Chapter Text
The gym is loud with the sounds of chatter and cheers.
You didn’t mean to stumble upon it. In fact, unless deemed otherwise completely required, the gym was not the place you frequented. You were fit, yes, like any other military personnel, but you were an engineer, and thus made for crawling under humvees and helicopters to fix whatever parts broke, scrambling around for lost bolts and screws – not lifting weights and flexing muscles, and certainly not whatever the hell was going down right now.
You couldn’t help it though, given the way you were dragged into the room.
It’s someone else from your squad, a large man named Antony. When you recognize his face, you’re tearing your arm out of his grasp.
“What are you doing?” You spit.
You don't like Antony. Antony doesn’t like you.
He doesn’t answer you, rather shouts to everyone in the vicinity, who you recognize to be the rest of your squad, plus many, many more.
“I found meat!”
And then there’s cheering. You feel sick to your stomach. The room is hot, yet you can't help but to feel like something akin to fish in a display case, surrounded by crushed ice, ogled by anyone with a hefty enough sum to steal you away. You’re not a person in this moment, at least, you don't think, and that makes you want to run away as fast as you can.
Antony’s hand on your back absolutely prevents you from doing so, especially as he makes you go forward with a heavy shove. The crowd parts like the red sea and you’re tripping over your own feet before coming to a stop on your knees, gasping out from the impact.
When you get your hands on Antony, he’s going to be a dead man. You’ll suffocate him with the noxious fumes of a car, or obliterate him with the blades of a helicopter, perhaps even push him out of one and call it an “accident”.
It’ll be rewarding and far too kind for what he’s put you through thus far.
You can't continue your thoughts of revenge as something grabs you by the back of your shirt and yanks you to your feet. It’s reminiscent of a mother and her cub, lifting you with such ease that all you can do is go prone and let yourself be dragged to your toes.
You turn, and you really, really didn’t expect to see König to be the one forcing you to your feet. His gloved hand retreats from your shirt like touching you burns him. Heat in the form of a deep shame takes form in your gut.
König, oh König, a behemoth of a man. You’ve never talked to him – you don't know anyone who has. But everyone knows of him, especially now as he stands as the star of the room, each stark light beaming down on him, illuminating him. He’s tall, large, and that mask that hides his face away stares down at you with eyes lax and tired behind the cut holes.
You’ll say it – you’re intimidated. Very. You’ve heard of the way he works. Knives, guns, the way he snaps people in half until they’re choking on their own blood and vomit. König is dangerous. He’s not just a soldier, he’s a machine, like an automatic gun with the trigger held down, like bombs and nukes, absolutely obliterating everything before him.
Yet, he’s unbelievably human as he stands behind you. A heat radiates from him and he breathes in short, heavy pants. You don’t imagine him being anything unnatural or robotic with the way he stands before you. He is of pumping blood and sinewy muscle, of marrow and gray matter. He’s only human. Yet, he’s still, tense, nearly impossibly so, looking down at you quizzically.
Then he looks back at where you came from. The crowd is quiet now, and you think they all flinch when he acknowledges all of them, eyes scanning from person to person. The audience isn’t meant to be looked back upon. You can’t even see Antony.
“You do not belong here, Lämmchen .” He states, voice quiet.
You’re dumb.
This is a fucking fighting ring, and you only just realize it. There’s blood splattered on the ground, of course, that’s why everyone was cheering. They call it sparring, but you know it’s not that. With König in the middle, it becomes a slaughter.
It only makes you more pissed how Antony forced you into this position without any consent on your behalf.
There’s a relief in it though, that König recognizes you as an unwilling participant, perhaps even someone subjected to the cruel behavior of another, judging by the way he steps forward and points his finger directly at Antony’s face, whom you missed in your original scan-over.
“ Du .” König says, and he sounds like God ready to smite. “ Du kommst hier .”
None of you need to speak German, but everyone knows exactly what he means.
As the crowd grapples Antony, murmuring and forcing him to the butcher, König pats you on the back, hands light. A chill runs up your spine, imaging his palms leaving wet, crimson, palm-shaped prints on your shirt, regardless of the lack of blood on them. Antony is protesting, but the crowd keeps pushing. The volume of the crowd is returning, like a eager swathe of buzzing hornets.
