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papaver-decervicatus · 9 months

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Cat/Mouse/Den: Pt. 5, Royally Caught

While tied down in a cartel interrogation room, König is forced to his mental breaking point when a certain sniper makes an appearance. Is she a rat, or here to chew him free...?

CW: Obsession, stalking, canon typical violence, intrusive thoughts, unsanitary wound care, graphic mentions of sex trafficking victims, abusive language, mentions of sexual violence.

Author's note: Please notice that warning have indeed changed for this chapter! Nothing happens in the story, but many hard themes come up as intrusive thoughts. Please be weary of these and feel no obligation in reading if doing so would make you uncomfortable!

Ahhh, well well well... it's finally here. Originally the concept of this chapter came from this YouTube Video as inspiration, specifically Labyrinth by OOMPH! And it sort of... wrote itself? The title is supposed to be a play on the phrase "Royally Fucked" because I did not feel like using a swear as a title. Anyways, you'll notice from my headcanons on König that I believe working as an insertions specialist for human trafficking seriously fucked him up. I also believe that he typically does not act out violently against women. So... what happens when he thinks Mouse is doing the very thing he hates so much? Well, you will have to see!

This chapter requires some suspension of disbelief, but the inspo was taken from the El Sin Nombre mission in MWii. Mouse is in the cartel house, undercover at a party and in an attempt to take out her target she saw an interesting video feed....

I must admit, this chapter has my favorite single or one off lines. I am really proud of it, please enjoy! But be warned, this is unabashedly horny/desperate/angsty/and the pining goes fucking nuclear. Have fun!

Also, if youre into the fake interrogation thing, then next chapter stays good for you, especially if you want mouse in the hot seat...

❣️Cura ut Veleas ~ Caedis 🥀 PREV | Pt. 5, Royally Caught | 4.2k words | Mouse POV | NEXT (coming soon!)

König did not expect his Friday night to end up with him locked in a storage container turned jail cell in Mexico.

Yet here he is.

At some point while raiding the Cartel Mansion in Las Almas, or more appropriately, trying to open an exterior wall so that KorTac could raid it, he had been shot with a tranquilizer gun. The shot didn’t knock him out entirely, the dosage was probably not completely calibrated to his weight, but it was enough to slow his escape down. He got about two miles out before men in an armored Jeep jumped him.

And he woke up, here, about three hours ago.

Two hours ago he broke his thumbs in an effort to get out of his cuffs, but someone must’ve caught his plan because immediately afterward two masked cartel members came into his cell and stuck a syringe into his arm. When he awoke for the second time, there was a durable cord keeping his wrists together instead. Feeling around he could tell that the rope had been burned into itself, creating a lack of weak spots for him to abuse in escape efforts.

His legs were in a similar position, chorded down thick and heavy to the legs of the rusty metal chair he was in. He was still in most of his combat outfit, save his vest, weapons, and any tools he had on him when he was captured.

They’d kept the hood on his face and they hadn’t removed his helmet. This, to König, showed an extraordinarily eerie amount of understanding for his position within KorTac. None of his comrades would recognize him by his face, and judging by the multitude of cameras in the room, he was intended to be… recognizable.

At first, anyways.

This cell was, unfortunately, familiar to him. The layout of the cot, the chair, the metal table, the haphazardly soldered-in door and door frame, the holes drilled into the sides of the metal container, and even the rudimentary sink and toilet combo was something he’d become viscerally acquainted with.

This was a typical Al Qatala human trafficking cell, specifically designed so that multiple humans could be chained up in one space without sacrificing the capacity for good camera angles. Typically, these were set up in storage containers twice the size of this one, but he doesn’t really have any room to be complaining about getting put into a non-standard torture chamber.

His specialty was cracking these when he was with the Austrian Special Forces. His real calling in life, his one true hatred.

Fall on the sword you forge, he thinks. The understanding of what will become of him in short order is horrifying. He’s one of the few people on the face of the planet who’s seen this exact routine played out for other prisoners of war, usually at the behest of desperate governments seeking his expertise in getting their soldiers out of such dire confines. He wrote the book on what happens in these situations, when it happens, and where the person ends up.

They never end up alive. Prisoners of war are different from sex trafficking victims. In some terrible way, it’s almost better to be the prior because at least then you don’t have to live the rest of your life after what’s happened to you. Death is a shitty kind of freedom, but it’s freedom nonetheless.

Of his 86 consults, only seven were successfully rescued.

Two of those died in trauma surgery.

The last five had been in custody for less than 24 hours, he had personally rescued that group. To his knowledge, they’d all recovered decently well. Their mental health, however, could be a different story. Not like he was allowed to ask.

He’s going over every possible route of escape when he’s shocked out of his plans.

The door directly in front of him opens, and his dark cell erupts with sickeningly bright, white light. His eyes strain trying to adjust to the intrusion as he takes in the form.

A silhouette stands in front of him, all soft edges of black, arms braced on either side of the door frame. The backlighting gives the figure an almost angelic quality, a soft and fuzzy etherealness blends outlines and light. It’s the telltale curves of a woman, of soft thighs, of ample hips, of a woman’s bust. Little strands of fluorescence peek through a crown of hair on her head.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this, meine majestät.” The cruel Angel hums, voice like forbidden fruit any man could be forgiven for falling for.

“Maus?” He calls out, desperate and confused and ready to shatter.

“Quiet as a.” She calls back, composed as if entrenched in amber and equally as unmoved by his predicament.

He’s always wanted to get his teeth around her pretty neck. He’s always desired to have his hands around her waist. He’s always hoped to be able to pound down into her quaking form. He’s been desperate to have her underneath him since their very first chance encounter. These feelings have been constant since he heard her beautiful voice, but suddenly they’re not the same.

Now he wants all those things, but instead of their motivation being love, it is bloodlust.

And intense bloodlust at that.

He’s never wanted to kill a woman, he finds it despicable that women more or less get turned into cattle during war. He’s sure that Freud would have something to say about his neurotic insistence on not harming the fairer sex even with his typical caliber of violence, but he’s never once cared to self-examine that. His entire military career, in fact, was dedicated to saving women and children from the horrors of a very male, very sexual world. Insertions specialist, yes, but specifically for human trafficking situations.

Looking into his wartime paramour's eyes, the intensity of hellfire overcomes him. His entire world crashes around him. He’s breathing in debris and dust as comes to the terrible conclusion that this entire time, it’s been her that has been perpetuating the injustice he so hates. That it’s been the thing he’s romanticized that’s been the fall of Rome. That it’s his savior that’s really been the perpetrator all along.

Perhaps the devil was once an angel, but to see his Angel for the demon she is? It breaks his heart into gory chunks of splintered bitterness and hacked arteries where once love pumped.

Never in his life has he ever wanted to kill a woman, never in his life he had loved a woman so completely either.

Those two ‘never’s die loudly and crudely in his chest as he recounts how to kill her most painfully in his own mind.

For her now obvious position perpetuating his most loathed evil? For tricking him into loving her? For both and neither? He doesn’t know. He’s about two seconds away from frothing at the mouth like a rabid animal that’ll break its bones escaping a trap. He’s got nothing in his brain, just white-hot anger from the tips of his combat boots to the tips of his ears.

Not even the outfit, or more appropriately the lack thereof, that she’s wearing can dissuade his anger. In any other circumstance, to see her in a black draped silk dress with hip-high slits on both sides and a full set of harness garters holding up sheer pantyhose would make him go feral. It would make him kneel, it would give him all the power to break out of these bindings on his own with no help and slam her down into the metal floor and have her right here. He has the desire to do all these things right now, but for all the wrong reasons.

She’s taking something out from beneath her left breast as he recounts every thought he’s ever had about her and how foolish they’ve all been. He thinks that the only consolation he may ever receive for this betrayal is if he can crush her windpipe in between his teeth.

“If you can get your teeth around it, it’s yours.” He remembers her saying to him in one of her flirtations during their secret radio romances.

The phrase echoes rough and screeching in his head as he thrashes against the metal chair and restraints. He doesn’t formulate any words, he can’t, she doesn’t even deserve them, as she takes the lighter and cigarette she’s produced from her brassiere to her mouth. Her expression is unconcerned when she takes the flip-top lighter (that has a fucking crown carved into it, the audacity, his teeth clench and voice roars at the implication she’s been planning this for a long time) and its little flicker of brimstone to the end of the cancer stick.

She takes a short drag and holds it between two perfectly manicured fingers. She’s gotten a little lipstick on the filter.

“You don’t smoke.” That is all he manages to spit out. The only thought he can think of. Nothing makes sense and he’s liable to maul her to death over it. Her tongue darts quickly and sinfully across the filter, her eyes never leaving his. She tosses her stare towards him playfully, her hips swing wide as she waltzes closer to him.

“No,” she says, as she takes another step towards him. Even in those ridiculously tall, faux leather heels meeting the tips of his combat boots, she doesn’t particularly dwarf his size. She's got the tips of her shoes to the tips of his, her stance is wide to accommodate the positioning. The edges of the stockings on her legs disrupt in wave-like patterns where they collide with the rough edges of his tac pants. He looks and thinks about how if his clothes were a little thinner he may be able to feel her warmth. He wonders just how long it would take her corpse to go ice cold, because she clearly does not deserve to be alive. He forces himself to look up at her and he thinks about clawing out her eyes.

“But you do.”

She reaches her hand towards his hood and strokes his cheek through the fabric. He snarls and snaps his head away from her, reeling from the touch he’s so deplorably yearned for. Her placid expression drops entirely as she sees his reaction.

If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that his perfect little Mouse looked heartbroken over his refusal of her blandishments.

He wants to rip her still-beating heart out of her chest for the sheer nerve to display that sort of emotiveness to him. That she acted like there was something there when there very clearly wasn’t. That she lied so thoroughly to him.

That she made him love her when now he can see she never loved him back.

She takes a shuddering breath in and makes a concerted effort to put her expression back into place, to impose some sort of divine rule back over her features. It’s strange to see her trying so hard when she’s obviously been such a good actor for so very long.

“I just need some information, darling. No need to be so skittish, I brought you creature comforts for your cooperation.” She purrs, flicking some ash from the cigarette. “I know you could use a smoke right now, handsome.”

The bile in his stomach flips at the pet names he would usually kill for. Pet names he’s never had until this moment. His two addictions lay in front of him, together, wrapped up in black silk, and the only thing he can think about is how much he wants to tear it all to shreds.

Her hand follows his cheek to where it’s escaped her grasp. He is powerless to stop her as she rolls up his mask.

To his surprise, she stops rolling it up just high enough to expose his mouth and leaves the bunched cloth on the bridge of his nose. He wants to scream at the tenderness of the action, she’s giving him as much of his well-loved privacy and solitude as she can while bringing him, an active prisoner of war, a fucking cigarette while wearing the sexiest thing he’s ever seen.

The cruelty of it all had found the border of divinity and reality and ripped it open like C4 explodes plywood doors. There must be a God, and he must be in hell.

She gets dangerously close, close enough for him to bite, and her hand with the cigarette makes contact with his jaw. Her sharp, black, fake nails trail from close to his ear, down to his mouth at a tantalizingly languid pace. She bends down and puts her lips a hair's breadth away from his ear and he is about to actually bite her neck to kill-

“I’m trying to get you out. Play along.” She whispers and flips the cigarette into his mouth.

He takes a long drag.

He feels the relief of nicotine in his lungs.

He closes his eyes.

He thinks about what she said.

He doesn’t quite believe her as she takes the cigarette out of his mouth before he has to fumble to exhale around it. Her thumb traces the outline of his thin, scarred lips. Her eyes bore into his from above.

She puts it back into his mouth.

He takes a long drag.

She takes it out of his mouth and puts it into hers. She takes a shorter drag. He doesn’t miss the way that she keeps all the smoke in her cheeks, not actually smoking it at all. A little taste of non flavored-wax sticks to his mouth from the lipstick and he wonders if she can taste his mouth too…

The takes the lipstick-stained tube out of her lips, taps it clean, and puts it back into his.

He takes a long drag.

She takes it back out of his mouth and wipes at his lips with the pad of her thumb. His brain is too busy switching between wanting to bite her thumb off and wanting to suck on it like a dog for him to decide what to do before the obtrusive digit has been taken away.

“Sorry, big guy. Got some lipstick on you.”

She retreats from his form and goes to sit on the metal table slightly adjacent to the chair he’s strapped to. She puts the still-lit cigarette to rest in an ashtray next to her hip. She also puts the flip-top lighter down. On the bottom of the lighter, he sees some engraving, but he can’t make it out from how far away it is.

She crosses her legs on the edge of the table and the black silk she’s wearing all but flees off of the expanse of her now exposed thigh. She taps her fingers slowly on the metal, the pitter patter of plastic-press-on-nails on metal goes in time with his heartbeat.

