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rabbitsf00t · 2 years

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I'm not sure if you are taking request, but I really like your writing and I had an idea

Someone new is transfered to the 141 team, they don't talk unless it's needed, and they are surprisingly silent on their feet. Like you see them at one end of room, and you look away, and just see them on the other side. I like to think soap being like "Where is the new kid" and just getting his life scared out of him when he hears. "Here, Captain" in an area he swore he texted

Sorry brain has so many ideas don't know how write

Yess... silent!Reader! I love it. And don't worry, if it makes you feel any better, my brain is the exact same way. It's quite unfortunate in the end.

Thank you for the request! Hope everyone enjoys! Reader's call sign is Rabbit! Just to let everyone know!

As per usual, the individuals of Task Force 141 were unsure of having someone new on the team. But, Laswell approved of this transfer and even went so far as to recommend the new kid. So, the complaints would get them nowhere, and stopped after the third day of occurring. (Price had also threatened to put each and every one of them through hell if they didn’t shut up)

You were… not at all what they were expecting. Gaz and Soap decided to wait outside for you as the heli landed, now eager to see who this new edition would be to the team. Both of them were surprised to see someone small- around 1.5 meters in height with nothing but the clothes on your back and a standard issued duffle bag. They both jogged over to you and waited until the heli disappeared before introducing themselves.

��I’m Gaz,” he tipped his hat a bit towards you, offering a friendly smile.

“And I’m Soap.” He’d followed Gaz’s introduction, except bowing his head more- since he didn’t wear a hat. They waited silently for an introduction from you- or maybe you couldn’t speak? Would this be a Roach situation, having to do sign language?

You offered a smile- full teeth. “Rabbit.” Well, your voice did not match how you looked- but no matter. You adjusted the bag on your shoulders and gestured to the building, wanting to get this unloaded. And you were hungry, but that could wait. Your fellow sergeants straightened up, sent each other a look, then told you to follow them. You did so silently.

Your silence was… unappreciated when you were not out in the field. Even there, the lieutenant mentioned how talking a bit more on your end would be helpful to the others. You’d only scoffed at him, exactly proving his point by saying nothing. Soap didn’t like not knowing where you were, because according to him- you appeared out of nowhere, and it scared the skin off of him. Gaz felt much of the same, claimed it was like playing a fucked up game of hide-and-seek sometimes. Price only said that he’d grown a couple of grey hairs because of you.

A good example would be now. Everyone is supposed to be sparring- you’re still new, so you spar with the recruits and privates. It’s also just to see what you’re made of- how much you can take. But right now- no one can find you. Ghost is tapping the clipboard against his thigh- annoyed by the situation. Soap keeps looking around, expecting you to pop up- but you don’t. (You hate to break it to them, but you’re already there, just in the crowd with the privates- so you silently move so you’re standing behind them) “Sergeant Rabbit!”

“Here, lieutenant.” Soap yelps in surprise, and Ghost turns around- not as surprised as the sergeant is. His eyes show impression as he looks at you. You shoot a glare at Soap, who is dramatically holding his chest with a hand. The recruits are snickering and…

And oh does Ghost get an idea. He shakes his head and points to the poor frightened Scot. “Replacing Gaz, you will be sparring Soap.” (Gaz is sick in his room, bedridden by the flu. Everyone avoids him like the plague except for the captain and medical personnel) “Clean fight, leave no scarring- understood, sergeants?”

Sparring with the recruits is one thing- Ghost and Price had watched you carefully and it looked like you were holding back a lot, still winning- but holding back. They never mentioned it- maybe it was some injury or something you were holding back. Currently for Price, it’s what he was on call for with Laswell. “Why give me a silent soldier who only speaks when spoken to and disappears as much as Ghost?! What. Was. The. Point.”

And in sparring Soap- everyone’s eyes opened.