“You should leave here.” König says. “And do not look back, verstanden ?”
Verstanden.
The word rolls off his tongue, harsh and breathy. You understand what it means, at least the threat in the tone of his voice.
You nod, swallowing, and then he’s giving you a little push, nothing like Antony gave you, but rather something to force you into motion, to give you the willpower to walk out of there. Like releasing a fish back into the ocean, the crowd envelops you, and you’re gone.
Even when you’ve turned the corner of the hallway, you can hear the cheering and screaming.
Antony doesn’t show up.
Not for one week, or the week after that, or even the week after that.
You go up to König during the third week.
He’s closeby, sitting in one of the hangars, under the wing of a rather small plane, and you only manage to stumble upon him by accident. He’s on his back, hand absentmindedly playing with a butterfly knife by his side, that being the only indication that he’s awake.
You were meant to be grabbing an exhaust pipe, but you stop in your tracks, and then decide now is the best time to do it. There’s no one in this hangar. Maybe that’s why König is here in the first place.
“König?” You ask, voice cutting through the air like a sharpened arrowhead.
He makes a noise, heaving himself into a vaguely sitting position just so he can look at you. He moves slowly, like a bear waking from hibernation. You’re sure he heard your footsteps, so your presence doesn’t scare him, but perhaps your call-out wasn’t what he was anticipating.
You stand there, he sits there. Neither of you move, save for his hand that flips that delicate little knife around in a series of motions that are more pretty than intimidating. You’re not even sure he remembers you.
“I just want to thank you for Antony.” You murmur.
He takes forever to respond, like he doesn’t want to talk. He likely doesn’t. You think maybe this was a mistake. He likely came over here to be alone and you’ve intruded upon this. A cat stumbling upon a wolf’s den.
But then he does speak.
“Antony?” He questions, the name heavy on his tongue. “I do not know an Antony.”
You tilt your head. “At the gym?”
Nothing.
A moment.
Then, there’s a sparkle in his eye when he remembers, like sunlight glinting against hot metal. “Ah, der schwache kleine Mann … Und die Lämmchen… ”
You blink. “I…think so?”
“What about him?” He says, his voice getting antsy.
“Just, I guess I’m thankful I don’t have to really deal with him anymore.” You say, shrugging. “He kind of always tossed me around and called me misogynistic crap… Thanks for whatever you did.”
His blade finally stills. He looks at you. His eyes are blue.
“You are welcome.”
From then on out, you developed an extremely odd relationship with König. König was not one for friends, that much you knew, but he stuck around, and in ways you didn’t anticipate. Perhaps he saw you as what he called you, Lämmchen, a baby lamb, in need of a farm dog to protect it from the wild. He was a protector of sorts, and before you knew it, he was frequently standing over your shoulder wherever you went.
What really hammered the nail in the coffin was when you explained to him your upbringing.
“My parents weren’t very nice.” You explain, looking at your hands, black from grease. Your hands are aged now, bronzed from the hot sun on base, complete with knicks and scars during your time in the military, now PMC. But you still see little kid hands anyways, never quite realizing your brain fails to catch up to your body. “Neither were any other kids growing up. I got bullied a lot.”
König doesn’t respond. His foot is bouncing so vigorously that you know something is up. He’s looking away. You’re not sure if he heard what you said, but you continue.
“I think people can sense it. I feel like…they know I’m an easy target.” You sigh. “I guess-”
“I will protect you now.” He says suddenly, like he couldn’t not say those words. They erupt out of him, fast and quick, a confession.
Your face feels hot. “You, um, you really don’t have to–why–well, it’s okay, I’m-”
He interrupts again. “No.”
You’re a little stunned. “...No?”
“No.” He confirms, and then repeats himself. “I will protect you now.”
You think it’s because of something similar, that he’s felt what you’ve felt. He doesn’t speak about his life, but even now he commands so much attention unwillingly that despite his calm and practiced movements of his knife, you can see the innermost parts of him that are howling in deprecation. You get glimpses of it, of the way his legs bounce or his voice wavers, and all it tells you is how similar you two are.