“Who are you with?” She asks, and he laughs. She knows.

“Nein.” He responds. Is he refusing her, or this little game? He doesn’t know. She seems to understand, though, when she leans into his personal space and he has to fight the urge to look down her lack of dress and perfect tits-

“That’s no way to act after I got you a present, now is it?” She hums at the pulse point between utter cruelty and complete levity. He tests the restraints keeping his hands tied and sighs at the realization that they are still tighter than he can manage to worm out of effectively.

“I will not repeat what you already know.” He bites out.

“Clever boy,” she smiles and he can’t help but think and hope that maybe this cruel Angel is being genuine, maybe she really does want to get him out of here. He murders the hope in his brain the second he recognizes what it is. “So tell me, what were you doing here?”

“You know.”

“I’m afraid I do.” Her lips tense into a thin line and she looks down at her watch. She begins to swing the foot of her raised leg idly and-

She puts her foot onto the back of his chair right on his shoulder and oh my god her cunt is right next to my mou-

“Audio just cut out. I’m undercover here. Site goes dark for 2 minutes or less in 30 seconds. I’m going to pretend to interrogate you for a little while after we come back online to sell it. And then I’m out.” She warns, voice low and quick.

Once again, he has to fight every electric cell in his body to not lunge at her and rip her clothes to tatters (and maybe her, the jury’s still out on her trustworthiness) as he breathes in the smell of fresh nylons and her cunt like a fucking dog. Not making eye contact with her panties is also a losing game, and it’s one he seriously wishes he had decided against playing because it’s a sheer black lacy pair, because of course it is, and he can very nearly make out the curves of her sex through it.

“How do I know how to trust you?” He spits and blood flows out of his brain when he sees a tiny, minuscule amount of his saliva landing on her clothed cunt. He snaps his gaze back to her face. She looks rather smug and pleased with herself, he scolds his inner monologue when he dares to notice just how hungry her beautiful eyes look... He wants to wipe the smile off her face, through a kiss or through slicing it off with a knife, he’s not sure yet.

“You don’t.” She shrugs and somehow scoots even the littlest bit closer to him. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here, if I was I’d have brought a little more stopping power.” Stopping power? What is she talking about? Her beautiful features soothe themselves into a giggle and Gott, she’s very pretty with eyeliner and lipstick on, the little vixen. I want to ruin it.

“I’m surprised you haven’t noticed it. Put your cheek against my thigh.” She laughs.

Even if it’s a trick, König decides that if he’s going to die anywhere, it might as well be in between Mouse’s thighs in mere milliseconds. The throbbing in his pants also suggests that he’s probably forgiven her by now as well. He leans his cheek and feels cool metal hit it. He whips his head to look and tucked into her garter is a sizable knife.

When he looks back to her eyes he notices dumbly that she must be able to tell how desperately he’s in love with her because she’s smiling something wicked down at him. Angels aren’t supposed to be cruel, but he’s forgiven anything and everything she’d ever done wrong in exchange for the expanse of her thigh and the promise of a knife.

“If you can get your teeth around it, it’s yours.” She says with a smile like absolution. His mind alights with a terrible test of faith for her, with a truly awful proving method to try her loyalty to his rescue. He turns his mouth to the knife, and instead of taking it in his teeth, he takes her flesh in his teeth.

She whimpers as he teeth attempt to gain purchase through the nylon of her stockings. He gnaws at them until he makes a little opening, and through it, he punches down his teeth until he’s sure he will leave a mark, but not draw blood.

“Does that include you, mein Mäuschen?” He purrs into her now-exposed flesh. He peers up at her and he revels in the shock on her face. She shudders at his words and attention and something worse than pride finds a home in his hollow but newly hopeful chest.

She doesn’t move her leg away and he hums in satisfaction at the gesture. Instead, she looks worryingly down at her watch.

“You have 1 minute. Take the knife, keep it in your mouth under your hood, and give me 30 minutes to get out of here before you escape.” She says instead of responding.

While realistically he knows that she doesn’t really have an option in leaving him, that it would be too dangerous to leave together, that they are still technically enemies even on neutral ground- he can’t help but be disappointed that his Angel intends on leaving without him. Even more so that she doesn’t seem to want to answer him when she made the rules in the first place.

“Why are you helping me?” He asks, hoping for some clarity, for some tell-tale sign that this isn’t some weird horny fever dream he’s made up in his own little hell, worried that she will drag him back down from heaven and reveal that this, too, was part of the ploy to destroy whatever of him remained.

“Because I know you’d do the same for me.”

She says it without question but instead questions the motive. She says it like someone prays, like believing in the possibility of salvation but not quite sure how to get there. She says it like a guardian angel takes missions, unsure of her exact purpose but faithful in her understanding that there is one.

The deep cavern of his obsession temporarily closed and covered by the implication of her treachery, widens and deepens impossibly as he smiles into the knife on her thigh. It’s just a knife, but she believes in him enough to offer her only protection to him, and she believes that it is all he will need to make it back to her on the field.

He plucks the knife from her garter with his teeth. He tries to memorize her smell, her taste, the feel of her soft and plush skin on his cheek. It’s an intoxicating experience he isn’t quick to squander, but the implied hope that when not if he can get out of this she will be there waiting for him? That makes ending this warm-up worth it if it means he can get to the game and maybe, finally, win the prize.

She retracts her foot from his shoulder and lets down his hood from his face. She leans in terribly close and whispers, “After 20 yards, take your first left outside the second retaining wall. There’s only two guards there, it’s your best shot.” He hums in affirmation and adoration and she sits back into her position on the table. She looks at her watch and gives a curt nod: the game is back on.

She takes the cigarette back and draws the smoke into her cheeks and lets it flow out like a deadman’s soul floats to heaven, somehow rushed and languid all at once.

“We’ve been having quite the time trying to figure out your-“ he completely zones out whatever she’s saying in favor of watching the mark his mouth gifted her turn darker as the seconds draw on. It’s not like he could respond even if he wanted to, that would risk the knife she’s so lovingly gifted him into his lap and ruining the whole escape (and worse, endangering her.)

So, instead, he stares at her like the goddess she is. He burns the curve of her stomach between her hips behind his eyelids, he imagines resting his head there and kissing the smooth skin. He savors the way her ass flattens ever-so-slightly where it meets the metal table she’s sitting on, he thinks about holding her up by her ass alone and the plush yet firm give of her flesh. He drinks in the sight of her cleavage heaving when she emotes after a particularly loud question, he hopes what little he can’t see is the same type of perfect as the rest of it. Every once in a while he lets out a quiet huff around the blade in his mouth, in a vague response to something she’s said. Mouse gets “angry” in response, she even slaps him once or twice.

He doesn’t mind. It’s all a waiting game, after all.

König is many things, and a competitor is first and foremost.

If Mouse knows where he’s staring for the duration of their play date of an interrogation, she doesn’t mention anything. With one last stinging (and dizzying…) strike to the cheek, she all but yells “Fine! Let’s see if you’re so tough after 8 hours alone in this hell hole.”

When she turns to walk out of the door she came in, König feels a part of his heart leave with her. He breathes harshly over the outline of the metal in his teeth as he admires the confident sway of her hips. He bites harder on the metal when she tosses a sympathetic look back to him and blows a fucking kiss.

Sitting, alone in the dark of the converted storage container, he spends the most excruciating thirty minutes of his life occupied only with her phantom touch and his depraved fantasies.

“Because I know you’d do the same for me.” Echoes in his head in time with his heartbeat, in time with his imaginary minstrations on her form, in time with what he is sure will be the death of him.

That and so much more, he thinks when he finally, finally, manages to rid himself of his binds with the knife his Engel so graciously snuck him, 27 minutes after she leaves when some cartel member comes to check up on him.

König loses himself in the beautiful catharsis of stabbing the man who comes to fetch him so violently, that the blade to the knife literally snaps off somewhere in his bowels. He loots the cadaver for his gun and ammunition as well as another knife. He feels awful to leave one of her gifts discarded in the abdomen of some filthy cretin of a man, but he recognizes he really does not have much of a say in the matter when he hears the footfalls of his fellow cartel members rushing towards his location.

With one last sigh and a wayward glance to assure himself that he really did get his mouth around her and this wasn’t some dream, he prays in the form of bullets as he guns down anyone stupid enough to get in his way to escape.

Be safe, my darling Maus. I will be back for you.

I promise.

taglist! @kneelingshadowsalomegshadowsalome @sprout-ficsout-fics @bucca2cca2 @dead-cipher @gallowsjoker @lostagoodcigar @berryjuicyyy @haisebo @crowbird

#Navigation -> Cat/Mouse/Den #König #König x reader #König x OC #König MWii #König COD #Char: Mouse #CW: human trafficking

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sapphire-weapon · 4 months

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YOU ARE CRYING ABOUT WEIRD KINKS IN A FANDOM FOR A SERIES WHERE A DUDE CANONICALLY FUCKS A SPIDER

YOU LOOK LIKE IDIOTS

#resident evil #leon kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #i guess it had to be said #again #because i'm tired of this shit shitting up the tags #RE also has canon rape and canon incest and is a series about human trafficking and eugenics #it's implied that ashley gets raped in RE4 OG even #maybe RE isn't the series for you if the existence of these things in fiction is so upsetting to you #maybe the problem isn't the fandom #maybe the problem is that you're in the wrong one

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joels-golf-club · 10 months

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PLEASE STOP, READ, AND SHARE

This is not my usual content I would post but it needs to be said. Earlier today I was at Walmart to pick up purple shampoo and a loaf of bread. I decided to browse their makeup to look for a new blush and there were maybe three other people in there: a mother and her daughter and a young woman, maybe in her mid twenties.

While I was standing there the young woman came up to me and very nervously asked if she could walk around with my while I finished my shopping because she thought a man was following her in the store. She told me what he was wearing and his build and said that she had been weaving in and out of aisles in the store and everytime she changed aisles the man would follow her from a not so subtle distance. Where I live there has been a rise in human trafficking in a few nearby areas and she told me that she had seen a lot of that on the news and I could tell she was extremely nervous. I let her know that she could walk around with my while I grabbed what I needed and even offered to walk with her to her car just in case. She ended up just walking with me to get my stuff and then we separated when we both needed to checkout; per her assurance that she would be fine.

Being another young woman alone in the store I was very alert and mildly nervous walking to my car alone even though I have been there a million times by myself. I made it to my car safe and as I was pulling out of the parking spot I saw the same woman walking out to her car, alone and safe as well.

The point of this is that people, women and men and everyone else, shouldn't have to put up with the fear of being kidnapped and sold while simply shopping, or anywhere else for that matter. While this should never happen, the sad truth is that it does happen, and please if you notice anything suspicious going on or see someone in need of help do not hesitate to step in to help or clear up any confusion on a situation.

And if you are ever in a situation like this, please please please, don't wait for something to happen, talk to security or an employee, ask to walk with someone for a few minutes, find something to do to PREVENT NOT DEFEND. Don't wait to be the person on the news that has everyone else worrying.

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killerpancakeburger · 5 months

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Trying to imagine my X Rugan fics like:

Me: That's the part where you flirt with him

My Tav: Bully him, noted

Me: No, I said flirt-

My Tav: Death threaten him, ok

Me: I give up

#rugan: the black hand will have your head #my tav: That's real cute. Killed my fair share of Zhents and yet Im still breathing... but maybe you'll be the one?#rugan: *backpedalling*#*intimidation failed*#*flirting mode engaged?* lmao #rambling into the void #bg3 #bg3 rugan #rugan #im imagining my tav as the reader for the x rugan fics cause they go so well together. the banter!#my tav: i wouldnt be interested in a human trafficker-#me: shhhhhhhh

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terrence-silver · 8 months

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A story about yandere!Gus Travis please? 🥺

(Gus Travis x Reader)

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His hand drags you forward, refusing to let go.

Rushing towards the lone beach church at the end of the mountainous hiking trail of Cape Flattery, tucked in between the bosom of the black jagged rocks overgrown with moss and the rough, sandy plateau of the foggy coastline as pale as a bone in the shadow of the tall, blackened Spruce trees, car parked behind him near the rocky terrain waterfront, gloomy and overcast before the afternoon rain, his men, in a pair of two, silently following suit, serving as witnesses. Nice, isolated, no people present to intervene, Gus thought, with determined steps stepping into the sand --- and as a result, a perfect place to conduct a quick marriage. He reassures himself, his fingers touching the hilt of his gun tucked into his belt beneath his jacket, deciding he can simply flash it to the priest in case of any inhibitions to the contrary, or even go as far as pull it out and make a valid argument with it if push came to shove, his other hand latched unto yours, ushering you where you two needed to be. He acquired you a dress. Had you wear it. Went as he was. Leather, jeans and a dress shirt, right off of the docks right before he headed back to finish up back there. Wrap up all loose ends. He had no time to play dress up. He needed this done and he needed to be practical on his part. He needed this to be binding. Today. Doubly so. Having just driven out here from the registry office up at Port Angeles.