In a previous mission, Soap had fucked up his leg, nothing serious- but it was a weak point in his body. You hadn’t been on the mission, but overheard it while helping around in Med Bay. So, after circling Soap for a solid minute and a half, with neither of you moving from your spots- you moved, at an inhuman speed- anyone would point out, and brought your leg to Soap’s stomach. He easily caught your knee and pushed it down, swinging his fist shortly afterward. You ducked, now on your toes and below his waist, and sent a blow to his bad leg, not enough for permanent damage. He let out a cry- now less focused on the fight and more on his aching leg, and he swears to whoever is listening upstairs that his life flashed before his eyes as you brought a fist down on his face. Only when Ghost shouts “ENOUGH” do you step away from Soap, breathing heavily and using your fingers and thumb to come back to reality though your hands are shaking. One, two, three, four…

You were back. You dipped your head in apology while also holding a hand out for Soap to take. He eyed it warily- and he looked rightly pissed off. It was a dirty move, going for his injured leg- but as far as he knew, you didn’t know that he had one. “Yer carryin’ me to medical.” You listen to him, silently passing the lieutenant- bowing your head further, as you pass him. “How’d ya know about my leg?”

“I was in Med Bay.” He looks at you with a raised brow- because that’s sus. Why were you in Med Bay? (A/n: I’m sorry, I had to include that. Every time I write Med Bay, I think Among Us) “Voice therapy.” You don’t say anything further, despite the fact that it’s all Soap wants you to do for the moment. Talk. Why do you need voice therapy? Is it why you’re so quiet?

None of the medics look remotely happy to see Soap. He goes on a brief explanation of what happened on the mat, how you punched the shite out of his leg and busted his lip too. The medics then give you a look. “You were there the day he got fixed up, why would you go for his leg?”

You shrugged, not wanting to give the dark answer that would put you in the bad books of several people. It was his weak spot. He would go down easier. Bad leg, good punch. Soap decides to settle your silence with a personal question that’s yours, he figures since you fucked his leg up more- he deserves to know. “Why does Rabbit need voice therapy?”

It’s a blacked out paragraph of the file given to Price, but the medics have it all cleared. The one in charge looks at you for confirmation or dismissal to speak, you shrug- you don’t care if Soap knows. It’s been years, at this point. “Well, one year Sergeant Rabbit became a POW. All sorts of nasty torture, I will not repeat it. The one I will mention… he got several blows of a metal rod to the throat, permanent damage to his vocal chords.” Soap’s jaw drops. “He can speak… some, but if he talks too much, he’ll hurt his throat.”

Soap’s hand goes to his throat and rubs it, gulping as he does so. Several blows? “Steamin’ Jesus… I’m sorry I asked.” You shrugged and waved a hand in the air, dismissal. “We um… we all know British Sign Language if you’d prefer it? An old soldier… Roach… he was a selective mute, he used it. Do you know it?”

You do know sign language, but not the one they’re referring to. You’ve talked a lot in the last hour, but you push it by informing him of what you know. “ASL.” Because you’re American, and that’s what they teach there. You make your hand into a fist and circle it around your chest. ‘Sorry.’

“That’s okay. We’ll teach you- or I’ll try. Ghost is the better teacher…” he trails off as the medic starts touching around his leg, he only hisses once, then goes back to normal. “I’ll explain it to him, and also that you didn’t mean to go for the injured leg- that you didn’t know. Sounds fair?”

A smile broke onto your lips and you nodded. Fair.

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rabbitsf00t · 2 years

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König unintentionally making reader squirt with his big meaty paws and being so turned on and fascinated that it's even possible that he just. keeps doing it. please I've lost the ability to write smut and i am nothing but a hole

könig x reader | 18+, AFAB (fem)/no pronouns, explicit content:

The first time is an accident. A happy one, absolutely, but an accident all the same.

It has to be.

You don’t know how much experience König has —it’s not something he seems particularly open to discussing. There’s no need to pry, either. His gentle, timid demeanor when the subject is approached tells you more than enough.

He blushes so pretty, though, so sometimes you can’t help but prod him about the notches in his bedpost or the line of suitors waiting for a return call.

What happens might be the karmic return of all that teasing, though.

●

Maybe your excitement has something to do with what happens. The build-up is intense, to say the least. You’ve danced around each other for a long time, as friends and then as more, slowly. You force yourself into that pace because you can tell he needs it. König is flighty, anxious. Careful and delicate with you in a way that feels like a curse. It’s lovely, of course, his solemn and devout appreciation. The only thing wrong with it is that he leaves you pent the fuck up. It becomes torment, absolute torture, to be around him.

You’re moving at his pace, and happy to because it makes him more comfortable, but fuck. The point comes when every gentle touch, every exquisitely tender kiss, leaves you fucking drenched.

You feel a variety of things about this. Ashamed, a little, because it kind of disturbs you how badly you want him.