Perhaps there’s a part of him that wants to protect you in the way that he wishes someone else protected him. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he wants to save the parts of himself, the fractions of him, the younger, boyish parts of him that are now reduced to ash. He’ll keep you from doing that to yourself.
It all comes to an accumulation on the field.
You’ve been off base for a mission once or twice, typically where the firefight doesn’t reach you, where life is pleasant and it just seems like any other job. But for this mission they needed you to bring back a supply truck, and for some reason it was your job to make sure it could move.
But, they give you König at least.
It wasn’t supposed to get fucked up.
Yet, the bullet pierces your side anyways, and then you’re screaming, staggering to the ground in surprise. Your finger presses the trigger before you can even think, gunning your assailant down with a few bullets, but then you’re panicking.
You scramble behind a wall, panting, wailing, cradling your side. It burns, eating you from your inside out. It leaves you trembling, an electric fire burning its way through your toes to your crown. You try not to think about how the bullet took a part of you, that you’re not just holding a scrape, but a hole, carved away by lead.
There’s so much blood. Your head spins.
You really want to call for König, plead for him to save you like a child does to a parent, like a sinner to God. But you don’t want the hostiles to unleash hell fury upon your hiding spot, especially not now, when you’re injured and prone, so you press yourself in the shadows, shaking.
There’s gunshots, too close.
A hostile sneaks behind the wall that you too are hiding behind, but he doesn’t register your body in the corner, hidden by the cool shadows of the evening. You're pointing your gun at him, ready to shoot, but then he too is screaming, scrambling backwards.
But you never fired your gun. At least, you didn’t think you did.
There’s no time to question that, given that König emerges from the corner like a lion, all claws and bared teeth, a hauling mass of an animal. It’s feral. He attacks low and fast, shoving the hostile on the ground. All wind leaves his lungs with a pathetic wheeze, and then König is dropping his weight, elbow at the ready, and straight into the poor man's neck.
König is a large man. He’s not just tall, he’s a giant, a person who takes up too much room and who the world is not built for. He ducks under doorways, stands far too tall for the shower to reach his scalp, and gathers so much attention that it leaves him sick, like flies to honey. He’s overwhelming in all that he does, and so watching him so effortlessly collapse this man's esophagus and trachea with his body weight alone has you dizzy.
König doesn’t let the man suffer, instead shooting the man in his face. It explodes, and you flinch, feeling the mist of brain matter.
König stands there, panting, staring at the corpse. It’s not til you whimper in pain, still aware of your oozing wound, that he unfreezes. His head snaps up and you make eye contact.
He doesn’t look like König.
It’s the same color, same shape, same black smear, but his pupils are only pinpricks, and his eyes are wide open, like he’s trying to absorb every bit of detail in front of him. The whites of his eyes are red and it creates such a striking contrast against his pupils that it appears downright unnatural. He’s crazed, like a rabid animal.
This is what you’ve heard before – that something unleashes within König on the battlefield.
Before you is not a man.
Your heart jumps to your throat, instinctually feeling the drive to run.
But, his eyes soften at the sight of you. You sigh, and with it leaves all the tension, cortisol, and anxiety.
“ Lämmchen !” His voice is shrill, loud even. He surges forward to where you’re sitting. “What did they do to you?”
He pulls away your hand and it comes back red.
König is a twisted man. He knows this. He knows it almost too well, a plague that keeps him up at night, questioning his sanity and urges. He knows that he shouldn’t dare take delight in half the things he does, but what’s one more?
He rears back, nostrils flaring. It smells like copper and sand. And you. Something tightens within him. It’s like someone stuck a knife within his gut and twisted, leaving him gasping.
“What are we going to do, König?” You nearly sob, head falling on the wall next to you.
“We will get you patched up, okay?” He says, trying to soothe you, but you’re squirming beneath him, even as he goes to grab his medkit.
“It hurts König.” You moan.
“I know, Lämmchen , just, just, Scheiße, just a little bit more, ja ?”
He’s fucking hard in his pants, shit. He wants to turn away, find some wet and dank sewer for him to crawl away into, like some sort of fucking rat, and squeeze his cock at the thought of the blood that weeps from you. Perhaps it's not just the blood, but rather that it’s your blood on you. He rarely gave a shit about other people, so yes, it’s you that has him like this.
