#i love him sm its a problem

[thatoneartistinthecorner]

I was very satisfied of the 5 seconds of screentime Skeptic had in today's episode of My Hero Academia. 👍

[just-null]

he wants kiss, but he doesnt out right ask for one. (he got one.)

[hermanunworthy]

CHOOSE UR CHARACTER!

tysm for 100 followers!! i decided to finally solidify my hermie designs and make a fun little reference sheet of sorts w all of them!

(update this is so old now and ive made quite a few changes to my hermie designs since this agkdj)

[daily-hanamura]

[earthspark-shockwaves-reduction]

...I do not want prowl in earthspark.

[landfilloftrash]

yea very normal cleric

[dizzybizz]

Heyy for the requests, maybe Rosaria giving a piggyback ride to Kaeya, when they go home from drinking? I love your art btw and thabk you <3

he ends up falling asleep so quickly after this lol

(also tysm <333)

[maretriarch]

This is not a new sentiment but it is bleak how like as a whole little boys are so cute and silly and sweet and then they make a group of other little boy friends and then its gay to be anything else than like aloof or angry. tucker carlson voice. Whats going on. Who wins anything from this.

[wiredsmi1e]

hi yes ive got sm to do today istg i just wanna

[tricolorhichew]

he is extremely sad to look at

[princekirijo]

14 and 19 for... Yuna, actually

14. How does your OC want to be seen by other characters?

OHHH now this is a juicy question for Yuna. So a big part of Yuna’s character is actually that she wants to be seen. As she’s the younger sibling she’s seen by a lot of people (outside the family ofc) as the spare child, the one in the background out of the spot light (occupied by her goofball brother). So I think an important thing for her is that she really wants to be seen? Like in general? Even her moms to a certain extent overlook her sometimes because they are trying to deal with Riku.

A more specific thing though - she wants to be seen as reliable. Steadfast Yuna who will never let anyone down. She might be in the background but she’s always there when you need her, you know? She wants the people she cares about to know that she’s there if they need her! Even though she’s like. 14.

19. How does your OC behave when enraged?

Ohh I definitely think Yuna is the kind of person to go dead silent when she’s angry. Like she’s a quieter person in general but she’s also playful, making little comments and jokes every now and then. So you know when she goes really really quiet that’s when you want to run. She’s like a volcano about to explode.

[vivaladicamillo]

dico when hes 60 (ifykyk)

[poisonousquinzel]

I cannot express to y'all how much I hate this show and the fact that they did this whole part So Fucking Well and accurately in season one makes it all the worse because it just shows that they don't Care to take Harley or her trauma as an abuse survivor seriously.

They treated him like the abuser he is until they no longer needed too for that specific plot thread. He had to be a dickhead for her to leave and to have that arc, but not because they view him as the catalyst for the horrors in her life and in her mental health.

He was just the character that was used for specific moments in the plot when an antagonistic ex was needed rather than as a character who's actions affected the plot and Harley as a person in universe.

But He Was. He was the root cause of this. That's not some shameful thing and frankly I'm tired of content pretending like abuse victims having visible trauma that is caused by their abuser and acknowledging and putting reasonable blame on said abuser for that somehow takes away their agency or something. It doesn't make Harley a weak person (or character) to have been greatly negatively affected by years of severe domestic abuse. That's just realistic. PTSD exists, especially in cases involving abuse (I say as someone who's literally been diagnosed with PTSD since I was like 13. I have a fucking laundry list of mental/physical health issues and they are like All my father's fault. Abusers ruin lives and they deserve to be held responsible for that.) and it's not the victim's fucking fault or some weakening aspect of characterization that needs to be fixed under the pretense of it being sexist or something. Absolutely there's content that uses Harley's status as a victim in uncomfortable or grossly sexual / sexist ways, but that doesn't make the realistic trauma that she should have any less realistic??? It's just bad writing. That's obnoxiously common for female comic characters. It's just people, similarly to those who don't know fuck all about idk education?? who try to claim it's possible for her to sleep her way to a Medical Degree, who know next to nothing about trauma responses, DV, PTSD, esc.

That's a writing failure.

I'm sorry but I don't view some of the media going out of it's way to make her a horrid person pre Joker as some sort of Girl Boss rewrite that gives her back her agency and control (cause wow it's actually all better now cause he didn't push her into the acid! She jumped! It's fine! Now it's a Girl Boss Moment! 💪) as some sort of positive shift in writing.