He’s not innocent, by any means. There have been a handful of sweaty, messy makeouts on your couch, the tangle of your limbs leaving you both worked up and hot to the touch. You still remember nearly biting through your tongue when his massive hand roamed under your shirt for the first time. You’d almost cum on the spot just from the feeling of his big fingers cupping you.

Stupid man has you shivering under your skin, wild and unhinged at the briefest touch like some sort of strict, repressed puritan.

Sometimes all it takes is a quick glance over at him. That gorgeous, timid smile paired with lithe muscle and the towering stature of a killer wrapped in softness will be the end of you. Is, on more than one occasion. With increasing frequency, you find the need to excuse yourself to the bathroom, trembling fingers shoved down the front of your pants to bring yourself to a swift, quiet end.

Every time you return, he’s patiently waiting in the same position you left him, gazing at you with those big, eager eyes. Every fucking time, he opens the massive spread of his wingspan to gather you into a crushing hug.

●

The night it happens, you’re curled up against him on the couch. Your legs are thrown over his lap, feet tucked beneath the mess he’s made of your throw pillows trying to get comfortable. He looks so silly in your furniture, all of it crafted for someone your size instead of a giant. His legs are splayed out as far as they’ll go, a lazy slouch that brings him far enough down that you can rest your cheek on his shoulder.

You can’t imagine the position is good for his back, but he’s insistant. He’s more than happy to shoulder the burden of discomfort when it comes to managing the variation in your sizes. You have the sneaking suspicious that he likes the ache, because it keeps him aware of that difference. You know he finds it hot, too. He’s admitted as much in the middle of a particularly heated make out. Whined, lips red and kiss-swollen, into your mouth, about how hard it made him to see you underneath him. How small in comparison.

König looks just as ethereal now as then, a ghostly ephemeral giant in the darkness, every sweetly angular curve of his face kissed by the television’s light. He’s beautiful, and you tell him as much just to watch the spots of color rise to his cheeks.

“Thank you, Maus,” he murmurs, shy. He loves getting complimented, even if he demures from it, and you adore the way he reacts. His arm is thrown over the back of the couch, and he drops that hand to cup your shoulder, huge on your body. An innocent, pleased squeeze of his fingers into the flesh. It makes you shiver, brain flitting through the other places he could put that touch. He think it’s a shiver brought about by the temperature, because he pulls you closer against his side, tugs the blanket you’re sharing up your thighs.

You sigh happily, and he chuckles.

“Comfortable?”

“Very,” you say, a little moan at the end of it that makes his ears burn.

“I am glad.”

One arm is trapped against his ribcage, but the other is free, thrown over his abdomen. Feeling evil, you squirm as if you’re trying to settle in. As you do so, you let that hand slip down to rest on his thigh, tips of your fingers brushing the inner muscle. You feel it flex beneath your touch, and against your cheek his breathing stutters.

“You’re so warm, baby,” you sigh again, fighting a smirk when he groans noiselessly at the pet name. A long exhale of air from his parted lips as he undoubtedly tries to maintain his composure. He’s keeping his eyes on the show you’ve put on, another nature documentary because he loves those, but you have the inkling he’s not paying attention at all.

“…And so big.” You punctuate this with a squeeze of your hand, cupping the thick flesh of his thigh. “A big teddy bear.”

König’s breath stutters out as a moan, this time. He follows it up with a fast, almost-silent sentence you can’t translate.

“König,” you murmur. You shift, put all your weight into the hand on his leg as you sit up. His remaining air hiccups out.

With a finger on his jaw, you urge him to look at you. When he does, his icy eyes are glassy as they slide onto yours.

“M-mhm?” It’s not quite a word, although it sounds like he might be trying to formulate one.

“Can I kiss you?”

He nods before you finish the question, and you’re giggling as you press your mouth to his.

König usually takes a little bit to warm up to this. He gets anxious, stuck in his head about his performance. You have to urge him to relax, to just feel instead of think.

It’s different tonight, and you notice it immediately. His lips part right away, opening wide enough that you can touch your tongue between them. The hand around your shoulder tightens, and his thigh jumps under your palm.

You start to swing yourself onto your knees, lifting one to situate yourself in his lap. It’s one of your favorite ways to be held by him, nestled in his spread legs, his arms around your waist as you kiss. He gets so receptive like that, underneath you.

König must have other ideas.

New ideas.