He wishes he was normal, but he’s always wanted that. But he wishes he could show his attraction in any other way but the hot and feral parts of him that buck and preen at the idea of doing something messed up and twisted with you.
You don't deserve that. You need someone who could kiss you gently and be kind with you.
He rips apart his medkit, finding gauze, barely any (he doesn’t get hit, why does he need them?), and he’s mad, fuck he’s enraged. He doesn’t know how to do any of this. He feels so large, so brutish. He wasn’t trained to save people like this, and he doesn’t know first aid like he should.
“ Scheiße, fucking-” He mutters.
“Give it to me, König.” You whisper.
He doesn’t like that those words shoot straight to his cock.
“What?”
“I know how to stop the bleeding. Give me the gauze and needle and thread.”
“ Nein, You’ve lost a lot of blood, ja , ja, let me handle it.”
“I don't think you know what you’re doing.”
He doesn’t.
He relents.
This is how it’s alway been. You’re a fixer. You crawl under those brand new humvees, doing diagnostics so quickly it leaves him confused how it’s possible to read automobiles like that. Then you’re off to work, soldering, cleansing, replacing, until everything is in brand new condition. You’ll fix yourself now, knitting yourself together like you’re made of yarn, leaving him to watch as you dig the needle into your soft skin.
He doesn’t fix. He kills. He kills and he kills and he kills until he’s okay with it.
He’s so fucking hard.
Your hands are trembling and slick with blood. You can barely hold the needle, and he’s forced to watch as you shove it beneath your skin, only for the sharp tip to emerge from the other side. It’s the best thing he’s ever seen. Like a movie come to life.
König can't stop himself.
“Please, please, do not be mad at me.” He whispers. “I-I, I can not live like that…”
You pause. Your head feels high and your heart is beating so heavily in your chest it nearly vibrates. König sounds like a child, caught somewhere where he shouldn’t be, begging for saving before punishment strikes down, like bolts of fury. He sounds like a younger version of yourself.
“I’m not mad.” You whisper, looking at him. “You saved me.”
He’s ripping his belt off at your words.
“König?!” You shout, “W-what are you doing?!”
He’s so desperate. “Please, please just listen, I-I, I need to-I need… Bitte lass mich das einfach machen.” He groans the words out like they’re easier to say in another language, one you don't fully understand. Please just let me do this.
He’s already shoving his hands in his pants.
“König, what, fuck, what are you doing?” You ask again. You scramble backwards a bit, but you’re already cornered. The movement causes the string in your hand to be pulled taut, irritating your wound. It throbs.
This isn’t how you imagined any of this happening.
“You said you wouldn’t be mad!” He whines, head falling forward. That sniper's hood sags with him, forcing his form into something phantom-like. “I’ll do anything, please, bitte , irgendetwas, anything!”
“I want to go home.” You want to sob like a baby. But you don't. Your voice trembles, but you keep it even.
“I will take you home. I will do anything for you.” He begs. Even on his knees next to you, he’s taller. But regardless, he’s begging, and he clearly knows how to. He makes himself smaller for you, collapsing and sagging and gripping at anything, desperate for your word. You become something of a saint for him, a martyr, a messenger of light. He wants you to say it's okay, to tell him what to do.
“Fuck, König, why do you make things so hard?” You cry, pinching the skin around your wound. Your hands are shaking even worse, but you need to finish this last bit, just enough to slow the blood and allow you to clot.
“Are you mad?” He asks, like the idea hurts him physically.
“No! No, König, now’s not the time, I can’t-”
“You won't have to do anything.” He tries to counter.
“I want to!” You snap back.
König sits back on his heels. He looks at you with a stare that you have absolutely no way of deciphering. It's odd, the way his belt is undone, zipped down, and he’s so very hard that it strains against the fabric. You’re in a battlezone, or at least the aftermath of one. He doesn’t care, obviously.
“Please let me do this.” Is all he says.
You grit your teeth and tie a knot. “König, you listen to me.”
He nods, eager.