Deciding that it was now or never.

So, it was infinitely better if it was now.

Gus pulls you to him, shoulder to shoulder, sliding off his jacket in a hurry and wrapping it around your shoulders tightly, keeping you warm from the oncoming wind gusts blowing in sharp from the open, wavy sea front, utilizing his body to shield you from it. Keep you pretty. Although, you always were, regardless of the circumstances. His very own mermaid on dryland. -"I know it's bad now, but I'll get a leave and a honeymoon and we'll go. We'll go whenever you want. Maybe get a boat. Just for you and me. Sail somewhere warm."- He speaks, close enough to touch your face with his as he bent his head down to catch your expression better. He was certain his boss would give him a week or two worth of break. Gus's grip on his gun instinctively tightens. You shoot him a concerned, puzzled look. -"But, how can you get a leave when you..."- You start and he immediately interrupts you before you can even finish saying what he was thinking you'd say. Yes. He already knew. He knew and he didn't wanna hear any more of that crap. He wasn't a doctor, an accountant, a baker, a mechanic or a lawyer. He robbed banks, smuggled, stole and killed for a living, yes, if the occasion required it. There were no holidays and breaks from shit like that. There were only stalemates. But, he'd ensure some of the spoils of all his efforts over the years would pay off and that he'd get the due diligence rewards he deserved in leaving with you for a while. That was the least of what he was owed. His thoughts take the shape of the firearm his fingers were caressing for a moment and Gus figured that if he doesn't get it though, at this point, he was just as willing to go solo. Shoot his way out of this mess, with you in tow or die trying.

If Bonnie and Clyde could do it ---

He turns to his men, with a glance tossed over the shoulders.

-"Keep the engine running. Wanna be out of here quick."-

Gus orders and one of the burly, sullen looking guys wordlessly nods and turns back, sauntering towards the solitary vehicle, while the other one took the hint, and stood discreetly aside, hands tucked into his pockets, head averted. Good call. The rush wasn't quite that big, but he wanted a second of solitude with you, to drill something into you. Gus grabs your shoulders and turns you to face him, looking at you directly. Trying to make you understand. -"Hey. I can. I'll find a way. I always do. Doesn't matter. So long as we're together. Always together."- He reassures, vehemently. Hands travelling from your shoulders to your cheeks, warming their cold, windswept surface with his warm palms, protecting you from the ire of the ocean. -"You were given to me, remember? The best work bonus I ever got in my whole life and I'll take care of you forever, okay?"- He presses his forehand against yours, holding himself there, closing his eyes and trying to remember when you were first brought in to the compound. One of many girls his boss wanted to put to work. On the street. In bars. In clubs around Washington State. In private joints. Hauling them off to private collectors. Caught anywhere and everywhere. Abroad. Domestically. Smuggled across the border with Canada. Promised jobs. Opportunities. Thing was, a man could only rob a bank once. A person? He could sell multiple times. Countless times, in fact. It was lucrative business. But, Gus? He picked you. He knew he wanted you the minute you were brought in. He wanted you untouched. Unharmed. Unspoiled. All for him. And now, he'd have you. He opens his eyes. Meets yours.

-"And those days? They're long gone. They're never coming back."- He coos, pressing his nose against your neck, inhaling the scent there. If anyone ever touched, tried to use, did as much looking at you wrong again, he'd dump them off of the nearest port in so many bits not even the fish would find them as viable chow.

Gus swore that much.

-"But you sort of owe me something for that. I paid a hundred grand in cash for the privilege of that even though you would've made some pimp out there ten times that much. What I gave for you is more than these bozos make in years."-

He reminds, not unkindly --- never unkindly if he could help it, pointing his nose towards his men for emphasis, but it needed to be brought to your attention that he bought you off of the hands of his syndicate with more money than most people have ever held in their hands all their lives, saving you from a life of sucking cock for a buck and showing your ass on some pole somewhere to dope shooters, petty dealers and the occasional street thug. You quite literally belonged to him. And much like all treasures, you were expensive as heck, but it was worth it. You were worth it. The coastal church was looming just ahead, against the cloudy vista. All that was necessary was to walk through it now. You already had matching bands on your fingers and it was all legal. This was really just a formality. A romantic formality. He couldn't help the appeal of it. A wedding elopement with the one he loved. Now, if he only had a boat baptized with your initials so he could make this day perfect. Sail somewhere up North. Never to be found again. -"I've nothing to repay you with and you know that, Augustus. I don't have a single thing."- You shake your head, using his full name, seeming somewhat defeatist, and no, that wouldn't do either, because you did in fact, have something. The name of the something or someone was inscribed in ink above your heart. A tattoo, matched to his. He grabs the hem of his collar and shows you your own name marked in black on his skin, peeking out from under his shirt and his braided chain necklace, beneath his collar bone, so you'd never forget you and him were one. Even if marriage certificates could burn, wedding bands could be lost or sold, branded flesh was a constant.

Even after death. Even if you fought this, ran, acted willful, lied and schemed, butt heads with him and made it impossible for him to be as good as he wanted to be and if he was forced to do something as unthinkable as tie your legs with bricks and submerge you into the sea, you'd still die with his name on you, and if he jumped after you to join you, he'd die the same way.

That was true matrimony.

-"But, you do. You do!"- He protests, pointing at the inked letters.

-"You've got me now!"- Gus presses your hand against his torso, squeezing it there with his own grip. -"What you owe me is in there."- He looks towards the church and then back at you, hearing the distant buzzing of the ignited car engine stir the wind and the slamming of the door as his getaway chauffeur sauntered back, waiting at ease, adjusting the neckline of his jacket and lifting it up once the first, mist peppered dash of rain broke through the air. It was time, yeah. Gus collects the hem of your wedding dress, carrying it for you, not caring if your own attire wasn't exactly the most practical compared to his, feeling you needed and deserved to look the part of the princess today of all days, grabbing your hand and leading you up the slope, towards the rocky chapel courtyard and its iron cast front gate. His hand finds yours once again, fingers entwined, embracing you to shield you from getting wet. On instinct, his hand is on his gun once again. -"That and letting me lead you because I'm not leading you anywhere bad again. I love you."- Gus guarantees, giving you a kiss, tasting the salt of the wind and the sea on your mouth before he sought to refresh your memory and saying;

-"We love each other."-

#black point #black point 2002 #gus travis #gus travis x reader #gus travis x beloved #tw; human trafficking #tw; dubious consent #tw; some form of blackmail or other #tw; branding #tw; murky morality #tw; crime and criminals

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biblioklept-writes · 1 year

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planning to post a Mafia!Targaryens fic for Christmas

let me know if you would like to be tagged!

its primarily Aemond x Reader, with platonic Aegon x Reader, Helaena x Reader and Daeron x Reader

(also as a warning, the reader is traumatized, and had been a part of human trafficking and prostitution(?), allusions to SA and Rape, please do not read if you are triggered by that!)

#aemond targaryen x reader #aegon targaryen x reader #helaena targaryen x reader #daeron targaryen x reader #mafia!targaryens #modern!aemond #modern!aegon #tw human trafficking #tw rape #tw sa

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shamrockqueen · 6 months

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Wasteland paradise

Chapter 1

Pairing : Boyka X Reader (Post Apocalyptic AU/ inspired by but not in the universe of Fallout new Vegas)

Warnings : R18, human trafficking, purchased reader, eventual Smut, rough smut, eroticism (not every chapter has smut), death of minor characters.

Word count : 1498

Scott Adkins Masterlist

They say that the decay was gradual, overtaking humanity like a spiderweb of cancer and bleeding into the very bones of modern society. The elite sat comfortably on their pedestals as the earth below them crumbled—that is, until the rot reached them too. They say that when the tallest tower finally fell, it was already too late.

The underbelly was all that survived, becoming this new aristocracy within what once were major cities. Those who fled were left with the scorched landscape they had left barren. Some founded small communes; others formed almost farel gangs that roamed further out into the wasteland. Some settlements fizzled easily; some were attacked and picked clean by invaders; but a few seemed to live long enough to spawn other generations.

You’d never know what that modern world was truly like, and sometimes you’d find yourself wondering how your life would have been if the older generations had ensured a better future. It wasn’t worth thinking about anymore. No, living through the week has greatly outweighed depressive fantasies.

You found yourself alone—finally and horribly alone.

You tried your best to wash the blood stain out, but no amount of scrubbing could make the dress clean again. It felt low, repurposing the very clothes your mother died in while she lay naked in a shallow grave, but you couldn’t afford to waste the fabric. The dress would never come clean, but the pattern was a beautiful yet slightly faded floral blue, so the cleanest part of the fabric had to have been worth something. Anything to put some food on that empty table now that you’d be the only one left to provide for it.

Almost all of your time had been spent taking care of your mother until her slow demise, which had her coughing up most of her own blood. It was always hard to look at her while she was in that state, and the only hope now was that she would be at peace.

You looked at the once-beautiful dress you had bundled in your hands. It had been her favorite, but it was too late to bury her with it now. You pulled the small switchblade from your pocket and began cutting off the stained portion of the fabric. You didn’t bother to cut the seams, as whoever bought it off of the trader once it left your hands would just do it themselves.

You bundled the dress under your arm and left your little home. You had shared this poorly constructed, one-room shanty house with what was left of your family. The small shanty village wasn’t very big and didn’t yield very much production, but the few traders that came through were often a godsend as they brought in many much-needed supplies. A tiny smudge on their map, and they still remembered to visit all of you.

You hoped to get there early so as not to be stuck in the hot sun for most of your day. The caravan was normally parked over by the moonshiners shack, an old man who made a pretty good hootch and would sell a lot to the passing traders.

It was the main reason the caravan came at all and often a great reprieve from everyday life since he’d let the townsfolk get drunk at a hefty discount.

He was nice enough for an old coot, and more often than not, he could be seen sitting in front of his home with his dog Trixie, waiting for the traders to show up.

Old Trixie was sweet and would wonder over and nuzzle up to passersby in search of extra affection and maybe a bit of food. She usually rushed the hill when anyone got close, but when you rounded towards the shack, she wasn’t anywhere in sight.

You crested over the hill and looked down at the lonely little shack at the bottom. There were vehicles all around the house, alongside the trader’s trucks, but you didn’t see any people. You used your hand as a visor to shield your vision from the bright sun overhead to get a better look at the scene before you.

A mound of fluff lay motionless next to the door. Trixie’s telltale brown and white spots were stained in a deep, terrifying red splattered along her small body.

More bodies, larger and human, came into view, all of which lay slain by the side of the caravan. You stopped walking, shaking in your boots at the prospect of getting caught by whatever had caused this entire scene. You nearly pissed your pants off when the mirador walked out of the shack with a jug of hooch in each hand. He wore a torn armored vest doused in a fair amount of blood that most likely wasn’t his.

He turns back towards the house as if to talk to someone behind him, and you take this chance to turn tail and run back the way you came. The fabric was let loose from where you’d clutched it under your arm, kicked away by the dusty wind in exchange for your meager life. The desecration, the sacrifice, the loss—none of it was worth anything now, and all was forgotten in the wake of a possible bullet to the teeth.

The only sound you could hear was the crunch of dirt under your boots as the blood rushed to your ears. You sprint off as fast as you can, propelling yourself down the hill almost faster than your legs can keep up with.

You barely caught the sound of someone shouting after you with a jovial “Woah, where’s the fire?”

All were silenced after a loud bang of gunshots went off not far behind you. Everyone scattered like ants as more shots rang through the air.

You make the mistake of turning back to look at the whirring of a spiked vehicle as it rounds over the hill. You tried to run as fast and as far as your feet could carry you until you could find ample cover from the impending doom.

The flicker of the blue plastic tarp as it got caught up in the breeze stole your sight as you switched your direction towards possible safety. Your boots nearly slid out from under you as you dove towards the tarp. It proved to be a small, unused alcove between two shanty houses, with the plastic cover leftover from a collapsed partial roof.

You kick yourself underneath it and fling the tarp back over your body. You had to squeeze in among the long-forgotten junk as you tried to steady your heart.

You watched as the shadows flickered from the outside of your small cover; many were from those running away just as you had, but others were larger with more sharp edges. Your stomach ached as the shrill and broken voices of your neighbors disappeared into the distance, but it would be the first crack of gunfire that made your guts drop entirely. The cries of the fallen were quickly devoured by the roar of scrap metal against the rough terrain vehicles that rolled by.

You held your breath to keep from hyperventilating, digging your teeth into your bottom lip as tears dribbled tracks down your dirtied cheeks.