He nearly knocks you off the couch as he twists his hips, flinging your legs to the side. The way he tilts over you, looming, makes you cry out into the kiss. Your knees are still pressed together, rotated to the side, and you press your calves to the back of his thighs as he leans over you.

Cages you, keeps himself upright with a hand above your head. His arm is so long he has to bend his elbow to make the position work. Emboldened by this shift in energy, you reach up and take his wrist between your hands, guide it under the hem of your shirt.

“Maus,” he whines, fingers dancing up your ribs to cup a breast. He squeezes hard, like he’s not thinking about it, and the roughness makes you whine and tip your head back. “You…fuck, you are so soft.”

His squeezes again, the pad of his thumb brushing your nipple through your bra.

“Your hands,” you whimper, brain foggy, half a thought. You’re slippery between the thighs already. “Love them.”

König sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Yes?”

“Yes,” you moan back stupidly, rocking your hips a little against the seat of his jeans. He’s hard, and this is only the second time he’s let you feel it. “Want your hands everywhere.”

“Fuck,” he says, the expletive curled up at the end in a whine. “Where?”

“Here.” Your other hand flies up to close over the one at your chest, pushing it down against your flesh encouragingly. He nods, blinking slow with lust, bottom lip between his teeth.

Fuck. Even his teeth are attractive — growing up, he’d been too poor for any sort of dentistry, so the curve of his canines rotates out, the tips of them sharper than you’ve ever seen on someone. It’s why his lips always look roughed up. He chews on them when he’s anxious, and those cute little fangs tend to draw blood. One of them digs into his lip now, putting a whitening divot in the flesh that you want to kiss away.

You toss your head back, panting, and try to collect your thoughts. That attempt shatters the instant you look at him again, his huge body curved above you on the couch, protective and desperate to be closer. You can’t see the ceiling around the massive frame of his shoulders, and it makes you moan.

His eyes are trained on your mouth, heavy-lidded with heated desire.

“Here,” you say again, dragging the hand out of your shirt and up to your cheek. König cups your jaw as if demanded, his warm, shaking palm covering the entirety of your face.

Heart pounding, you pull it away after a moment and touch three of his long, graceful fingers against your lips.

“Here,” you whisper, wetting the tips of them as you speak.

“Fuck, Maus. Pretty, so pretty.” König sighs, the words tight in his chest, sweet in that endearing accent. “I —“

You don’t give him a chance to complete the thought, opening your mouth around lithe digits and closing your lips around them.

He moans, the noise pulled out of him as if on a string, and the curve of his spine tightens. You hold his gaze, eyelashes fluttering as you flick your tongue against his fingers. Taste his skin, the lingering spice stuck to them. He’d cooked dinner, and you remembered hungrily watching these hands work, wrapped expertly around the hilt of a knife, kneading dough, tapping a rhythm on the counter while he waited for the skillet to heat up.

You dart your tongue against his knuckles, eyes slipping shut as the images assault you, and moan as you drag them from your mouth. The sucking noise they make as they pop free of your lips is filthy, and makes you arch your back.

“Wanted to do this all night,” you admit, rubbing his saliva-slick hand against your cheek, and then laugh. “Wanted to do this since I first saw you.”

“I am going to pass out,” König states slowly, short of breath in a way that overrides the humor. He’s starting at the pink ring of your lips as you guide his fingers back in, suckle at them. “Oh. Mein Gott.”

“Don’t you dare,” you murmur, keeping them in your mouth as you speak, tongue flicking over his skin. You sound funny, a little lisp around the obstruction, but he doesn’t seem to mind — or notice. His hips jerk, rolling his pelvis against the plush curve of your ass. “Not yet, anyway. I have plans.”

“Like what,” he whispers, transfixed by a strand of spit connecting the tip of his middle finger to your bottom lip. He’s flushed pink to his ears, down his neck, and his hair falls in a messy curtain around his face.

Gorgeous, you think, and say it out loud, too.

You feel his cock twitch against the back of your thigh, and sigh in delight. You’ve felt it through his clothes before, and you’re desperate to see it, to touch him, taste, to fuck… but he hasn’t cleared that yet. He’s still anxious about getting his shirt off around you.

That’s okay, though. There are other things you have in mind.

“Like this.” You take his wet hand away from your mouth and guide it down your stomach.