You snip off that final bit of thread and sigh, leaning back with an anguished noise.”...I…let you…do whatever you need, but you promise me that when I call for you, you come running.”
He feels like a dog, sitting and waiting for you to throw him a bone. Sit, you’d tell him, and he would. Fetch, and he’d come back with the biggest stick you’ve ever seen. He’ll do anything for you, any command, any wish, anything.
“Yes, please, please, please, bitte, bitte , please…..” He’s very nearly clasping his hands together, bowing at your feet.
“You owe me.” Is all you say,
He’s so fast in taking himself out of his pants that it leaves you breathless. His cock jumps out, long and heavy as it reaches into the air. He grabs himself, squeezing, and his head falls backwards, like he can't bear the weight of it.
“Shit, yes…” He groans. You wonder if it being in English is for you, something for you to understand and respond to.
You don't know what to do with yourself. Your whole body trembles and shakes and the pain in your side hasn’t gone down at all, in fact it throbs and burns and it feels like all your blood is rushing to that point. You don't know how much blood you lost, but your head feels hazy and everything is far too overwhelming. This isn’t how you wanted König, but he’s so desperate, and the vision before you is addicting, so how could you say no to this?
He’s so tall, and you think maybe that’s why all of this seems so overwhelming. König consumes the air and the cool shadows around him until he’s all you can see. You gaze at the weight of his body, his toned thighs, his flexing arms, and the curve of his features below his mask, as well as all the straps of his utility vest, the weapons, and the blood.
He doesn’t seem to care about the rough friction that his gloves give him, no, it seems he relishes in it, based on the desperate noise that worms its way out of his throat. His cock is pretty, pale and curving upwards, the tip red and swollen as it drips clear ichor. His finger thumbs over his head, smearing the cum.
“ Dein Blut ...ahhhh… so schön…” He gasps.
He’s fucked in the head, and this only confirms it. You stare at him with dilated eyes, injured, covered in your wet blood, and all he wants to do is smear his cock with said blood. It’ll glide over his shaft, staining his gloves, and look so, so pretty with his hand wrapped around it. König wants lick it from your salty skin until you’re clean.
You can hardly move, given the state you’re in, and he could honestly care less. A heat builds in the bottom of him, pooling within the deepest parts of himself, molten and slow-moving. It’d be so much more satisfying to fuck you where you’re at right now, watching the way you cry in pain against the dusty ground, but he’s truly torn between keeping you unharmed, or relishing in the agony he can pull from you.
He swore to protect you.
But, god, how was he meant to deny himself this?
There’s something even more invigorating about it, the way you forced him into a promise, into something that makes him eager and alert. When I call for you, you come running… Oh yes, he will. He won't just run, he’ll sprint.
He wishes there’s more blood, even if that meant you’d be in more pain, with a larger crisis hanging over both your heads. He’d get you out of here and call for exfil, so you’d be fine, but god, he wants to be covered in the very thing that keeps you alive, that pumps through your heart, your arteries, your veins, your capillaries. He wants to breathe you.
And so he does. Dick still in hand, he crawls into your space, practically forcing himself onto your lap. You make a noise of surprise, but it’s muffled by the way he leans down and shudders a shaky breath out in your face.
“König?” You whisper.
“Hm…” He hums, and then he’s pumping his cock, pressing his pelvis up to yours. The pressure is not exactly unwanted, but you ache, and so you’re not exactly sure what to do with any part of yourself.
You smell delightful. Sweat, salty and tinged with fear and exertion that makes him feel like a hound dog, snuffing out animals of prey. There’s the scent of your detergent, floral and light, wafting into his nose like an entirely too unbearable flower. And then there’s the deliriously delicious scent of you, just you, the innermost part of yourself, of iron and gore. It’s metallic, like pennies and bullets and jewelry. It’s almost odorless, but he’s hunting, searching for the way it lingers on your skin.
And it does. It makes his cock twitch.
“ Dir gefällt das, nicht wahr?” König talks low and deep, strained too as he strokes himself. You like this, don't you? He asks. “ Du bist im Kopf beschissen. Ich wette, du würdest zulassen, dass ich alles mit dir mache, Lämmchen." You’re fucked up in the head. I bet you’d let me do anything to you, little lamb.
