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Cronus Ampora was, you suppose, an attractive male. His features were classically, aesthetically pleasing, tall and leanly muscular- a swimmer's build, Porrim had called it, which you supposed made sense, considering it hadn't taken very long at all to find out that the exchange student had a passion for aquatic antics-, strong bones prominent in the line of his jaw, high cheek bones, a nose that would have been arrogantly straight, if not for it's slight crookedness, which, paired with the scars proudly displayed upon his forehead, lead others to believe that he was someone who been involved in a brawl or two. Add onto that curly, dark blond hair, usually greased back in the outdated style that he preferred, thick, expressive eyebrows, and eyes so dark a blue that, in the right lighting, they appeared to be purple, he could be, subjectively, titled as quite the looker.
It was just a shame that his personality wasn't nearly as pleasant as his looks. Loud, brash, lewd and rude, seeming the perfect gentleman until he couldn't kindly manipulate you into doing what he wanted. He was self-centered and his sense of entitlement was almost as big as his vanity. Pleasant to look at, but only when his mouth was closed.
Then again, you've been informed that you are rather the same way, so you suppose that doesn't leave you a lot of room to talk.
He's not all that terrible, though, all things considered. He knew how to pretend like he was listening, at the very least, and sometimes, on occasion, you believe that something that you say does actually get through his thick head. And you know that he listens to your little brother- though you're not quite sure if that is something that you enjoy or just sticks in your craw, if you're allowed to use the phrase.
You recall the time, just three days into his stay in the States, when you had heard that Cronus had gone and verbally abused Mituna, and while, having grown up with, and known him long before the unfortunate accident that had left him mentally stunted, you certainly understood the frustration that the middle Captor brother could leave one with, until one felt that one's must resort to foul language and violence to deal with him. But you also knew that each time someone went down that path with him, Mituna would be apologetic for all of ten minutes before he started up again, and using the vulgarities recently thrown at him in retaliation. You tried to explain all of that to Cronus, because Mituna really, really did not need a larger barrage of words and slanders to use, but before you could finish, in stomped Karkat.
And hadn't that been a sight. Your little half brother, a good four inches shorter then even yourself, squaring himself off against the German, puffed up and tilting his head back to look down his button nose, giving himself a false sense of superiority and intimidation, and impressively not flinching at the equally impressive sneer the Ampora was giving him.
"You listen the fuck up, you Aryan son of a bitch-"
"Karkat, really! You shouldn't sling around slurs so-"
"Shut the Hell Up, Kankri, this isn't any of your concern!" And you had 'shut up', because as tightly spun up as the youngest Vantas was, you feared he might become physically violent, which might have spurred Cronus to act in a similar manner. Which, of course, would have upset Karkat's twin, and when Nepeta was upset, Meulin involved herself. And whenever Meulin was involved, so was your step-sister's boyfriend, and really, you go out of your way to have to deal with the Makaras as little as humanly possible. There is something about them that you do not like, as much as you are loathe to admit having such a base human dislike of anything. "And as for you, you better listen, and listen damn good. You don't mess with Mituna, again. You don't talk to him funny, you don't touch him funny, you don't even let him in your peripheral vision in any way that could be considered slightly humorous, if you know what's good for you." Karkat had been glowing, as impassioned as he was, though it came as no surprise to you, who had known him literally since his birth. Your little brother was highly protective, of everyone he even partially considered a friend, and in particular any and all of the Captor Brothers, the eldest being your father's best friend, the youngest Karkat's, and Mituna… Well, you're not Karkat, so you can't say exactly why he was so adamant about white knighting him, but if you had to hazard a guess, it would because he feels a kind of familial bond towards him, like one would a cousin. Or a brother. Not that you have ever seen Karkat attempt to come to your aid in any such manner as he does with the handicapped Captor.
Not that you are in any way, shape, or form bitter about that.
"Und vhat, exactly, are youse gonna do about it ifin Ah don', Schort Stuff?"