Abuse affects people. Manipulation affects people. Love Bombing affects people. And it just feels like some writers have used this characterization for Harleen as a reasoning to bit by bit chip away at the responsibility Joker holds for what he did to her and the path he purposefully led her down under the guise that she Was helping him. That she's the only one who's ever listened and understood, that she Was saving him. He did that. He chose every step of the way what he was doing and what he was leading her to believe. He's not a fucking idiot, he's a canonically master manipulator who spent years doing just that, let him be held responsible for the actions she never would have taken without his heavy influence and manipulation lingering against her neck.

And HQTAS proved that was the way they viewed him the second they had the chance. They brought him back, made him a reoccurring Humorous character that's supposed to come across as No Longer The Abusive Ex Just A Foe Sometimes But He's Changed<3 He Has A Family Now<3 He's Mayor:D

also,,, Idk, but there's something to be said about how it comes across like well he was just abusive in his relationship with Harley cause lol after all

"violence was a hallmark of our relationship too"

and once he found a good woman who's not so damned clingy and Harley Like he was able to be the man he always was underneath. He was only like that because he was with Harley, she brought it out of him.

And that's a really fucking nasty vibe for your telling of an abusive relationship to have.

Abusers don't just change. And certainly not ones who don't view their abusive actions as abuse.

Abusers cannot mentally decide to better themselves and stop their abusive actions if they don't even acknowledge or view themselves as abusive. Maybe he was better before he got his memory back but then he was Back. He was the exact same man who shoved her out of that plane with a grin and maniacal laughter.

And that man went on to fondly think back on his abuse of her while witnessing what (in his eyes) is an entirely unprovoked attack from Ivy against his ex.

"violence was a hallmark of our relationship too"

"HQTAS not having the balls to permanently kill Joker off continues to be one of its biggest faults and I will not forgive them for that."

Their biggest fault is causing the upsurgence of casual pro Joker posts in Harley's tag in light of episodes showing him being "normal" and "based" and "wow look at him! being a socialist! and wanting healthcare!"

wow! it's almost like I don't really give a shit what political stance this domestic abuser takes in this show called Harley Quinn, ya know, the name of the ex he violently and graphically abused throughout the entirety of their relationship?

But oh! Whatever! if he's turned over a new leaf, Who cares! The past's the past's and the writers would rather redeem him! For some stupid ass reason! (Spoiler alert: It's because he's popular and they're cowards)

So let's forget how he literally murdered Poison Ivy!

& forget how he tortured her crew! And planned to have them publicly executed ! Lol!!

He's a cool dad now! He's hip! Whoo!!

Forget about all that abuse in the first season haha! It wasn't plot important anyway!

What's PTSD?! That's not a thing lol Harley would totally not have PTSD from him, they're buddies now! just ignore the little bits of obvious lasting trauma like her flinching

he's taking over her twitter! so sorry if you happen to follow this account and find him triggering or anything lol cause he's hijacking it for his run for mayor! & now he's all over your timeline,, isn't he quirky

He makes jokes about limber she is-- while her private sexual encounter is being broadcasted to all of Gotham WITHOUT HER CONSENT-- and how "violence was a hallmark of our relationship too", cause he's just such a fucking peach now y'all

That was last season.

In episode 12.

While he had a Girlfriend.

He has not owned up to his own actions.

He's not some Reformed Domestic Abuser who's long since changed, shown he's changed and is sorry for what he did because he has not even taken accountability for the fact that No, violence wasn't a "hallmark of their relationship." It wasn't some quirky occurrence to look back at with a sigh of fondness.

Abuse was the staple of their relationship. Abuse that was inflicted by his fucking hands.

The Joker is a monster.

Harley Quinn: The Animated Series version of him is one just as well.

Even just from the part of the cycle we saw from Season 1, he was absolutely at his worst. It's not even like they toned it down for this, they built him up to be the monster that he is and then tried to backpedal and are now pretending he's just a completely different dude now that he's not with Harley.

News Flash, but Harley wasn't the first woman Joker's manipulated into helping him while simultaneously leading them to believe they were mutually falling in love

She's just one of the only survivors.

Because that's what she did. For years. Survived.

And sorryyyy, but I ain't exactly known for looking past The Joker's abusive transgressions and I'm sure as shit not starting now just because he's had a pitifully rushed "redemption" arc with some poorly iced He's A Socialist frosting on top.

Or am I supposed to pretend like in Season 1, Episode 8 he didn't put his manipulation skills to full use and, to add insult to injury, knowing he was going to push her out of the plane, he still kissed her.