You hear heavier, slower footsteps that clinked as they hit the dirt. The sound of it was horribly clear as they got closer and closer to you, hidden only by a tattered blue tarp. When the cracked leather of the side of a boot came into view, you had to choke down every ounce of fear that wanted to burst forth, practically forcing it back down into your lungs as it twisted your face in horror.

You wait just as they wait. The boots don’t move for however long it takes to make your heart nearly beat out of your chest. Then they started to turn towards you.

The next sound is deafening as bits of rusted metal go flying as the blue sheet is ripped right off of it. Old car parts clunk and scrape together, and you have to cover your head with your hands as the small avalanche of junk falls over you.

As the hot sun hit your body once again, there was no use in staying quiet, and a scream finally forced its way out of your body.

To your dismay, you weren’t shot; you were only dragged out by the roots of your hair as the raider dug his fingers into your scalp. You're barely kicking as your legs fight, only to wiggle out from under the junk pile.

He pulls you out onto the road before giving you a kick and a quick order of “get up, off the fuckin ground.”

You scramble up, hands over your head, his rusted gun pointed to your face. He barked out “walk” through his broken teeth, pointing ahead of you with his weapon before kicking the back of your knee when you didn’t already turn and start moving. Your leg buckled but kept you upright as you limped ahead of him towards the chaos they had created.

Shanty houses were lit on fire after being looted and knocked over. A few children were being pulled away from the corpses of their parents left laying in the street; some were caught in the crossfire and laid not far from their fallen family.

“There’s almost nothing here aside from the hooch and the cargo from the caravan!” One man shouted out to the one following not far behind you, his gun still pointed to your back.

“Grab some survivors and load'em into one of the empty wagons. We can sell them off at the trade center for good money.” The voice behind you called back. “If they try to fight you, just shoot’um.”

When your knees shook, it slowed your pace, and you heard him yell at you, “Move, damn it.�� And you picked your feet up as quickly as you could towards the caravan.

True to their word, anyone who fought back was shot immediately. They would say that they could still get plenty of money for a few of you, so losing 1, 2, or maybe 5 wouldn’t be an issue.

When everyone was loaded into the wagon, it pulled off with a kick of dust. You watched your old town smolder and smoke in the distance until it disappeared into the wasteland. You’d never see the shanty town again, not that there would ever be anything left to look for.

Chapter 2

Tags : @annwoods91 @jasminrt1

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jadespeedster17 · 2 years

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The Fairy and the ‘Dragon’

Warning: None really, mentions of human trafficking, but that’s about it... also threats, in a funny way.

Pov: Second (You/Your)

Notes: I’ve slowly falling in love with the Hybrid Twins, so here’s one set after @peachsodama story. (I’ve fallen in love with your works too hehe) Emmet X Reader

Summary: After your best friend almost got kidnapped, you’ve been a bit protective. It’s only in your nature, they were the reason you showed your full hybrid traits. Sylveon Hybrids only showed fully when they found a close friend or mate. You’re lucky you haven’t found a mate yet. So, with your friend showing interest in a mate, you decided to cement that you approve... and that you do have scary dog privileges too. And you also end up meeting a man who is... interesting.

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You felt happy for them, very happy, they deserved a mate who cared, who would treat them well. The way they talked about him, the soft fond look, you felt your own tail wag at their happiness. The feelings were so genuine, and you wanted to test to see if his feelings were real too. You would not let anyone hurt or take advantage of them. After what happened and you coming to the hospital very upset, and getting the police report... you were tempted to break some laws to put some nasty curses on those bastards. Fairy Types were often said to be scarier than Dark or Ghosts when it came to curses. Never mess with the “Fae’ as some Fairy Hybrids were called.

But they promised you they were find, laughing at your mutterings of revenge. And started to tell you of Ingo, the man who saved them. And this was how you found yourself knocking on the door too the mans office and peering in. Finding the two brothers at work. You weren’t one to fear people easy, and a Chandelure Hybrid wasn’t one of them. But your eyes did look at the Galvantula hybrid nearby, he was... interesting with the many eyes and four arms.

“Uh... hello, can we help you?” Your ears twitched looking to the man, fit the description your friend gave you. You smiled, showing your fangs as you did so, “You must be Ingo, my friend told me much about you.” you said giving their name as his eyes widen at that and a purple flush on his cheeks.

“Ah yes... they doing alright?” Ingo asked after clearing his throat, you give a nod to that, ears moving again as your ribbons flick also. You could feel eyes staring at you from the other brother. “That’s good, that’s good.” he said again.

You nodded in agreement, “I came to thank you for helping my Friend. I had meant to walk home with them, but they insisted it was fine...” You flash teeth in anger at what had happened, your ribbon feelers tensing and untensing as you relaxed. “Possibly would have killed them had I gotten ahold of those bastards.” you said slowly.

“Oh I was tempted.” came a reply from the guy at the desk as he smiles showing fangs also, you tilted your head in acknowledgment. His tone and emotions said that those guys didn’t leave without some pain.

Ingo looked at you up and down as you beamed back at him, “I also wish to tell you, I do approve of you.” you told him as he could only gap. “I think you’ll make a fine mate for them, they deserve someone who cares and who appreciates them.” The purple flush was back as he could only stutter a bit, amusing. Your smile never leaves as you lean close, eyes glowing an eerie blue, “But if you dare break their heart... I will pry your true name from your mouth and maim you.” you said in a deadly serious tone.

You never thought a ghost hybrid could get paler, but he nodded, “R-Rest assured, I would not dream of hurting them.” he said to you tone slowly taking a firmer tone, as if he didn’t almost wet himself.

“Then you have nothing to worry about from me!” You tell him happily, as if you didn’t just threaten him. From your left you heard his brother snicker at the sight. You flick a ribbon to him lightly, not touching him but in acknowledgement. And turned back to Ingo, “I hope you make them very happy Ingo, they are head over heels for you.” you said in a softer tone.

This gets him flustered again, what a roll coaster of emotions you made this man go through, it was funny. “I best be going though, pleasure to meet you, I’ll be watching you.” you tell him turning to leave. His brother got to his feet, “I’ll walk you out.” he offered, and you shrug at that. And didn’t see Emmet snickering at Ingo with a grin.

The door closed behind you both as Emmet grins, “I am Emmet.” he tells you as you nod to that. “That was funny, scary dog privileges?” you teased you lightly, mandibles clicking a bit. A giggle like bells escapes your lips, “They are the reason I gained my features, they are my Friend, my partner. Normally my kind take them as mates, but I wanted to give them an option, and I’m fine with that.” you explained.

“Sylveon Hybrids are verrrrrry rare.” Emmet comments to you, and you hum in agreement. You were, rarely do any Eevee hybrids find their Friend. In your time you’ve only met one others like you, and his mate. it was nice to meet someone like yourself, made you feel less like something to gawk at.

You were beautiful, all fairy hybrids were. And ethereal face, eyes that were a bit too large, you had no whites, it was all blue with only black dots for pupils. Having long ears with a bow on the left ear and a bow on your chest. Your ribbon feelers extended from your ears and shoulder area. Your hands ended in claws that were pink and white in color. And a long tail that was super fuzzy. Though most only looked surface deep at it all, fairy types were wanted, many ended up in trafficking. Though for each one taken, many more found dead for daring to touch a fairy hybrid. Your kind was feared by some, it was ill advised to give you name to a fairy hybrid, or follow one alone.

Yet this man didn’t seem to care about that, happily chatting away about how his brother had bene pining for days. Sighing like a swooning prince, which made you laugh. You took in his appearance better, bug hybrids were often not liked. Many said they looked ‘gross’ or ‘unappealing’. Bullcrap if you say so, he was quiet attractive.

Having a smile on his face that showed his fangs and small mandibles that clearly he could retract. Four arms, all alight with fuzz that no doubt could shock you. Four eyes, all a deep purplish blue color. Your ribbons twitched lightly as you observed him, subconsciously trying to give off calm feelings, to be noticed. You stopped yourself though, embarrassing, you were trying to impress him! You saw the guy like you do the same thing. He said one does this to mates to show they are pretty, they can help with anything needed. Their kind needed to solve conflict, and those with high strung feelings made for ideal mates.

And oh boy could you sense the emotion on this man, so much of it. Emmet just released waves of so many feelings. It was... intoxicating, your ribbon wrapped around his wrist lightly, wanting to feel more. Emmet blinked at this and laughed, “Sorry am I a bit much?” he asked to you, a bit flushed by your reaction.

Your blue eyes gazed at his many eyes, “No.. I like it.” You said softly, almost lost in a dreamy state, you like his happiness, his enthusiasm, his giddy undertones. “You’re...” you pinch your face looking for the right word, “Cute.” you finally said.

This seemed to be enough to send the poor hybrid over the edge, his face turning bright, and electricity crackling on his arms. But you seemed unbothered by the slight static. “C-Cute?” he stammered out as you laugh at that and nod to that. Might as well go through with it, despite how you felt the heat on the back of your neck.

The moment ended as you neared people out front, slowly, and reluctantly you detached your ribbons from him. Passively his feelings were still there, but no as intense as before. “It was nice meeting you too Emmet.” you finally tell him looking at him as he nodded to that in agreement. Four hands wringing together lightly.

“C-Can we meet again some time?” He finally asked you, “If that’s fine with you.”

You smiled at that, little fangs showing again, “I’d like that.” you tell him, ribbons against twitching, wanting to wrap around him again. To just... feel the happiness, to just feel him. The softness of his fur, it oddly looked sharper than it was. Leaning closer, your press to his cheek, careful of the mandibles area, and kiss him softly. Then nuzzle his neck lightly, your ribbon twitching happily on your ears. “See you later Emmet.” you tell him.

You left into the crowd of people, leaving the conductor standing there in shock. They say a kiss from a fairy was good luck, and boy did Emmet feel like it was going to be his lucky... everything!

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- Fairy hybrids, mostly Sylveon’s, love emotion. Each one likes one different, you like happiness, and all sorts of positive emotions.

- Mates are chosen on their emotions rather than looks alone. Hence why the stories of anyone can court a Fae, if brave enough.

- Sylveons are quiet brave little pokemon, and will show unflinching confidence to even the biggest of foes.

- Hope you all enjoyed this cute fluff

#emmet x reader #second person pov #subway master emmet #submas #hybrid emmet #pokemon hybrid au #one-shot #fluff #tw mentions of human trafficking

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yan-senna · 2 years

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Lonely Man (Severus Snape x Muggle! reader)

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Chapter 2

Word count: 1.5k

Warning: Human trafficking and mentions of blow job

It’s been a few days since Lucius and the others visited Severus. The man in black has been lonely ever since, and it seems to get worse as the days pass by. He’s grateful for Lopsy’s company, but it’s not quite the same as the company of humans…

Besides, the whole ‘Lopsy will do this, Lopsy will do that’ drives him crazy. It won’t even surprise him if he starts talking like a house elf. ‘Severus will go to bed now. Severus wants to read a book, so do not disturb’…

Merlin, if that happens, he truly hopes they will send him to St. Mungo’s Hospital. A wizard talking like a house elf? That’s when you know they have hit rock bottom.

Severus sighs as he tries to read his book. He’s looking at it, but the words don’t seem to make any sense or at least register his mind.

He’s currently sitting on the couch in the living room, and Lopsy has decided to clean… in the living room where he is. Couldn’t she clean somewhere where she isn’t bothering or distracting him from reading?

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#lonely man #severus snape #snape #severus snape x reader #snape x reader #human trafficking #pro snape #snapedom #snape fandom #snape community #snape fanfic #snape fanfiction #snape fic

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scara-writes · 2 months

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paramour

Yandere!Cheating Duke X Duchess! Reader X Yandere!Lover Servant

I just want to write a reader who has the same/more power as/to the yandere(s).

The setting is still in the fantasy/manhwa world, medivial, any setting as long it's not modern.

CW: two yandere, rivals, cheating, consent smut, infidelity.

I'm making the darling a little more forward(?), daring, more power or that can go against a yandere. Atleast, that's what the darling thinks. Also, this is not polished like my other stories.[ Forgive me, I'm not good with smuts! I also love y'all comments and your ask/request(will answer them soon!). The Yandere Emperor and Yandere Crown Prince son really outnumbered the yandere Omega. Y'all are crazy for that!]

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

"Mistress." He murmured. His arms hadn't let go off your waist. It was the first thing your eyes landed on when the sunlight came in to greet a new day from the window balcony. You closed your eyes again to find your way back to sleep again.

Your hands went to trace his back full of scar last night from your nails. You hummed when he gave you a pepper kisses on your exposed skin.

"Morning." He gave you one last kiss on your lips before snuggling between your chest. His arms hadn't move around your waist since last night."Mmmh..morning..." You muttered looking away—eyes still close—from the sun when it kissed your face.

"Do you want me to call the maids to serve you breakfast?" His sweet voice lull to sleep more. You whispered no. Last night, this man gave you something akin to that of heaven, something your husband never gave you.