"I'm gonna knock those pretty teeth of yours right down your insufferable throat, is 'vhat exactly' i'm-s gonna do-s, grease for brains."
You don't know exactly what you'd expected from that exchange, but for Cronus to laugh, and ruffle your brother's mess of hair, and then proceed to never have any sort of incident involving Mituna again was certainly not it. Although why you didn't, looking back, is beyond you. Ampora obviously admired Karkat's gumption. A lot of people do. Your half brother is far more admirable then he gives himself credit for, and is quickly adored, once people take the time to get past his gruff outward behavior.
This, too, is something that you most assuredly are not in the least bit bitter or jealous over.
And, you have gone off topic. The topic being Cronus Ampora, and how, other then his looks- which you are far above being swayed by, and hold no interest in other than noting on a completely platonic, aesthetic level that he is enjoyable to glance at-, he holds no real interest for you. And yet...
And yet.
And yet, since the first day of his arrival until, you are sure, the day of his departure, he has called your father- due to his profession in the Clergy- "Vater", something so small, surely unnoticeable, no big deal, as your siblings might say. So why was it, every time you heard it, your ears perked up, and you became hyper aware of every sound that came out of that long, regal throat, every syllable that fell from perfectly formed lips.
And yet, there was that time when Porrim was over, and you were discussing with her your thoughts on the latest gaffe as made by your elected Congressman, as of his views on women and how women should be treated in the workforce and so on and so forth, and this was your favorite kind of conversation to have with Porrim because you always had her full attention when females and their rights came up, and even if you couldn't end up agreeing fully on the subject, it was nice to have an informed and intelligent partner to debate with, but then Cronus had walked by the archway, speaking loudly on his cellphone to someone, and you…you had no idea what he was saying but it came out gruff, harsh syllables and no nonsense lacing through his tone, coming from his chest and not his throat, not his nose, deep in his chest and you. And you lost your train of thought. And you must have stopped right in the middle of your point, because when you came back to yourself, Porrim was giving you a sly, knowing look, smirking as she rubbed the back of her knuckles against your cheek, and they were cool, but no, your cheeks were hot, flaming, fevered, and she had chuckled as she said "I had no idea minimum wages got you so hot and bothered under your collar, Kanny."
And yet, you had found yourself in your room more times then you could- would, you would not, you absolutely refuse- to count, ear pressed against the wall that was connected Karkat's, listening in as Cronus attempted to teach him his native language, barely decipherable as anything but grunts and growls and barked commands muffled as it was by the wall, by the blood rushing through your ears as heat filled you, by the shame in your head as you had your hand stuffed down your pants and jerked just as harshly Cronus's "Nein!" when Karkat pronounced a word wrong, or used a die instead of a der.
You don't know how you fell so low. Attraction was not something you had to deal with as anything other than an abstract sort of thought. You have never actually been physically attracted to anyone before, not even with your first love, and Latula, you were sure, was as beautiful as any one person on the physical planes of Earth could be. No one held a candle to her, appearance wise. Not Porrim, not Meenah, not Rufioh, and certainly not Cronus, who were the only other people off the top of your head of whom you'd ever really noticed their appearance in the first place. You most certainly were not attracted to his personality. Even his voice, itself, at first, had not been anything that could make your stomach cramp with sudden, undeniable arousal. It was just when he spoke in his native tongue. Only when he spoke German, when he spoke Deutsch.
But then, you suppose, it was a bit of a pavlovic reaction you began to have, and just the sound of that deep, rolling voice was enough to have you tumbling down that downward spiral into base arousal. Which was how you ended up in this situation in the first place.
"Meine kleine Tunte. Look at you, so pretty ven your mout' is doin' somethin' other t'en spewing pointless Scheiße. Nuckeln. Suck."
