I mean, you don’t have to eat them,” you add. “It would just be a waste.”

Rasputin chooses that moment to leap onto the counter, taking a moment to steady himself once he’s landed. With only one eye and a crooked leg, he’s not the most acrobatic or graceful of your babies, but he makes do.

To your shock, though, once he’s gained his bearings, he makes like he’s going to eat one of the sandwiches.

“Ras,” you gasp, surprised. “Absolutely not!”

The little shit doesn’t even resist when you nudge him away, just settles on his haunches, staring at your neighbor. And, to your confusion, your neighbor grunts.

“Konig! Krueger!” he barks.

That must be the rude one’s name. Krueger. You file that tidbit away.

“What’s your name?” You ask. “No one’s told me.”

He eyes you - dare you say suspiciously - letting the silence stretch.

“Nikto,” he rasps finally.

You finish introducing yourself just as the other two enter. Konig’s down to just the dust mask today, while Krueger seems to have donned one for himself.

“You,” Krueger says.

You arch your eyebrows back. “Me.”

“What brings you here?” Konig interjects, much friendlier.

“Well, you really seemed to want cookies yesterday, so I thought I’d bring some with lunch as a welcome to the neighborhood.”

He practically shoves Krueger to get to the kitchen. You politely get out of the way so he can indulge in your offering without getting trampled.

“Danke schön,” he says, scooping up a sandwich.

“No problem,” you answer, smiling.

Krueger deigns to sidle closer, inspecting the platter with a keen eye. Still, you think you see a bit of appreciation in them before he snatches up one of the sandwiches. For some (concerning) reason, you’re gratified by that. (You’ll just blame it on your habit of feeding ferals and strays.)

“I also wanted to give you three a little warning…” Three pairs of eyes pin you in place. You try not to grimace. “Everyone on this block is nosy as hell. They will literally peak in your yard and check your mail.”

“The mail?” Konig asks, appalled.

“Yeah, I started using a PO Box,” you sigh. You’ve only got so much sanity before you start taking sniper shots with a water gun.

“We will handle it,” Krueger says.

“I’m sure,” you demure. “Anyway, that was all. You can drop the platter off later - or I can come get it. It’s not like you’re far.”

You start looking for Rasputin, only to find him perched on Nikto’s broad shoulder. The man doesn’t even seem bothered by the claws digging through his shirt, scratching a finger at the calico’s cheek.

“Huh,” you say, surprised.

Nikto glances at you, pauses. “What?”

You snort at the bluntness, but grin. “Usually I’m the only one allowed to pet him.”

That’s three for three. Well, two and a half. Shithead could have been trying or escape or go for the ankles for all you know. But Krueger seemed to like her, so that counts for something.

“C’mon my little tank, let’s go,” you coo, approaching.

Rasputin nuzzles his face against Nikto’s once, gives him a parting mraw, then leaps into your waiting arms.

“Bye, guys!” You call, waving over your shoulder as you head for the door.

Konig is the only one to respond with a polite, “see you!” But you don’t take it to heart.

#more more oh my god I need more bless

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WHERE ARE YEEEEEEW

#every time this shows up on my feed i break out into song and then cant get it out of my head

[141trash]

“How’s your WIP going?”

"Have you made any progress?”

“How close are you to being done?”

#i think this is my true patronus

[141trash]

record-keeping...

#artists are so amazing #awoidjfllasiejfasd #I love this so much

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U know those couples who are on video calls 24/7 just hanging out? That’s them during leave. Doing reading sprints and everything

Anyway watching Staged always makes me think of them they’re so silly

#i love artists especially fanartists they're so wonderful

[141trash]

Reader: *Finally snapping after years of mental abuse, losing all kinds of self conservation instinct, smashing someone's head with a rock.*

Ghost, just as mentally fucked and with even less conservation instinct: Yeah, I could fix her.

I just think they could work perfectly fine, with like no angst at any given moment and just perfectly healthy and not self sabotaging from any of them. Hehe

[141trash]

New idea: instead of writing the fic, you come over to my house and I tell you the entire plot while I pace my tiny kitchen. There’s a cup of tea, warm in your hands. The words don’t stop and the affection never leaves your expression.