“Oh,” he says as you use his fingers to push aside the hem of your (his) sweatpants. It’s all the guidance he needs, because once his knuckles brush against the wet spot on the front of your underwear, he shivers and goes still.

It’s like a switch flips.

König turns his hand around, cups the entirety of your sex with his huge palm. The heel presses against in just the right spot to put pressure on your clit, those long fingers wrapping the entirety of you. His middle finger dips at the swell of your ass, brushes against your perineum, and you jerk against the touch, whining.

“Up a little,” you sob, and he nods with what you think must be determination. His eyes are focused, two bright pinpoints of electricity, between your legs. With your knees over his lap, it’s hard to see anything, and he must consider this a problem, because he straightens up and wedges his other hand between your thighs. Pries them apart.

You know the strength he uses to split and lift them, guide your knees apart around his waist, is just a fraction of which he’s capable. The thought makes you moan, clutch at his wrists.

Konig glances up at you, eyebrows knit.

“I — I’m good. Keep going, baby.”

Anxiety creeps over his shoulders. You can feel it in the way every bit of him tenses. Whatever amount of courage he’d just mustered seems to fail. You’ll have to guide him a little more, then. Delightful.

“Pants, and—” you say, chest heaving. “Both, shit, take them off.” He nods, does as asked without hesitation.

When you’re bare to him, his fingers in your thigh tighten painfully. They dig into the flesh, five divots that will bruise by morning, and he pushes your leg back. To see better, you realize, and this has you shaking.

One hand returns to cup you, huge palm sliding with ease as it meets the slippery mess.

“Oh,” he says for what must be the millionth time, eyes wide. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, sweat gathering at his temple. You want to lick it. “Oh, Maus. You are all pretty, how —“

Fuck. Fuck, that’s sweet. Your back arches at the words, shoving your cunt into his hand hard.

“Please,” you whine, nails clawing at his wrists — shit, they’re wet, you’re dripping down his fucking wrist — until he hisses. “I need…”

He leans over you again, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “What, beautiful? What do you need?” His hand rocks against you, just the slightest movement, a delicious pressure that has you keening.

“Fingers,” you manage, shaking your head from side to side. He’s going so slow, but if he keeps doing this, the meat of his hand against your clit, his middle finger nestled between your lips, you will absolutely cum.

“Ah,” he says, thoughtfully, and then nods. “Fingers, okay. Yes.”

He debates a moment, perhaps wondering at the best way to go about this, and then slides three fingertips up your slit until they catch the rim of your hole.

“Oh!” You gasp, and your hand shoots out to stop him. You giggle breathlessly, finding his eyes. He looks concerned. “König. You —“ You shake your head. “Fuck, come on. You’re huge, c-can’t start with three, fuck, I’ll split open.”

The distress melts away.

His eyes darken, pupils going black and wide like a shark at your words. It’s a look that would panic you on any other face. It slips over him like a veil, an impassioned, frenzied sort of desire. That normally soft gaze hardens with something so unlike his usual demeanor.

It scares you. The fright, embarrassingly, melts into vulgar want.

“Uh,” you start to say, grip still tight around his wrist, and then toss your head back on a strangled cry.

You’re soaking wet, or it would be painful. König manages to work two of those long, thick fingers into you. The movement grinds his hand into your clit violently, and you buck.

Tears spring to your eyes as he fills you, stretching your inner walls, and you keen again. You lift up a little to look between your legs, shivering at the sight of his big hand there, fingers slick as they disappear within your body.

“König,” you whine, unsure if you can manage any other word but his name.

“Are you watching, Maus?” He asks, the question breathy. His voice is pitched low, uncharacteristically dark and rough. He moves his wrist, the motion experimental, and it drive this fingers deeper.“Look at that, oh.”

He works you open, and it’s good even if he isn’t experienced in this. What he lacks for in finesse he makes up with enthusiasm, the sweet drive of exploration. König is observant and a very good listener. He hands on your words, values your opinion, and he uses that consideration in your more intimate activities, too. He knows that you like when he bites your lip, the best place to kiss your neck.

He’s using the knowledge of you now, gauging your noises as he tests your body. Discovering the sweet sob you make when he fits his wide thumb against your clit, the stuttering gasp and jerk of your hips if he gets enough of an angle He does fit a third into you after awhile, slipping it easily in when your hips drive up.

It’s a good thing he learns so fast, because you’re beyond giving directions.