And you do, barely holding back a moan around the fingers in your mouth, pressing against your tongue, rubbing against it, even as he has you bent over the headboard of the bed on his side of the room you've been sharing, pressing his hips against the curve of your backside, and you hand feel the hard lump in his pants, proof of his own arousal, grinding against the seam of your jeans. You should not be aroused. This should not be turning you on. You should not be letting him do this, should not have let him get his pants undone enough that he could pull your erection through the slit in your underwear, stroking you with lazy, confident passes of his hand. You should not be shaking from the feel of a smooth palm, almost soft, so very different from fingertips calloused from pressing against the metal strings of his guitar, and he plays you just as deftly as he does that six string, Lord have mercy. You are above this, this is degrading, this is humiliating, this is-
"So sehe ich Dich gerne, Schweinepriesterchen," he coos, right into your ear before licking around the shell, his tongue cool compared to the heat of your skin where your ears are bright red, just like the rest of your face, just like your chest, and you moan, completely against your will, and give up what little bit of fight you had in you. This was happening, you want this to happen, no matter how much you were going to hate yourself for it later, and you were, you definitely were going to hate yourself.
But it felt so good, so goddamn good, and you weren't quite sure what he was saying to you, but you knew Cronus enough to know it was absolutely filthy, oh god, you were so hard your cock was literally drooling against the cool wood of the headboard, if you pulled back you'd see it dripping down onto the floor.
He must have read your mind- Oh, that is the last thing you need, Ampora gaining that particular ability-, because his thumb swipes against the head, dragging a moan out of you even as the rough skin catches a little against your slit, even with the remarkable amounts of precum dribbling out, and he lets out a laugh.
"Schlampe," he croons, sweetly, too sweetly, patronizing, making fun of you
You've been listening long enough to actually recognize that one, loosely translated as 'dirty slut'. And with the way your hips buck into his hand, trying to fuck into the tight grip of his palm, and the hiccuped whimper it brought out of your throat which could really only be called wanton, you weren't exactly in any position to argue with him.
"Ah kne' it, ya kno'? Kne' it all along. Meester Ah'm too pure an' enlightened for basic hum'n needs. But h're ya are, already 'bout ta cum, und Ah'fe only been tuggin' at your cock, jus' a teeny tiny bit." He tightens his grip until it's toeing the edge of painful, and begins to twist his wrist along with the basic up and down movements, the meat of his palm tugging against the sensitive underside of the head with each pass, making your knees tremble, give out under you. Undoubtedly, you would have fallen, except Cronus apparently had perfect timing, because he'd grabbed onto your hip with his free hand, almost bruising, but enough to keep you up. He was strong enough to hold up your weight with one hand. Oh, dear… "Gott, look't you. Practically dying for my dick. Say it. Say 'Ich will deinen Schwanz'."
"I- I can't," you gasp, because your mouth is incapable of spouting his language, your throat can't get the tone right. You've tried, you have, after you're spent but still fuzzy brained from your orgasm enough to keep your ear up against the wall, and quietly repeat after Cronus, just like your brother. But it's not the same. Your voice is too soft. Your tongue is too clumsy, or maybe it's too light, and the heavy words slip right off it and back down your throat. It just doesn't sound right.
He growls, bending over until he's flushed against your back, and the wood below you is digging into your stomach, and you can feel his words rumble and vibrate in his chest, and your head rolls forward, pinching your eyes shut in an attempt to control yourself. Control. That was what you were used to, your body did not have a will of it's own, it followed your directions, just as you had trained it to do, just as you had-
Your eyes tear up, and the moan that comes from your throat sounds like a sob, and you are terribly afraid that you're not about to cry in dismay, but in pleasure.
"Say. It. Ich."
You're confused at the lack of words that follow, you know that there was more to the sentence but just that, but then his hand stops moving, just resting around the base of your shaft, and the horrifying realization hits you that if you don't make the attempt to repeat after him, he's going to stop. He's going to stop touching you. He's going to stop talking to you.