Last night, you made love with this man. The same man you rescued from the human trafficking, kidnapping commoner from the outskirts of the kingdom. Now, indebted by your kindness he devout himself to you with his life.

You groaned, feeling your body is aching all over. This goes not unnoticed by your lover."Did I hurt you to bad?" He asked. His earth orbs are gleaming with shine and now getting filled with tears. "I-I'm sorry, I was rough with you mistress." His voice full of regret and loathe on himself.

You opened your eyes, ruffling his curly brown hair before stroking it. Staring down at his eyes. "No. You did good." You smiled at him, cupping his face, before kissing him in the lips. He whimpered,deepening his into yours.

The intoxication of alcohol must have taken over you. Drowning yourself from alcohol after your husband didn't arrive on the scheduled date, you waited for him for a whole day to arrive. Alone in the gazebo, Everett was the one who went to your weeping figure. That was a month ago. Everett offered himself to shower you with his love. At first you feel reluctant about this, you will never be the type of person to use someone just so you can feel yourself happy. Everett didn't care about it whether you use him or not. He wanted to prove himself that you are worth to be love. This man made your heart flutter in a way that your husband once gave you before the marriage.

"I-I love what happened last night, my mistress." He whispered bashfully, his pretty swollen lower lip,you bitten hard last night, went to reach his eyes giving you a wide smile. The sun kissed his tan face adding a charming look. His neck has full of bites and bruises from you. His cheeks become a little darker shade from blushing, he must have reminisced something last night.

Now, you made him your lover. Though not completely in love with Everett. You also shower him with items or materials that most commoners would love to have but it doesn't seem like this man is materialistic. He just wants you.

You didn't hide Everett to your husband.

What's the use of hiding your fling to Theodore when he was the first one to cheat on this marriage?

Despite being loyal to that man you loved. He had the audacity to tell you that you shouldn't pry on his private his life after you confronted him with a newly hired maid going out. "Our marriage contract states that the two parties should not meddle one another's private life else this contract shall be annuled."

So all of his flexing his love for you was nothing but a hoax? A show? A lure for you to agree to marry him?

Though, your marriage with him was for the politcial marriage. You once fell in love with Theodore. The same man who gave you flowers everytime you two date, the same man who kissed in your cheeks after he walk you home, the same man who always writes poems about his devotion to you. Did he pursuade you to continue this marriage by making you love him so that the two duchy became one? It may seem like you wanted this marriage at first. You didn't, your family wanted it and they have asked you—no annoyingly, they plead you to marry him, because your parents and his parents signed a contract that their children will reunite the two duchy.

"Your ladyship, the duke asked for your audience to join him in the breakfast." Your butler from the other side of your room, outside the door, knocked and speaks after. You frown upon hearing it, looking at the closed door, what does he want?

You feel strange about your husband nowadays. He had been asking for your presence this past few days. Never once he called for you after your wedding with him.

You clicked your tongue and turn to look at your lover. You saw Everett's face was frowning too. "Fine, tell him I'll be there." You announced to the butler. You look back at the man leaning his weight on you. You tap the curly haired lover to let you go from his hold yet he didn't budge after moving yourself to sit up instead you heard yourself going 'oomfh!' and find your lips were on his again. You groaned while he moaned weakly. He pushed you down on the bed, his lips never leaving yours until you were out of breath. A string of saliva trailed between your mouths. Everett was smiling before diving his lips into your skin, to one of your chest, fondling the other. You feel a little ticklish and panting at his stimulation. "Eve—! Wait! Ah..." Your voices went unheard, The male's mewling sucking on to your flesh like thirsty man who hadn't had a drink.

Your hand went to tug his hair as you moaned out his name. "Shi—Eve... Oh! S-stop... Ah.."

His other hand goes to put one of legs above his back and parted the other leg, accessing himself between you even more."m-mistress!"

You groaned when you felt him grind between you. He looked at you with a pleading eyes, he look like he will cry again, the tears filling up yo the side from his eyes. "M-mistress." He whined his mouth was already in another mound. You feel his hardness between. "p-please? I'll be good! Please... huff..I'll make y-you feel good!"

Your eyes are hazy from the pleasure. "You want.. hah... it?" His eyes getting filled again with tears. You tug him by the hair not enough to hurt him. You landed your lips on his ears. Panting and breathless when you felt his hands is still fondling your body. "You got..ngh... to earn it, pretty boy." You murmurs made him whimpered. "You have to be my good boy... Are you my good boy?"

He nod, a tear fell down to his cheeks, he leaned down to your lips, murmuring, i-am-your-good-boys, thank-yous and I-love-yous.

The room filled with noises that could make anyone flustered and uncomfortable. You didn't realize from your high you are feeling that the butler is coughing uncomfortably behind the door excusing himself as he will inform the duke what you told him earlier.

You went down the stairs with a difficulty, aching between your thighs. You can't find any dress to cover the one hickey on your neck, Everett apologize and helped you cover it with a foundation but it failed horribly from covering seeing that the foundation wasn't blend well and you do not want your maids do it for you. Not when you found out that almost all of them had already been with your husband. You were planning to replace them sooner.

You stopped at the closed door leading to the dinning room. The butler from earlier straightened his posture, clearing his throat after he saw you. He announced your presence behind the door opening the door for you."My lord, your ladyship is here."

You walked in after thanking one of the male servant for pushing the seat for you once you sit across the lord of the household, your husband, the Duke.

The breakfast before you was served cold. If you have arrived earlier you could have eaten warm. You glance at your husband, surprised that his plate has not been finished and it looked like he didn't touched it. You noticed his eyes is trained on to you since you came in, yet his eyes isn't on you but to your neck and the way you walk earlier.

His grey eyes seemed to be narrowing, he scoffed. "You're late."

You glance away, picking one of the utensil, stabbing the meat, landing it to your mouth chewing it. You gulped it down before taking another bite. The marinated pork seems to be delicious even if the breakfast a little no warm.

"It seems you are enjoying with your toy a little too much." He added, there was anger rising beneath his voice.

Oh, the egg is a little bland but it is still edible nonetheless.

"There are more new reports about your speculated infidelity to the public. Do you know that?"

You looked at him after eating the last piece of the sunny side egg, smiling: finally acknowledging his presence."Yeah, what about it? It's not like it will ruin our marriage. After all, you had a numerous of headlines about your 'rumored' infidelity too. Did our contractwas nulled after that? It didn't right?"

"(Y/n)."

"Yes, husband?"

His eyes widened a little before going back on giving you death gaze. "Kick that slave away. I don't like him." He demanded. Though he wasn't shouting. You frowned, how dare he?

"Why would I? It's my decision whether I choose to throw him out or not."

"I do not want him near my property." He complained, gritting his teeth at the last word.

"This is my property as well!" You sternly answered back. Not leaving another room for an argument.

There was silence between the room.

"... I... don't want him near you." You heard him. You blinked at the sudden word that blurted in his mouth.

You scoff standing up, "I think I should finish my meal somewhere..." You starts walking back to where you enter the room.

"(Y/n)." Theodore called you. You didn't observe the way his eyes longed for you. You were focus on the anger within you. "Are we forgetting something, Theodore?" You questioned.

He pondered, those orb you used to love held a confusion.

"Meddling into your partner's private life will annul this marriage... Wasn't that written in our contract?" You bitterly told him. "Sounds familiar right? Do not dare demand me to throw away Everett." You added.

Finally waiting for this moment for this to happen. Guess he will get to taste his own medicine.

"... As long as we do our part in this household we will act as husband and wife. Is not that what you told me?"

"..."

"Now then, I will excuse myself. I have no longer desire to finish my breakfast here." With that, you leave him there.

When you reach the door, opening it, you were surprise to see Everett waiting outside. "What are you doing here?" You asked him. Your frowned face was replaced with a confusion look before giving him a small smile. The man infront of you return your smile with a small grin, placing one of his arm on your waist."W-well, I feel bored and alone in my own room. So I found myself waiting here w-with the butler. Besides I saw you walking wobbly earlier and I-I am concerned that you might have even more difficulty walking... So f-forgive me for not staying put." The look concern on his face adding the pout from his lips made him look cute.

"What are you a puppy?"You poke his nose giggling as you walk away with him, your eyes went back to talk to the butler. Telling him you want to continue your breakfast at your garden, asking him to make it for a two people. The butler bowing to your order before going to the kitchen area to order the maid.

Your husband on the other hand, loath with rage and jealousy mixing under his eyes. His eyes narrowed especially when the slave you brought in leaned on top of your head kissing at the crown part of your head, leaning to your ear to whisper something akin to sweet talks. The arm around your waist went to rub your back.

If only you glance again on Everett's face. You would have caught him giving your husband a smug smirk.

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halcyone-of-the-sea · 7 months

Text

The Invisible String Theory

PAIRING: König x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You didn't expect the man who gave you his coat to be the same one to bust down the door where you and the other women slept - sniper hood scaring everyone within an inch of their life. You didn't expect him to become so important to you, either. (Based on König's in-game backstory).

WORDCOUNT: 9.2k

WARNINGS: Human trafficking, mentions of unwanted touching, trauma, blood, gore, guns, bullets, protective!König, soft!König, nightmares, mentions of bullying, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

'DATE: 25, NOVEMBER, 2021

LOCATION: BERLIN, GERMANY

TIME OF EVENT: 0230

MISSION REPORT: PENDING….'

You don’t remember much from the day that could be called out of the ordinary. Ever since you’d been moved here with the other girls, everything was predictable down to the time the men would come over, to the point where the screams had to be muffled by pillows.

Never in your life did you think you’d be part of the nearly fifty million people stuck in this situation, and neither did you think you’d be the one in one hundred who got out. But before you can think about November twenty-fifth and those pale gray eyes, you have to go back to the beginning. To Al-Qatala.

You hadn’t been with this cell initially—you’d been moved around and bartered off more times than you could count; the initial founder of your predicament was long gone at this point. North and South America, Europe, Africa, Asia, and Oceania…you’d been practically everywhere and on every continent barring the obvious last. In Europe, you couldn’t name the countries, but you knew this for a fact: you’d never been to Germany before.

They had you with five other women in a large SUV in the beginning, this international ring of human traffickers. You had watched from the window, face blank and eyes unblinking, at the men who met near the docks. They had brought you in through Hamburg, first—not only the largest seaport in Germany but the third largest in Europe; you think you read that on a flier at some point. One of those flimsy ones that you find in gas stations with bright lettering to attract the tourists with their interesting facts.

You wished you were only a tourist.

You’d watched the men shake hands, and that was when you knew your fate, as well as that of the five other women, was sealed. You were going to all be here for a long time.

This Al-Qatala cell was ruthless, but you supposed with being around terrorists, ruthlessness was better than being executed.

For days you’d be exploited with the false promises of moments of freedom, breaks, food, and water. For some of the women it was drugs or money, but when your stomach was empty and your eyes blurring from lack of sleep, even addictions seemed to pale for brief hours. But above it all was the threat of death at every corner. These men would kill you.

It was only a matter of time unless you could give them what they wanted.

You yourself had developed a system, and it was probably the only reason you were still alive. Pick one of the handlers, gain his favor, and pray that he treats you specially while you keep up the act of a mindless, weak, woman.

Ivon was the man’s name this time around. Born and raised here in Berlin before the clutches of his fanatical ideations brought him to Al-Qatala. You hated him.

Hated his touch—hated his scent and how he talked; every bit of him was corrupted like a black dog at a crossroads, always leading people down the wrong path. Your only saving grace was that he was stupid. The other girls called you Cat—said you managed to nuzzle up to someone and soon after got them to give you what you wanted. Everything you wanted except freedom, that was.

You didn’t deny that Ivon did give you privileges, but that was the point. About a week into your stay in Berlin, he allowed you to go into public with him. Arm-candy.

A doll.

The townhouse you’d been stuck in had disappeared into a spec behind the rearview mirror, the chilled air from outside making you shiver at the lack of heat and the thin shawl you’d been thrown. No jacket.

The care of your health only extended to how well you were able to work—at the moment you were relatively healthy despite the bulge of bruises and constantly shell-shocked look behind your eyes.

But the trip—the trip. You supposed that was when it had fully started, and you didn’t even realize it before you saw those gray eyes again.

“Come,” Ivon orders, holding tightly to your arm and dragging you along from the corner shop without making a scene. Your hands loosely brush the wrack of clothes, fabric soft under your fingertips as it sways.

Fixing your shawl, you try to burrow your neck into it, gaining what little heat is available to you. It was cold out—you were shivering. People send looks, eyes tight as they shift up and down your form, but no one ever says anything. To be this bold, this cell had to have been at this for a long, long time. The realization didn’t make you feel any better.

That was when you first saw him.

You were standing outside a coffee shop, quivering like a newly hatched butterfly, Ivon making a call only a few feet away with fast motions of his arms. It was hard not to make a run for it right then and there; hard not to take those few seconds of open air and dash away—start screaming and yelling until the authorities came.