You reach up, hand red and soon-to-be dry with your blood. It’ll cake under your nails and flake off your skin, but here, in this corner, it remains, covering your skin as if you dipped your hands in paint. You grasp at his upper arm and squeeze, and he leans into it, pushing more of his weight on your frail, frail body.
He’s pressing himself nearly fully down onto you, and oh he wishes, he prays that he can shove himself within you – if not now, then soon, as he can't bear the idea of waiting any longer without your tight, warm pussy.
“Hng…” He grunts into you and you can't deny the bolt of pleasure that shoots up your spine and makes home in your clouded mind. You want to see him panting, whimpering, tail wagging.
“C’mon König.” You coo. Your voice too, is low and deep, like you can't bear speaking right now.
“ Verdammte Hölle.” He chokes out. He ruts into you, still stroking. It’d be nice to see his face, but that’s a wish you’ve given up long ago. “You are going to be the death of me, Lämmchen. Es ist gefährlich.” It is dangerous.
It’s funny, his nickname for you is something innocent, childlike even, yet he warns you that you’re the dangerous one, that you’re tampering with something you shouldn’t. You take pleasure in it. Some wolf in sheep's clothing you are, armed with teeth that only sink into the pliant skin of König.
“You’re doing so well.” You whisper to him, squeezing his arm. His thrust stutters and he makes a noise that’s so desperate and pathetic that you squeeze your legs together unknowingly.
“Natürlich.” He snaps back, but he’s so breathy and strained that it doesn’t come out as the bark he wishes it was. “Du machst es einfach. ” You make this easy.
Then, he’s still. He makes a gasping, struggling noise, and then his balls are tightening, everything’s tightening, like he’s being choked by a chain, and then without any warning it snaps, unravels, and explodes. He twitches and spurts hot cum across your front, not particularly caring about the wait it stains and seeps into your gear and clothing. He likes how it looks, white and glossy, spilling from the fat head of his cock as his head tingles.
“ Scheiße .” He purrs as he spills his seed. “Yes, fuck, oh- very good.”
“Shit König-” You gasp, hands coming up to push him away, but then he grabs your wrist in a tight vice. He forces your hand under his hood, such a terrifying and unknown place, you’re surprised a man is even under it in the first place.
His breath is hot as it fans against your skin. You’re frozen.
Then he’s slipping your fingers into his mouth, the pads of them gently skimming over his teeth, before he’s closing his mouth around them and sucking, like your crimson fingers are the tastiest candy on Earth. He moans, grip tightening on your wrist until it hurts.
You’re breathing hard. It irritates the broken parts within you, the wounds and the disruption of your psyche. Your chest stutters, trying to imagine what sort of man lurks beneath his hood, with hooded eyes and a tongue that curls itself around your hand, cleaning it of any drying blood.
It should be gross.
It should be absolutely disgusting , yet the heat within yourself goes from a low simmer to a forest fire, and it feels fucking good. It threatens you, igniting the neurons in your brain. He looks up, eyes piercing yours, and all you can see is that monstrous version of him again, the animalistic one, the dangerous one.
“Sh-shit König, oh my god-” You breathe.
There’s cum covering the front of yourself, you’re covered in blood, you’re in pain, and yet you want nothing more but to stay here and let König consume you. He opens his mouth a bit more to lap against your skin with a flat tongue, dragging from the bottom of your palm to the tip, where he suckles there.
“König, please-you gotta stop-I-I-”
Then he lets go, lets you out of his mouth, away from his mask, until your hand falls limply between the two of you.
You’re panting.
He’s panting.
You want him to do something. Anything.
“Up.” He then commands, standing as he speaks. He shoves himself back into his pants and zips them.
“Up?” You parrot back. It feels like someone just slapped you across the face. You’re disoriented. The world spins too fast. Konig moves too fast. You’re not even sure you can move.
“We need to reach the truck by nightfall, ja?” He tightens the belt around himself viciously, like he's fixing a tourniquet.
You stare at him, hand instinctively going to your wound. You hand is clean now, glistening with König’s spit.
“Yeah…”