Multiple times.

He initiated the kiss. He moved down her neck.

There was no fucking reason he needed to do that. It was just another thing he knew he could do to hurt her.

He pushed so many lines in that episode and then immediately shoved her out of a plane.

He relished in it.

Knowing how much trust she'd just put in him, how much she'd let her guard down and trusted him. She just admitted she dreamed of these moments, of escaping with him.

Because he had abandoned her so many fucking times.

Harley: I used to dream about this moment.

The Joker, laughing amusedly: Oh, Harley, I couldn't leave you on the boat.

I need you.

And then he kissed her! He fucking kissed her!

The Joker: For this.

He pulls her in and repeatedly kisses her.

Harley, making happy noises of approval and giddiness as she kisses him back.

The Joker, quietly as he kisses her neck: That's it.

Batman appears next to them, but Harley's none the wiser as she's gazing happily up at him.

The Joker: And this! Aha Ha Ha Ha!

He violently shoves her through the door of the plane into open air, cackling maniacally.

And she trusted him.

Harley trusted that this time was different. Because she wasn't his henchwoman anymore, she wasn't Her anymore. This was different. She'd escaped with him! They were on equal grounds now...

He respected her. She was important. She was a part of The Legion of Doom. She was a big shot now.

And that's exactly what he meant to do. Because he knew he had to this time, he had to lure her deeper. He had to slather the love bombing on thick to get her to drop her guard.

He had to pretend he was fine with them being equals.

So he did.

He pretended and he acted and he played her. He was cruel.

The mask did have cracks, it absolutely did. It angered him having her correct him and it angered him having to pretend he found her to be a master equal to him.

The Joker: No, I believe it's the student becomes A Master equal to the original master, but not with more mastery than that master.

It was something he couldn't pretend for a moment to believe. He couldn't even lower his ego enough to say a quote correctly "The student becomes the master." because he does not value her as equally.

And after love bombing her all evening long, after watching her drop her guard.

After she admitted she'd dreamed of these moments of escaping with him. After he kissed her.

He shoves her out of a plane once Batman has caught up with them.

Grinning like a maniac.

He knew, he always knew. He enjoyed what he did to her and he's never owned up to anything.

Hurting her is a game to him. He enjoys it. He's always fucking enjoyed it.

He murdered her best friend. Happily!

He captured her remaining friends and tortured them. He planned to hold a public execution.

He wanted to entirely isolate her so she'd have no other choice but to return to him, cause there's no other options if he kills them all.

And, then this part.

This is the entire reason this post isn't a reblog because I don't think just making gifs of this scene does it justice in terms of how sinister he sounds so:

The Joker, chuckling: I want you to put this on.

Cackles darkly before throwing it at her.

Come on, remember how much fun you had in that costume?

Harley: No... I didn't have fun... You were the one having fun. It wasn't till I got away from you that I realized how deeply unfun being with you was!

So I would rather blow myself up and take you with me then go back to being your sidekick and wearing that fucking costume!!

The Joker: So, how about you make this easy and put. The Outfit. On.

"violence was a hallmark of our relationship too"

all of this happened in Season 1.

He says that in Season 2 folks.

Again.

Abuse was a hallmark of their relationship. On his part. He was abusive.

That's not what he said. And he said it with a sigh of "ah, good times" vibes

He looks back on his abusive actions with fondness.

He found humor and pleasure in hurting her and thinking back on it is a good memory for him. It's not a Bad Thing he did that he's remorseful for because all those memories are things he views as good moments.

"violence was a hallmark of our relationship too"

Hall-Mark

noun noun: hallmark; plural noun: hallmarks

• a distinctive feature, especially one of excellence.

He didn't do any of this because he had beef with Poison Ivy, or any of the members of her crew individually.

It all had to do with hurting her.

To get one up on her.

He knew Ivy was important to her.

He knew Ivy was a threat to him when it came to achieving his end goal of erasing Harley completely. So he killed her.

He knew hurting her crew would hurt Harley, he knew that having them there would be a failsafe because while he will hurt them, she won't.

Which means her suicide mission of blowing herself up and taking him with her wouldn't work. He knew that when he let her upstairs. The second she was in that room he had essentially defused the bomb.

Cause he knew she'd never take the crew down with her purposefully.

And then when he gets what he wants, she puts on that fucking costume, he doesn't just end it there.

No.

No.

He decides "let's try n break her heartstrings for old times sake" and pulls the love bombing shtick once again.