It would save yourself, but what about the others? They wouldn’t be so fortunate, you’d be sentencing them to death. None of this was simple—it needed to be thought out. Two games of chess being played at the same time.

The irony of it was that König had been off-duty that day. It had been a shot in the dark.

“Are you alright?” A thick Austrian accent makes you flinch as it appears beside your right ear, grating.

Your eyes snap to the side, moving one foot back as you blink wildly up at the blue-gray orbs that would become a staple. You liked to call it as everyone else did—the invisible string theory. A theory that stated that the universe connected people who were destined to meet one day. Through thick or thin waters, it was inevitable. He was inevitable.

“Yes,” you say quickly, holding your hands tightly around you. The man ahead of you was tall, almost startlingly so, with muscles more bulky than a boulder and his buzz-cut head open to the chilled breeze. He wore a surgical mask over his lower visage, his hoodie under the thick material of a canvas jacket. “Yes,” you say again, hearing Ivon’s voice behind you still on the phone. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Gray eyes furrow slightly, gaze darting over your head.

“Are you…sure, Ma’am?”

“Thank you for your concern,” you fake laugh, eyes pained, backing up farther. That invisible string snaps into place, pulling tight at only those few simple words.

His stature made you slightly nervous—large, intimidating; those hands could do quite the damage if given the chance. Your eyes had hit and bounced off the identity discs at his chest with little thought, too preoccupied to notice the fact that he was in the Service.

König’s eyes had narrowed softly, dark brows minutely moving in.

Ivon hangs up his phone.

“Can I help you?” He asks, coming up and sliding a hand around your waist. The man had stared at him for a long minute, and you had felt Ivon tense slowly at the unblinking eye contact.

This stranger had commented in German a long string of frim words, hands going to his jacket and grabbing at the arms—he slips out of it while still uttering.

Before you can react, the large coat swallows you whole and you snatch at the heat that’s still inside instinctually, now only realizing how much you were shivering. Your body sags into the weight of the fabric, the scent of sweat and coffee.

You don’t even pay attention to the growing tones, shocked. People look over to the two fast words being tossed.

Yet it could only last so long.

Ivon’s hand latches onto the side of your arm, beginning to drag you back and away from this kind stranger like a lap dog while throwing curses behind him. Gray eyes meet yours as old shoes skid and stumble.

König had taken a firm step towards you that day, his body tense and his hands clenched at his side—ready to do anything on a moment's notice should you ask for it. But all you do is stare, jaw loose, and the given coat still on your shoulders. You just couldn’t understand why he would do that.

The stranger gets swallowed by the crowd, and just like that, he’s gone.

That was all it had been; a moment—a few mere seconds in the large plot that was this almost impossible tale. You were glad it had been him, or else the events of the future could have been very different.

Of course, they hadn’t let you keep the jacket, but the memory was enough to warm you for days even as old pains faded and new ones took their place.

But those gray eyes would help you in the future, like a guardian; a protector in your dreams as you watched the snow fall from the sliver of outside light in your room with the others. Your mattress was on the floor like the rest, thin blankets and clouds of cold breath wafting up from sleeping forms.

This was the time it happened, and you’d just woken up to find the curtains shifting as one of the women near it moved in her sleep. Shadows slip past, the light interrupted as it shifts over your tired face with broken fractures.

You were always kept on the ground floor.

'CLEARANCE: APPROVED

TRANSLATING MISSION REPORT ‘RED FREEDOM’…

STAND BY…

Operation Red Freedom took place on November twenty-fifth, 2021, at approximately 0230 in the neighborhood of [REDACTED], at the residence of [REDACTED], Berlin, Germany. A squad of ten highly trained [REDACTED] personnel covertly entered the residence in two teams of five. Fireteam One advanced from the back entrance while Fireteam Two entered the residence from the balcony at the top floor, accessed via ladder.

Squad Leader [REDACTED], part of Fireteam One, set foot in the residence of [REDACTED] at approximately 0238 and began sweeping the ground floor as Fireteam Two cleared three of twelve known individuals belonging to the terrorist organization, Al-Qatala, on the top floor….'

You shift and shiver, your body trying to warm itself as the world blurs at the sides of your vision. Fingers twitch as your hand goes to wrap your waist, curled into the fetal position, creaking emanates from above you. Blinking softly, you frown and take a quivering breath, head nuzzling the thin mattress.

“Cold,” you say, the following low exhale of air out of your lips only making it all worse as everything seems to drop another degree. The darkness didn’t help either, only that one line of light trying desperately to fill the room like a bucket descending into a dry well.

You’re only clothed in the dirty and tattered remains of a large shirt, your legs feeling like they don’t hold any blood in them as they quiver without your knowledge—shaking the blanket above you. A few of the girls had said it would be okay to share, but everyone was afraid of the lock on the door clicking open and the men coming back in and seeing them. In the end, you could only look after yourself.

A thump makes you startle, drooping eyes snapping back open as you gasp.

Head shifting, you blink rapidly upward to the ceiling, confused as to whether that had been a part of a failing mind or if you’d really just heard a muffled bump upstairs. Brows furrowing, you lightly sit up, hands still around yourself and legs limply outward; spine hunched.

Your fingers had lost feeling, just as your nose had gone numb, but moving helped a little. Your hands dig into your flesh and your ears twitch at every creak in the wood—every pass of silent feet that suddenly becomes all the clearer as the sheen of fatigue slowly leaves your brain.

Walking? Small pains move along your body like needles, poking and prodding, but you ignore them as easily as you do the vile hands that had touched you. Survival had forced you into a constant state of self-preservation—pain couldn’t bother you, because if you stopped, you wouldn’t get back going again.

Your head tilts so you can side-eye the door to the room, sleeping forms all around shifting, singular groaning of tired lungs. But there’s something inside of you that stiffens like a prey animal, and you don’t know why. Inside of your sockets, your eyes hone in, bones stiff and your chest stilling as the grain becomes the most interesting thing to you beyond breathing.

There was someone….out there.

Watching, the sides of your vision shadow over to focus harder, your muscles tight. Your mind goes to the thumps from upstairs, the moving feet that sounded far more careful and deliberate than the ones your jailors took care to walk with.

Inside your ribs, your heart patters a bit faster, adrenal glands sending a certain flight or flight through the few veins you hold that aren’t chilled over.

Something was happening. Something wasn’t right.

Only when you move to shake the shoulder of one of the women sleeping beside you does it happen.

A yell.

A scream.

The girls in the room all startle awake, sounds of concern and shock entering the air that you mirror; faces snapping to the ceiling and the door. The townhouse erupts into gunfire and the sound of slamming wood—a warzone that only is separated from all of you by the thin material of the four walls.

You feel yourself being grabbed and held in fear in the dark, as your open face holds the expression of a rabbit in an open field, looking along the long, hidden grass.

The sounds persist, loud German shouts going up over the house and echoing with heated fever. This continues for minutes, added in with the sound of doors breaking off hinges, bouncing off the ground, and shaking the foundation so hard that you can feel it reverberate. The women go silent. Stone-still.

But the gunfire—so much gunfire. The constant pop of assault weapons and a pound of multiple booted feet.

What was going on? You can't make sense of it, so you only freeze and listen; trying to understand the longer the fight goes on, heart hammering; mouth slack-jawed. And then it’s like it never happened.

Silence.

You share quick looks with the others, all gripping one another and heads angled to the door. The heavy feet start back up again, coming closer. Your mind slashes to the window across the room, but it’s hard to think beyond the sudden body that shakes the door that leads directly to you all—the women scream, some standing up and racing to the glass with the same idea as you.

'…Squad Leader [REDACTED], and both Fireteams successfully eliminated all targets inside of the [REDACTED] residence, leaving the room occupied by known hostages last to prevent casualties and/or the usage of bargaining chips. Squad Leader [REDACTED] made contact with hostages at approximately 0244 after the final sweep of the townhouse had been completed and all personnel accounted for.

Local authorities had been contacted by neighbors due to noise but were dismissed.'

The door busts off its hinges and the room devolves into panicked yells and hurled bits of mattress material. Loud pleas and curses stuck like gums to teeth as they were forced out in fear and bone-crushing terror. You remember pushing back into the wall, many others doing the same, as a beast of a man enters the room with his face covered with a loose fabric hood of some sort.

Large—brutish. Like a demon walking with the color of black printed over his entire body; gear hangs from a combat vest, hands holding an assault rifle as a sidearm is strapped to his bulging thigh. Forearms the side of your head stays near his chest, and in order to not hit his head on the doorframe, the individual has to bend slightly. Over that hood, the lenses and head-gear of a night-vision rig sit heavily before it’s moved back with a firm hand that is nearly double the size of yours.

A monster.

Your entire being is tight with quivering tension, eyes blinking away tears at the smell of blood that rolls in from the hallway. The women at the window duck down, hands to their heads as if expecting a bullet to carve its way between their skulls.

“Cat,” one of the ladies behind you mutters, voice quivering. You shush her on bitten lips and move her farther behind you.

“Don’t speak,” you mutter. “Don’t move.”

You don’t know what you expect, but nothing about this is correct.

The man raises his hands, the rifle slapping his chest as it hangs from a strap. He speaks in German, and the heavy and fast noise of it makes your already addled head spin. No one answers beyond the slide of their own feet over the hardwood floors.

“Ich heiße König,” his head swivels from one to another, “Sprichst du Deutsch? Irgendjemand?”

You stare blankly, panting.

After a moment, and a slow step forward from the stranger, he speaks again, though this time, it’s in English.

“My name is König.” His voice is familiar to you, and you blink in confusion quickly, hidden near the back of the shaking bodies. “I am with the German Military, yes? We have conducted a raid on this residence.”

Military? Raid?

“...I am not here to hurt you.” He nears one of the women, beginning to bend down slowly. She squeaks, balking back—making him tense and halt. It didn't matter what he said, König was the epitome of a man who was intimidating on body alone; the gear wasn’t helping. Neither was the hood.

A soldier appears in the doorway, calling out to him in his native language as you flinch at the noise.

König calls back calmly, trying to keep an air of gentle strength around him.

The second soldier comes inside, dressed similarly despite the lack of fabric over his visage which instantly puts many at ease again. He clears his throat as König steps back, gargantuan hands coming up to rest at his vest collar as his legs shift. He seems a bit put off at the fearful stares from everyone, rolling his shoulders for a moment as he turns his head to look out of the doorway.

Your eyes don’t move from him, though. A nagging feeling in the back of your skull.

“We have to leave this place,” the second soldier tells you all, kneeling and resting a hand over his knee. “We’ll get you medical attention. Food. Water. There’s no need to suffer here any longer, hm? We can see to it that all of you will get the best care that can be provided.” A pause. “We can get you back home.”

That certainly got the attention that was needed.

Meek questions started falling out, then louder ones before pandemonium was roused in that tiny room pushed to the very back of the townhouse. Home. It was a word that had almost lost all meaning but was still that constant shining light in the back of everyone’s mind.

Home.

Did you even have one of those left?

As the rest of your fellows all got to their feet, taking you with them, you had to think over that fact as the soldier guided them gently out of the room to join the others waiting—trying to answer their questions and get them away from the gore before they saw it.

You stayed behind, feet shifting over the floor and your lips thin. As the silence settles in, you hold yourself a bit tighter and glance at the mattress all mashed together and stained—those thin blankets as you shiver.

“Are you alright?” Your head snaps over.

You’d forgotten about König.

He still stands there, still and with his hands at his collar; he clears his throat softly, speaking up from his low utterance. “Please…do not be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid,” you say tinily, your voice cracking in the lie.

You can’t see his eyes—not with the shadow from his hood or his head rig, but you can see the way his skull lightly tilts to the side, trying to see you better in the low light.

“That is good,” he answers, not convinced. “I’m glad. I did not wish to scare anyone.” He moves back and motions with a hand to the door from where they hang. “Please. It is best not to linger, yes?”

“Do I…” you hesitate, shivering. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

König’s face isn’t visible, but you can still sense the feeling of confusion leaking out of him. The man takes a small step closer, and you gaze up at him until his eyes are visible.

Blue-gray.

You stare, mouth parting in shock.

König blinks twice, quickly making a noise in the back of his throat at the sight of your eyes gazing into his—the same woman outside of the coffee shop from days ago.

That little invisible string pulls you closer, small millimeter by small millimeter.

“You?” You both say it at the same time, laced with surprise and shock.

It’s a long moment of gazing into each other, a battered body and another more strong than an ox. All fear of the man dissipates.

“You gave me your jacket,” you whisper, still torn up about it.

König’s hood shifts as he glances back to the door, German speech over the radio strapped to his chest which he takes in and processes in the back of his skull. But he always looks back at you, eyes crinkled with concern and perhaps even a bit of misplaced guilt.