König finds a perfect, deadly rhythm, using his wrist to pump those thick fingers in you. He almost can’t fit the full length of them in, so he curls the tips within your cunt.

They brush against that spongy spot above your pelvic bone, and you have to bite back what might be a genuine scream. Your hands fly up to cover your face, and a sob bursts out of you, overstimulated. The tears bubble, spill over, sliding down your cheeks.

He pauses. You could fucking kill him.

“Oh no,” he says, and leans over to kiss your face all over. Lips on your forehead, your cheek, your chin and the tip of your nose. His fingers are still stuffed in you, thicker than any cock you’ve had, and the angle of his body makes them stretch you even more. If that’s possible.

“König,” you wail, dragging the vowels out until the pronunciation is wrong. “Don’t. Stop.”

His face is red, and those observant eyes flick down to mess between your thighs. You’re clenching rhythmically around him, tiny rolls of your hips. If your eyes were open, you’d see the evil, determined curl of his lips.

“I will not,” he coos, and pries away your hands from your face with the one not currently busy. “As long as you don’t hide from me, Maus. Let me watch you.”

“Fuck,” you whine, kicking your feet against his shins. You shove your sweaty face into the soft fabric of the couch cushion, then force yourself to look at him again, like he wants. “Fuck, oh my god. Please.”

He starts again, that debilitating rhythm returning with a vengeance. The spot within you is acknowledged even if he doesn’t know, exactly, what it is. All he can tell is that if he pushes his fingers like that, twists them in such a way…well. He would wax poetic, if you were in the right mind to hear it.

Your face twists and relaxes, brow loose and nose scrunched cutely, his little Maus. And the sounds you make, oh. Sweet, chanting gasps, deep moans from your chest, whines of his name and its aborted, stuttering syllables if he gets you at a particularly mean angle. He wishes he could file them away in his brain, because he will definitely be tugging himself raw later.

He’s so enraptured by your face that he almost doesn’t notice the other physical reaction until he looks down. Not only are you soaked to your thighs, wet and noisy and messy, but —

König dips his head for a better look, and a drunken, wild moan punches out of his chest.

When he curls his fingers up, angles his wrist to fuck into you, at the very apex of the motion, he can see the gentle swell of them beneath your skin. He is usually pretty collected, sometimes finds it troublesome to finish because of his stamina, but the sight of this almost shoves him over the edge right then and there.

“W-what?” You ask, gasping, breath hitching the word as you pant.

König doesn’t answer, just drags his other hand down your body, squeezing a breast through your shirt as he goes. He doesn’t look up at you, either, his eyes locked on the sight of your wet heat, and shuffles forward on his knees a little, like he needs the leverage. Then he pulls that other hand down your stomach and presses it down, tight and hard, meeting the motion of his fingers inside you. Touching, with filthy reverence, the visible dissension of them.

Your head feels like it’s cracking open as the orgasm overpowers you, a shivery roll that builds into a throbbing ache as it punches into your gut. You hadn’t even realized you were that close. Maybe you weren’t. It’s sharp in a way that makes you panic, pinpointed from deep within, waves and waves. It makes your legs shake, your knees taut and tense around his ribcage, and you know suddenly, embarrassed tears on your cheeks, what is happening.

As it soars through you, constricting your lungs, your hips punch up. All your weight on your shoulders, balanced over his lap, you feel the telltale trickle drip down your thighs, your ass, the small of your back.

König moans again, the noise ruined, and withdraws his hand.

You don’t want to open your eyes. Fuck. You can’t.

“Maus,” he grunts, the word broken and rough. “Are you okay? That is…not a sad cry, yes?”

His hand is slick when he touches your face, wipes away the tears on your cheeks When you finally decide to look at him, he’s closer than you expect, eyebrow tight with concern.

“I —“ you croak, unable to form words just yet. Your voice is hoarse and dry, so König leaps up and runs you a glass of water from the kitchen.

You take it gratefully, purposefully looking away from the dark, wet splatter on his shirt, the front of his pants. Goddamn him. The fucker had made you squirt without trying. You down the entire glass gratefully, and then peek at him over the rim of it, feeling suddenly shy.

“That, uh, doesn’t happen very often.”

König’s eyebrows jump up now, a strange expression curling one side of his mouth.

“Doesn’t it?” He asks, and it’s dangerously thoughtful.

As if you’ve just presented him with a challenge.

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