"Ic…Ich." Your voice is shaky, husky, but not enough to mask your word as actual German and not just some childlike copy. When Cronus said it, such a simple word, a single syllable, it had been rich, from the back of his throat, the focus on the H at the end, dragging it out, like the C barely even existed, subtle. When you said it, it just came out Ick.
You were butchering his language, and a part of you, a small part, barely a whisper in the back of your consciousness, said good. Maybe then he'd leave you alone. Maybe then you'd be so disgusted at the mess you made of it, you'd no longer be tempted by the gruff guttural tone.
But it appeased Cronus enough that his hand shifted, working his fingers inside of your underwear, teasingly petting against your testicles, chuckling when he felt them already drawn up close to your body. You felt your lower spine begin to tingle.
"Will."
You copy that one easier, 'Vill' familiar enough to your tongue that you can manage it without fumbling. Like when you were a child, and you and Porrim played vampire. 'I vaaahnt to suuuck your bluud.'
His fingers press gently against your sack, rolling back and forth even as he starts rubbing with his palm. All thoughts of your best friend leave your mind in the same rush your breath leaves your lungs.
"Deinen."
Die-nin. You feel like you're going to die, this is it, Cronus Ampora is going to be the death of you.
His teeth drag, almost painful against the sensitive skin behind your ear, and nips sharply at the little bit of bare skin above the neck of your sweater. You think it might have been hard enough to leave a mark. You think it won't matter, even if doesn't, because something about you is different, changed. If he didn't mark your skin, he was leaving his mark all over your psyche, and there's no way people won't be able to notice. They'll be able to smell him on you.
"Schwanz."
It sounds like swans, but you are pretty sure that what you had to say had absolutely nothing to do with such an elegant avian, such innocent imagery. You're not even sure what you're saying, but your mouth burns and it feels like fire is licking low in your belly because you think it's depraved, something completely out of character, and if anyone else knew it, you'd be ruined. The reputation you'd spent so long building up, the persona you spent so many years crafting, gone, with a heavy, clumsy flick of your tongue.
His middle finger stretches, reaching back further, and suddenly he's pressing up against your taint, and isn't that a funny word for the piece of your anatomy that was the final nail in your debauched coffin, choking on your groan- disgusting, like an animal, you're no better than an animal- even as he coaxed long streams of cum out of you with each press of his rough finger against skin you barely even graze when you wash, sparks of pleasure so strong you can feel your hair standing on end, static crackling between your body and his, through your clothes, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he rubs harder, not giving you a bit of respite even through your orgasm, and it feel like he's actually touching something deep inside of you, instead of just rubbing a small patch of skin.
When you come back a little bit to yourself, you realize that he'd literally turned you into a drooling, brainless mess. There's a wet spot on your comforter, and the side of your mouth is overrun with dribble. The memory of what you used to be before Cronus sauntered his way into your life is horrified.
"Verdammt. Already? Vhat a vaste." He tugs at your balls, like he's testing to see if you have anything left in you, and you whimper, shifting uncomfortably underneath him. You're sensitive as hell, and only relax when he pulls his hand away, and when he makes a thoughtful humming noise, you muster the energy to lift your head, turning it to look over your shoulder, just in time to see him carefully examining his fingers, spattered with little drops of your semen. His gaze lazily catches yours, and when he smirks, you think that, by the time the little fish sees the shark smiling at him, it's already too late. "Oh, vell. You did mention t'at you vanted my dick, ja? Don' hafta be hard to get a piece of t'at, eh? Get on, t'en. On your knees; show me how bad you vant it."
You're not particularly interested, as you slowly turn around, letting your knees give out properly, too tired to feel more then slightly cross at the fact that your forehead is barely at crotch height, and you have to tilt your head back to see the bulge in his jeans, have to reach up with shaking arms to undo said jeans, his erection spilling out neatly without any underwear to impede it. You're not particularly interested when you wrap first one hand, then then other, around his girth, and begin to stroke, slow, unpracticed. But you know you'll pretend to be interested in anything that you have to be to get him to keep talking to you.