A protective knife sides into his side.

“Come.” The man reaches out a hand, hovering it over your arm. You stare at the gloved limb for a moment before softly moving towards it with your breath caught in your throat, hesitant. König’s fingers delicately slide over the flesh, not closing around it until he feels your muscles loosen. “...Let’s get you warmer, Schatz, yes?”

You blink.

“It’s cold here,” you mutter, letting him guide you along, his gray orbs always keeping you in the side of his vision.

“Yes,” he agrees, nodding. “Very cold. Have you been to Germany during the winter before?”

Your head slightly shakes, bare feet padding along next to the pair of great boots—you lean closer unconsciously to the promise of warmth. König guides you away from the seeping blood on the floor and protects your eyes from the view of the bodies across the room with his own as a guard dog would.

“No.” He notices your leaning and brings you nearer to him, letting you use him as a brace. The man knows the effects of shock, and you wear it as plainly as any other. “I’ve never been here before.”

König hums and his free hand goes up to press into the radio, muttering in his native tongue. He releases the connection and asks as he blinks at you, “Do you require any immediate medical attention?”

Again, you shake your head.

“Where are the others?” You sink further into him, being guided to the front door, open to the soft snowfall and a chilled wind as your shoulder hunch.

“Just outside,” König glances at the bodies across the room—the ones he’d riddled with bullets that still twitch even as the minutes draw longer. Gray eyes going from one to another, the house is heavy with the weight of dead men. Twelve in total and all getting colder just like the temperature outside. König didn’t feel bad about it, and when he’d finally busted open that door to find you and the women, he was satisfied with the blood on his hands. If hell were to be his home, he would walk there with a golden-fanged smile.

But now wasn’t the time for that.

“I will bring you to them,” the soldier speaks, snow blowing in from the entrance. “Slowly, now, Schatz, watch the steps. Allow me to help.”

You stop at the doorway, bringing a hand to your mouth to cover a haggard cough as König makes his way down the first concrete step ahead of you—large armored vehicles had pulled up from a ways away. The women huddle around one another, the rest of the soldiers sticking by them and opening the doors to the vehicles as the night gets only more cold and stormy.

Gray eyes flicker for a moment down to your lack of proper protection, fingers twitching and tapping at his thigh as König remembers your expression the day he’d first met you.

“Do you want me to carry you?” He says slowly, cautious in his approach. The man wasn’t stupid—he wouldn’t touch you unless you explicitly stated it was alright for him to do so. “I will be gentle, I promise. I do not wish for your feet to freeze, I...” He pauses as you blink, staring into his soul. “I…will not touch you if you do not tell me to do it. You have my word.”

You continue to stand there for a moment, face unreadable before your head slowly turns to the vehicles in the street.

The neighborhood was so normal it still caused you to wonder how no one had spoken up and seen something. Rows of connected houses now with their lights on—faces peeking from the windows like little children on Christmas morning; trying to get glimpses of Santa and the man’s reindeer.

Finally, your gaze moves back to the hooded visage of König, able to see it better under the moonlight and the glare of falling snowflakes—a few of those frozen pieces sitting in the folds of the fabric.

“The hood scared them,” you utter about the others. König stiffens a bit, blinking at you but not looking away. “They’re used to people trying to hide their faces, but yours…with how large you are…”

“I understand.” König doesn't tear away his eyes. “...Did I scare you, Schatz?”

You don’t know why, but for what seems like the first time in years, the question makes you giggle. The beast of a man goes still with his feet on the ground, usually jittery and moving body captivated by the sound as it echoes over the night’s air—the puff of your breath as it moves around his hood; rustling it like leaves on a tree.

Eyes widening only a sliver more, König’s breath is in his throat.

It was like listening to a bird’s song.

“Maybe only a little,” you whisper to him. “But it’s okay. I’m scared of most things.”

He licks his lips, but you’re unable to see the slight quirk of them afterward.

“Then I will make it up to you, yes?” He holds out a hand. “Let me? The car is warm and your friends are waiting for you. My men say they ask about your health.”

You softly nod, the shadow of the house trying to drag you back into it—its blackened arms reaching and latching onto old scars. When your hand connects with König's, the man takes his time putting one foot back to a step and scooping you up from behind your knees. With a tiny grunt, you settle at his chest, calming your heartbeat with the fact that you know he won’t hurt you.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

In his arms, your bare legs hang in the air, hand wrapping his neck, and with a slightly nervous look to you as your body hovers. König watches for a moment, hesitating before he begins walking to the same vehicle the other woman had been moved into out of the snowfall.

“Can you tell me your name,” he asks to distract you from his hold, to get you more comfortable with him as his boots crunch through the packed powder on the ground—making sure to watch his step so as to not jostle you.

“Everyone calls me Cat.” Gray eyes blink your way, visible skin painted black. König’s head tilts. You can’t help but find it endearing.

“Katze?” He hums, and you can imagine his lips moving slightly upwards from the innocent tone of his voice as if taken by the strange moniker. “That is…interesting.”

You huff tinily, shivering again as your body moves to curl a little more.

The soldier quickly reassures you. “Nearly there.”

The vehicle is in front of you, and a nearby man opens the door for König as he carries you over. Nodding in thanks, the large individual eases you into one of the seats as the blast of warm air makes you sag—the other woman in there mulls closer, grabbing onto you and laughing through tears.

Looking back at them, you smile and feel yourself get a bit teary-eyed as everything starts to slowly come into focus.

Glancing outward, you stare at the snow that hits the dark hood of König, sticking and hanging off until the tiny white dots melt from the heat of his body. With his legs shifting he moves back a step and nods to you, eyes moving to stare at the ground for a moment.

“We will take you to base. From there you will all be given dorms and fresh apparel to—”

“Thank you, König,” you interrupted him. He stares, lips parted with the half-tones of cut-off speech. “And please extend my thanks to your men as well.”

“...Of course, Katze.” König stands straighter, always twitching fingers moving to the car door as engines start with a grinding roar. He nods again, the loose fabric swaying as the lenses of his rig stay firm at the movement. “There is no need to thank us. Relax. Sleep, if you wish to do it. The ride will be long.” The man’s gray eyes linger for a moment on your own, studying the bumps and small marks on your face. His hand tightens over the door as your gaze is stuck with his own; warmth blooming in his chest. He was glad he had found you.

König slips out a soft, “There are blankets under the seats,” before he closes the door with a firm thump of metal.

You can’t help but smile.

'…Hostages were taken back to [REDACTED] and received minor medical attention on site. Housed in [REDACTED] and were admitted for needed treatments/medications - all details/names listed in File 3 Section 6 for future reference. DNA was placed into databases.

Next of kin were informed of their family members’ position and/or state of being via phone call to the corresponding government official that then traveled through the appropriate channels once identified.'

You sit as a nurse hands you heating pads for your hands, which you take with a small thanks and clenched tightly, sucking every ounce of warmth from them to stop the shaking. Your body was heavy with the weight of new clothes and heated blankets, the room utterly normal in a way you’d not known for years. A corner table with books and a chess board—a connected bathroom stocked with amenities you may need; even a rug on the tile floor. You don’t know why that was shocking to you, but even the simplest thing was awe-inspiring. Your eyes had even slipped over a tiny nightlight near the door.

It nearly made you cry.

Your nurse moves back a bit, smiling down at you kindly.

“Is there anything else you might need, Dear?” Her accent is prominent, though not as much as König’s had been. She waits for your answer diligently as the pitcher of water and a similar glass sit on your nightstand.

“No,” you say, shaking your head. Your socked feet rub together like a grasshopper. “I think that’s all.” Your eyelids blink. “But…” you stop.

“What is it?” The lady asks gently, hands slack at her sides.

“The man—König,” you pause. “Is he here?”

Blinking at you, the nurse tilts her head to the side in curiosity. “Not currently, no. At least, not in this specific building. He and his men are being debriefed across base. They will be there for a long while.” At your blank look, her brows slightly move up in accommodating comfort. “Would…you like me to tell him something for you?”

Playing with the heating pads in your hands, your face gains a slightly embarrassed sheen. You liked the thought of being near König, truthfully. No one had made you feel safe like he did—him and his selfless action of a large coat given with no intention of getting anything in return.

“Just,” you breathe softly. “Just that I’m sorry for losing his coat, and that I hope it wasn’t expensive.”

The nurse stares, very much confused but not about to question you. Her feet shift over the floor, and a light nod is sent your way.

“Of course. I’ll tell him.” She motions to the bed with a hand and explains that whenever you wished to sleep, you were free to use the bed—and the TV was open to you as well, though you might not be able to understand the local stations. With that, she exited the room.

Left alone, your head moves around the room slowly, taking it all in once more as the small bandages under your clothes pull at your flesh. The tears start slipping down your cheeks with no warning.

Wrist coming up to your eyes, the limb presses in tightly, water staining the flesh as it dribbles down, and your lip quivers like a worm below it. You don’t know why you’re crying now and not when König had gotten you out of that townhouse. Why now, when there wasn’t anything prompting you to do so?

But something was prompting you—the knowledge that you would never be going back to anyone who would mistreat you again. You had your own room. Good food. All the water that your stomach could drink down. A nightlight that pushes back the darkness even if you’re so used to living in it.

Through your soft sniffles, chuckles move out, filling the space with a warm echo. You pull the blankets closer to you and collapse backward onto the mattress, smiling widely at the ceiling.

That little invisible string dances as your heart pulls at it.

—

König’s leg lightly jumps from under his table, signing off his name at the bottom of a report before he stands and rubs a hand over the top of his un-hooded head. He grabs the paper and slips it into a manila folder, hands pale with deep scars running the length of them like fissures in the earth. Deftly taking the item, he walks out of his office and begins moving down the length of the building, fingers tapping over the yellowish material with a small connection of flesh and thick envelope.

Tap-tap, tappity-tap.

His fingers were always fidgeting—moving, tensing, twitching. It was one of the reasons they never let him become a recon sniper; the more obvious being the blatant size of his body. Both of which had been the cause of much teasing throughout his childhood.

But König’s mind was on something other than the report in his hands, and it was starting to become a very strong distraction. You. The women. Al-Qatala.

He was angry he hadn’t acted outside of that coffee shop—angry he hadn't noticed the signs right in front of him even if he had been powerless to stop it then. The soldier’s jaw clenched, the strong muscles of his jaw roving.

“Verdammt,” he hisses under his breath, glaring at the tile. “Should have done something.”

König gets to his commanding officer’s office and knocks, only staying long enough to hand him the folder with his finished report and leave once more. His mind wouldn’t stay silent tonight. There’s no doubt that he won’t be able to sleep unless he reassures himself that you and the others are okay.

The man’s head shifts back to the email he had gotten from your assigned nurse, whom he’d taken it upon himself to know the name of when he carried you into the base’s hospital—Eva.

‘...She says she wants to apologize for losing your coat…”

König’s heart had twisted at that—that was what you were concerned about? He had to tell you that it was alright, or else he would never know peace. Perhaps even ask how you’ve been treated so far, just to make sure that everything was comfortable for you.

The man’s eyelids move slightly downward in thought, a pull at his heart to walk outside. He passes a few other soldiers in the hallway, nodding to them with a tiny greeting but unwilling to stop and talk. In only fatigues, König exits the main doors quickly, lightly moving into a jog as his body shivers at the sudden chill touching his arms under the black compression shirt. Under him the snow has grown deeper, the large lights illuminating the almost greenish reflections of the winter landscape of open roads and large buildings.

Curfew was long past—this had to be quick.

Just a check-in, König tells himself as he nears the hospital, his breath puffing in the air. Then I can wipe my hands of it.

He slows as he nears the doors, huffing a breath as he pushes on the barrier, opening it with a squawk of hinges and metal. Entering, the front desk staff looked up at him in surprise, muttering his name in question.

“Katze?” He responds, pushing a hand over his head and feeling the melting snowflakes. His cheeks are a light shade of exposure-red, and inquisitive eyes shift over the two individuals slowly. “What room?”

The pair share a glance and tell him in the same breath. Room ten.

It’s no sooner after that König finds himself there, hand hovering over the handle as the hallway clock ticks beside his right ear. His gray eyes blink at the door, feet shuffling from under him before he clears his throat under his breath, glancing away for a second in hesitation.

Was this appropriate?

König didn’t have an answer, but the pull in his chest was tight and firm—he just needed to see you. A glimpse, nothing more. He raises his fist and raps his knuckles over the wood delicately, three tiny knocks that hit his ears like bullets from a gun; the bullets he’s put into pathetic Al-Qatala bodies and watched burst like sacks of fluid.

He waits, hands going to grasp at his shirt collar, pushing out a low breath to calm himself.

After a long moment, his foot taps the floor, blinking. Again he knocks—a bit louder.