She doesn't fall for it, but pretends she does so she can get in close to stab him.

The Joker: You were always so unoriginal, stealing my ideas!

But

He was fully going to kill her even if she did fall for it.

Even if she was completely on board with his bullshit, with all the horror he'd done in the past few episodes towards her friends. Even if she was happy to overlook all of that cause he said the right thing, he plucked the right strings and had her swooning.

He was going to stab her.

It didn't matter.

He was going to do it again.

The Joker had no reason to try and woo her back in (What He Believed To Be) the final moments of her life.

He did it because he thought it would be funny to see the tears in her eyes as she realized he had hurt her again.

As she realized he had stabbed her in the stomach.

That's why he did it.

He wanted her to love him again because he wanted to kill That Harley. The one who would feel the most pain from this, emotionally and mentally. He wanted to watch That Harley suffer.

Because he thinks it's funny. He finds pleasure in hurting her.

And this was going to be the final time, the last hurrah.

So he wanted to have her go out with a bang. A shot in the heart.

Because The Joker is a cruel, manipulative monster who gets off on seeing her in pain that he knows he caused.

"violence was a hallmark of our relationship too"

The Joker is not remorseful for the trauma or suffering he caused her. And his political stance doesn't mean fucking shit to me. His rushed redemption doesn't mean anything, it doesn't change his actions towards Harley and his complete disregard for the truth of the matter. He's a fuckhead and he deserved to stay dead.

[nishiyako]

KENJI & DOGGY STYLE (DRABBLE) (NSFW)

Someone reposted one of my Kenji fics and said "ugh he'd so love doggy style", now that I read this, yes, “he’d so love doggy style”. So here's some Kenji doggy style brain rot/Drabbles.

Tags : Doggy style (duh), Creampie mentioned, Pulling out, Dommy Kenji, Praise n sweet talk from Kenji <3, Degration too, Spanking, Kenji puts out a cig on you (can't get over it, srry), not proofread, written in 20 minutes.

Ever since he's seen you he just knew you would look perfect on your hands and knees for him, his hands maybe with a handful of your hair forcing you bounce against his hips while he absolutely spoils you by finishing on your skin.

His chest right against your back, feeling his warm skin against yours and his heavy breathing right beside your ear cooled by the cold gold dog tag necklace he wears that's pressed between your bodies (obviously the necklace stays on)

Everyone knows he's the type to talk you through it, humming the sweetest praises and treating your insides like its his god, rubbing that spongy spot inside you only making you get that much closer, the type that makes you light headed, out of breath, questioning your worth, y'know?

“You like that? Yeah, bet you do.” or “Doing so fuckin’ good for me, yeah?” his words always followed with the most needy, lustful, most porn hub worthy moans you’d ever hear.

Believe he has an impeccable pull out game, pulling out of you just before finishing, using your lower back as a canvas of his warm sticky seed, seeing the build up of stressful days and hard practices painted over his lover while your thighs are absolutely stained and sticky.

While you’re still panting and irrational he asks to take a photo, not a few days after you see it as his phone's home screen.

You want him to be mean? if it's what you're into he’ll absolutely bully you if you want him too. A hand covering your mouth as he complains that “You’re too loud” and while he calls you a slut. He can’t help the fact he’s into you. He’ll even ask you to put your hair in pigtails or a ponytail just so he can hold you like that, seeing that little arch in your back just for him? Does wonders to his ego.

Get's a bit rough here...

He has no problem being rougher than that too, playing into that sick and twisted bad boy fantasy (some of) you have of him, scene being something like a cigarette in his mouth and him ripping your fishnets open. 

Railing you into next week with red hand marks on your skin from his spanking fueled by the cute little yelps you let out. Your eyeliner streaming down your face as your eyes roll back, white starting to stain your ruined (once was) black fishnets, something straight out of a porn hub video. He doesn't mind finishing inside you either if you ask nicely.

His hand pinning your wrists against the bed as the other one took his almost out cigarette and taping it, putting it out on your skin, some of the ash sticking against the shiny sweat on your body, finishing inside you with no warning, the feeling of getting filled up to suddenly pushing you over the edge.

(But no matter which kind of fannon Kenji you prefer, I hope y'all enjoyed hearing out my little doggy style Kenji fantasy.)

Repost in question :

@gotosleeeep love you sm <33

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

You're my favorite writer, and König is my favorite aussie man, so OF COURSE im making you write for him, hal, BEAR W ME !