“She is sleeping, you evolutionsbremse,” he utters, accent low and grating. “Leave her alone.” But even if you are, his nerves peek their head over the brimstone wall of his brain.

With his fingers caressing the handle, slowly moved to clutch it fully, swallowing the metal in his grip. König takes a deep breath into his lungs, letting it fill them up. Again, he tells himself, just a check-in.

He twists the doorknob and sets his forearm on the wood, pushing the barrier open.

König moves so that his body makes no noise, even with how large it is as he angles the side of his head through the opening. He finds a large mound of blankets atop the bed—stacked and layered so heavily that he has to blink in surprise at how you can breathe under them; because you were under them.

Gray eyes make out the small sliver of skin peaking out from the side of the bed—fingers—and the top of your forehead near the pillows formed around your skull. Unconsciously, a soft smile works its way over König’s lips until he finds himself chuckling.

“Niedlich,” he mutters, scars over his face shifting as he speaks.

Sighing lowly, König pulls back his head, beginning to close the door once more.

“König…?” Your tiny voice makes him halt like he had in the townhouse.

Eyes wide and lips parted at being caught, the door remains open, only a sliver visible to your vision as your furrowed brows are stuck at the barrier. A red sheen moves across the soldier’s face in a slow sweep of embarrassment that goes bone deep.

With a lick of his lips, König re-opens the door slightly.

“I did not mean to wake you, Katze.” He finds your eyes and nods to you. “I apologize. Go back to sleep—you must be tired.”

“Wait,” you utter, moving your head fully out from under the blankets. König pauses, eyes staring as his other hand comes up to itch at the back of his neck.

“What is it,” the man asks, opening the door fully and moving inside. “Do you need anything?”

The question had hit you in your thin slumber, interrupted only partially by the opening of your door to the familiar pull of gray eyes and a strong build. A buzz-cut head. You take a slow breath to wake yourself up more, watching him from your bed. “...Did you know that I would be in that house?”

König tilts his head at the question, sighing slightly and glancing at the clock inside of the room on your nightstand. He frowns.

“No,” he explains gently, coming closer. “No, I did not. I do not get told such things—only where to shoot and where not to.” The man tries a small smile, kneeling on one leg down by the bed and staring into your sleepy eyes. “But I am glad I found you again, yes? You had me worried.”

“You were worried?” You can’t quite grasp it.

“Ja,” he nods. “Your eyes—they have stuck with me, Schatz, you understand?”

Your eyebrows pull up your face, blinking in shock.

“...Yours, too,” you confess. König’s heart flutters, listening until your lips have fallen still. “They’re very nice, König.”

He goes sheepish, lips flicking up into a smile and his eyes daring away for a moment. “You can thank my mother for them, then.” He chuckles. “I have stolen the family's eyes, I was told.”

You chuckle with him, hand coming to rub at your cheek. A silence falls between the two of you.

“I don’t sleep well,” you tell him in the relative darkness, light from the hallway and your night light illuminating the dips and bone structure of his face. “I was awake when you opened the door.”

He nods after a moment. “Ja.” A pause. “I don’t either…Nightmares?”

You watch him before nodding tinily.

“Ah,” he mutters. “They are not pleasant, I’m sorry that they have been plaguing you. Do you…” König wonders if he should leave—this was far more than he had anticipated. “Do you wish for me to stay?”

Why had he said that?

The string between the two of you tightens evermore, gaining another thread just as it would for the years to come until it became as unbreakable as steel.

“I don’t want to be a nuisance,” you begin but are quickly interrupted with a shake of a square head and a huff of a sharp nose.

“You are not. Do not call yourself such.” His accent deepens with emotion, eyes narrowing as the dark brows on his face pull in. “If you want me to stay, I will stay. Wake you if you become shaky, yes? Keep the bad dreams at bay.”

“But what about you?” Your voice moves around the room as König stands and goes to the table in the back, shifting one of the chairs so that it’s angled your way. You shift so you can watch him sit back, grunting as his legs move out in front of him, opening so he can be more comfortable. He needed a bigger chair, but he wasn’t going to complain about it.

“I’m not tired, Schatz.” A lie. His muscles are heavy, and he longs for his bed in the barracks. He pushes out, “Please, go back to sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

You stare for a long while, studying him and how he fidgets in his seat of choice. A small laugh meets the man’s ears as he crosses his arms over his chest. König pauses, blinking over in confusion. His lips move upwards slowly.

“What are you laughing at, then, hm?”

“You look like you’re about to break it,” you mutter, head nuzzling the pillow under you as fatigue claws its way under your skin.

König huffs, fingers twitching over the meat of his biceps as he slouches. He nods jokingly. “Perhaps,” he shrugs, the window behind him letting a slight tinge of cold air in from outside. “It would not be the first, I’m afraid, though it would be quite the embarrassment to do it in front of you, Katze.” He smirks. “But I’ll say, hitting my head on door frames hurts more than letting my arsch kiss the ground.”

You laugh under your heap, your body jerking to the movement of your lungs.

“I bet,” you say, fingers grasping one of your blankets and pulling it closer. “It’s a funny image.”

“You can laugh all you want,” König jokes, eyes soft as they gaze at you. “It does not bother me.”

Your sweet sounds of amusement waft out from under the crack in the door, where a small group of curious nurses mull and listen with glances to one another. A doctor moves past the hallway where they stand, and all scatter on quick feet.

'…Signed,

[REDACTED]

SUBMITTED: 0517, 25, November 2021

END OF MISSION REPORT ‘RED FREEDOM’

RETURNING TO SELECTION MENU…

STAND BY…'

It’s only after most of the other women leave—sent home to awaiting families or loved ones—that you know your time is coming to a close here in Berlin, Germany. While you’re excited to put this behind you, you can’t help but feel a bit…lost.

There’s something that keeps you here, on this base, until you’re the last out of all of them, waiting. And then you’re given the green light to go—go home—and suddenly you have a backpack full of necessities and you’re closing the door to your room with the little nightlight’s plastic body pushing against your spine. Yet, you stand in the hallway for a long minute, fingers interlocked.

You take a long, deep, breath.

Over the weeks of recovery, König had been a constant companion when he wasn’t needed. He had eased you back into a comfortable state, letting you somewhat lose the black-and-white view you had gained of the world. But there was only so much he could do, even if his soft eyes were still stuck in your dreams—the good ones, of course.

You needed to go home, and, today, the C-17 was whirring on the tarmac, waiting for you to be transported to a military base far from here where you would be processed and, ultimately, let go.

Let go. It was jarring to think about, all of that freedom. What would you do with it? Right now, you don’t have the faintest clue. It was the best feeling you can remember having.

Smiling, you take one last look at the room behind you and walk on.

At the entrance, you say a heartfelt ‘thank you’ to the nurses and doctors in broken German, shaking their hands as Eva kisses your forehead and whispers how happy she is to have had you here for such little time—you know what she means and you chuckle with her at the double-edged sword.

König waits by the door, holding it open with…you blink at the item in his hands as well as his sudden appearance. Canvas fabric. A coat.

The coat.

“I had to have it processed,” he says, smiling as you gape at him. “Very long process. It was found in the closet in the townhouse.”

“Then why are you handing it to me,” you ask, tilting your head and walking closer.

“I gave it to you, did I not?” The man hums, head tilting as he motions with it again. “It’s a good coat, Katze. Winters get cold.” Gray eyes crinkle gently. “I would hate for you to shiver, wherever it is that you end up, yes?”

You shake your head, cheeks hot. But your hands don’t hesitate to grasp the item, König’s hold on it remains fast, though, and you blink at him as you both keep it gently clasped like it’s worth its weight in gold.

König stares at you, the door still kept open behind him. He opens and closes his mouth for a moment as you tilt your head.

“Keep it safe for me,” is what he ends with, but his expression tells you he’s not talking about the coat.

It makes your arms tingle—your heart skips a beat.

“I’ll be sure it never gets lost,” you smile warmly, eyes malleable as the make of their color glints. There is a connection to this man that transcends words, and it is tied to you just as heavily as it is to him; unexplainable, incomprehensible, non-describable.

Enigmatic.

König’s reverential face is soft with care.

“Good,” he mutters, unable to look away. “Very good.”

Clearing his throat, his grays dart to the floor, shifting his feet to move backward. He pushes open the door wider for you, and you hold your backpack in one hand as you shift past him and slip into his coat.

It was exactly how you remembered it, and you sank into the fabric with a thankful sigh and a fluttering of your lashes. You shift the bag back over your shoulders, letting the straps fall into the bulk of the extra material.

The snow wasn’t falling today, and the ground was shoveled of any white powder too. On the air, you can hear the whir of the C-17.

König comes up beside you, a hand hovering over the small of your back as he guides you along. For the most part, the walk to the tarmac is silent with the weight of the future. You had no phone. No socials. You didn’t even know if you wanted any, to be honest. Your mind had convinced you that a good bout of soul-searching was exactly what you needed. And you had to do that alone.

Your lips are thin as your legs take you closer to the plane, König’s scent stuck into the stitches of the coat and covered your senses.

At the ramp, he stops as your feet take you onto the metal. Closing your eyes for a moment, you turn and lock gazes with him—gray hiding away what other, more human, emotions to be found. It was a slate of carefully crafted acceptance, and your own followed soon after.

It had to be this. The string wouldn’t break, no, but it had to be stretched to such a point to come back stronger.

“Thank—”

“Don’t,” he says, not blinking, looking up at you.

You smile. “What do you want me to say, then?”

“You don’t have to say anything to me.” You hadn't known it then, but the both of you had truly thought that this would be the last of your meetings. It produced a pulse in both of your hearts that would never be told aloud. “....Live well,” König utters. “Heal, Mein Schatz.”

The soldier wasn't one to give his chances to hope.

Your eyes follow as he backs up, moving away as you stare. In his head, König pleads with you to stop and give him a reprieve from the hypnosis of your gaze, the addictive movement of your head as it tilts to the side.

Live well.

You send him a smile, a delicate thing, and then you back up a step and turn, disappearing into the darkness.

The string follows, and it continues to do so even as your hands slip into your pockets hours later, bumping into the small form of a black flip phone. The note hidden inside of it.

‘For whenever you find what you’re looking for.’

'REQUEST FOR ADMINISTRATIVE DISCHARGE

REQUESTED BY: [REDACTED]

ENTERED: DECEMBER 15, 2021

TIME: 1422

OPEN FILE?...

REQUEST CANCELED….

RETURNING TO FILE SELECT MENU…

FILE SELECTED….

TRANSLATING…

STAND BY…

REQUEST OF HONORABLE ADMINISTRATIVE DISCHARGE OF [REDACTED] APPROVED ON JANUARY 2, 2022

OPEN FILE?...

REQUEST CANCELED…

SYSTEM SHUTTING DOWN'

You sit in a coffee shop in Berlin, Germany, by the window. It wasn’t just any coffee shop, but you try not to think about all of that. It was all in the past—three years, now. You like to think you’d learned something in that time.

“Danke schön,” you say to the woman who brings you your drink, nodding kindly. You take a small sip, humming and winking at her teasingly. “Perfekt.”

She chuckles, wiping her hands on her apron. “Möchten Sie noch etwas anderes dazu?”

“Nein, nein,” you shake your head, waving a hand that soft bumps the flip phone on the table. “Danke.”

The lady walks away, and you take another sip of the hot beverage, never put off by the heat.

It was winter again, and your eyes followed the flakes as they fell from a cloudy sky, finding the beauty in it easily as you sat inside. The scarf around your neck is loose—your gifted coat open. You smile to yourself and hum, watching people walk past outside, thinking about their lives and how they live them.

A large form travels out from a shop across the street, a plastic bag in his loose grip. He was not small, no, this man was a beast of height and strength alike. The loping, canid-like, walk was accented by the twitch of his fingers over his quarry.

Your wide eyes stay stuck to him for a long moment as he moves to the crosswalk, people shifting out of his way as he ignores them. Familiarity strikes like lighting—a buzz down your spine that leaves you straightening.

After a long moment, a breathless laugh sneaks out of you.

There were just some things that people were never meant to understand.

Your hand places your cup back on the table, picking up the old flip phone and pushing it open. Your thumb runs the keypad, moving to the only contact that had ever been entered into the device.

Pressing, you move it to your ear as you watch with a soft expression, heart pattering.

Across the way, the man tenses, hand patting his leg before the other hand moves inside his pocket and shifts the item out. People walk away, moving to the other side of the crosswalk as he stares at the contact.

A minute passes, and all the while you hold your breath.

He presses and moves the phone to his ear, staying as still as stone. As still as a man afraid his hood might scare a group of terrified women.

His voice graces your ear.

“...Katze?” You beam, trapped in the warmth of the coat around your shoulders.

“How do you feel about coffee, König?”

Blue-gray eyes had never been more beautiful than when they snapped up to meet yours.

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