Alright, what do you think about König with the “You’re here late.” prompt? The reader is part of KorTac and always worked alongside König, since they both entered about the same time, because of the readers personality, they are always fighting, one of these fights are specifically bad, leading the reader to go on a mission with another KorTac member, to help out somewhere else and take their mind off things, when the reader face a problem on the mission and ends up arriving late, König is furious.

Moths Hit the Window

PAIRING: König x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Fights with König were always loud, but this time his comments went a bit too far.

WORD COUNT: 5.9k

WARNINGS: Verbal fighting, angst, high tension, blood & stitches, wounds, canon typical violence, guns/weapons, death, suggestive near the end, fluff, hurt/comfort, etc.

A/N: Huge thanks to @idocarealot for the German translations!! Also, König's wearing the arachnid skin in this because I love it sm - enjoy, Anon!

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

You seethe. If eyes could turn red yous would be a beautiful shade of crimson—bloody knives ripping out of the cornea to strike whoever happened to get too close. It was as if the very air boiled with the force of a raging tsunami as you stomped down the local military base’s hallways, covered in blood and guts. Never had you reconsidered working for KorTac more than at this very moment. 

Maybe I should just become a mercenary, you rip at the torn-apart gloves over your hands and jerk your arm out. Passerbyers quickly avert their eyes as you shove them into a garbage can and continue on with a growl. No shitty rules, no regulations—no fucking partners.

If people happened to slide past without noticing the steam coming out of your ears, they would have immediately locked eyes on the pure elephant of a man trailing fast behind. König’s eyes were goring into the back of your neck, gray and tan garb swaying as the packs and flash grenades on his combat vest bounced with every step. Accents of red do nothing in comparison to his visible flesh—the section of his eyes uncovered by his mask and head rig alight around his obsidian gaze. 

 König was muttering to himself far under his breath, curses and harsh comments all in German that he wouldn’t say to your face. At least not right now in view of others. 

“I can hear you, you dimwit,” you hiss over your shoulder, grinding your teeth as you both make your way to the armory, “curse me out quieter!” 

“You are making a scene!” The beast grunts, that heavily accented English striking your eardrums with its harsh dialect. 

“Oh, jeez!” You raise your voice even higher, turning back forward and clenching your hands into fists as blood and guts drip off your gear—none of it yours. “I’m just so damn embarrassed, König! I’m making such a large and obnoxious display. Whatever will I do?!” Sarcasm like a valuable drug is injected into the waves of your voice. People from open doorways look out with shock, brows pulled up. 

Everyone quickly darts back away when you snap your head in their direction and send them a scathing glare.

No one was surprised to find you and the Austrian going at it again but knew well enough to stay out of the crossfire. Lest someone get roped into it.

“Fuck off!” You spit the last curse into the burning air and shove past a soldier ahead of you.

König’s dark eyes flash dangerously, lips under his mask twisting into a sneer. The man’s shoulders seem to dig in even farther, spine curling over as if a brooding child. 

This had all started the second you’d joined up with KorTac. Fresh out of the military and eager to get back into the game after a good vacation the PMC group had been at the top of your list. But if you’d known you’d be paired up with this damn mountain every chance there was just because he’d got into the game at nearly the same time as you, you’d have put in your luck with SpecGru. 

“I do not see how this is appropriate behavior,” König follows as you place your palms on the black metal of the armory door, pressing with your shoulders. “I did what I was tasked to do—”

The masked man is cut off as you whirl on your heels, the door slamming shut as his body is shoved into it with strong arms. Dark eyes go wide in surprise, feeling the dig of your nails on his abdomen as your form presses into him and the chill of the door on his spine. You feel his skin bunch under his thick shirt and even if you want to stare him down that’s just not an option. Your warm figures shuffle together with panting breaths and dangerous glints in your eyes. 

“Bull,” you drag out the word, growling it right up into his neck; sniper hood caressing your chin. König’s breath hitches with shakes of swirling emotions. “Shit.”

Shoving once more so he gets the point, you push off of him and stalk away like a feral wolf, already unclipping grenades and medical packs from your vest. 

“You’re the damn reason the target got away!” Gear is thrown haphazardly to the long table in the center of the room. The Austrian watches with predatory eyes, hands clenched so hard that they quiver. He stays still, watching, as you send scathing glances. “The reason we’re going to be here for ten times longer than we’re supposed to be!” 

“It is not my fault you failed to properly check the perimeter before you rushed in like a fool.” Volatile couldn’t be used to describe this…this was nothing short of volcanic. It was as if there were two sides of a scale filled with bullets and gunpowder—fire in the middle that was equally heating both piles as they raised and lowered erratically. König’s voice grates over the air, “I did what I could to fix your scheiße plan!”

“Don’t you shit on my plan!” You point, voice bouncing off the weapon racks as you rip the rifle strap from over your chest, chucking it away. 

“I will shit on it—it was…it was…!”  König’s voice cuts out and he can’t find the words. The Austrian descends into visceral German ramblings. “Es war so ziemlich der schlechteste Plan, den ich je gehört hab. Welcher halbwegs vernünftige Mensch geht in eine heiße Zone ohne vorher alle Zielobjekte richtig zu markieren?! Ich kann dich und deine Rücksichtslosigkeit nicht mehr leiden — du bringst mich um meinen Verstand! Hast du überhaupt ein Gehirn in deinem Schädel?”

You shake your head to yourself, heart pounding. “You’re still the one that was supposed to focus on the HVT. I rushed so he would flush out, but, no,” taking out the magazine of the rifle you hold it in your hands like an accusatory ruler that a teacher would hold. König shoves off the door and stands to his full height; arms tensed and straining before they coil around his chest in a soothing gesture. 

He hated the fighting—the constant strain between the two of you. But when you were together it could never amount to anything else. The room felt like it was a million degrees.

Your eyes stab at him, “No! You had to go and focus on me! I hate to break this to you,  König,” feet come forward and you once again find yourself close to him—breathing the same air and taking in the scent of gunpowder and blood. You point the tip of the magazine into his chest. His unseen lips pull; jaw clenching with held-back fire. “But I am not your damn mutt to keep on a leash. I had it under control.”

It’s as if you don’t realize the Austrian could snap you in half with a single kick of his leg, as if the sheer size of König had slipped your mind as a whole. His hands could snap your neck in an instant, but that was only if he got ahold of you. 

But that was a line the both of you were never planning to cross. Words were one thing in this profession, actions another. If you ever got into a physical fight, you’d both kill each other, no doubt. 

You’d like to think you’re a bit above that, but perhaps not.

König’s chest rises and falls deeply, taking in calming breaths as he tries to get his temper under control. “You didn’t,” he jeers out, “I saved your life, you Heißluftgebläse. And if you wanted to be treated less than a dog,” he grunts to you, head pulling down close to your face, harshly whispering out, “You could have simply asked me, yes?”

You both snarl at each other's throats like rabid animals, the world disappearing all around the obsidian eyes that match with yours; for a moment you get lost in the shining bits of silver in his iris that seem to burn with chilled iron. What little skin you can see is flushed and tight—hawk nose nearly poking out your eye as you’re leaned over like a giraffe near a bush.

Body vibrating, you sharply breathe, “I’m not even going to ask what that fucking means, you tool.”

“Good.” The words are bitten and fast, “because I am not telling you.”

“Great!”

“Perfekt!” You both were arguing like children. Hot faces and unwilling to let the other have the last word. If you got along it might have been funny. 

“I’m going to dump all of your Einspänner out on the tarmac.” Your sure voice echoes with a definitive promise to the tone. 

Pale lids widen in horror at the threat to the Austrian's favorite beverage, comfortably sitting in the Base’s fridge. 

“You would not,” König’s tone is deathly serious and you smirk, eyes dancing. “You…” a guttural growl meets the air, mind translating words and giving meanings, “beast of a woman!”

“Oh, is that the best you can fucking do?!” You yell, splaying your hands out widely and moving away from him. “Now that’s really a show stopper, König, I’m shaking in my damn boots.” 

“Ich komm mit dir nicht mehr klar.” König yells, moving back and placing both of his hands atop his head, knuckles white. “You’re rude—you do not even try to get along. You are loud and disrespectful; how do you live like this?!”

Your eyes slightly widen, watching the Austrian.

“Don’t try?” You echo, scoffing loudly. “What do you mean don’t try? I was the one to try and smooth things out between us in the beginning.”

“When?!” König spreads his hands out, knees slightly bent. “Because I have no recollection of such events.”

“Well of course you wouldn’t!” The heat was meeting a breaking point—words were getting more personal, sharper. Like a blade being honed for the kill slowly; being sharpened by rocks and whetstones of conviction. 

König points a finger at you, voice going low and thin, “I’ve had enough of you, yes?” His sniper hood moves rapidly with his fast ricochets of breath. “Just about enough. Would you have wanted me to let you die?”

“I had it,” your lips spit, nose scrunched, and forehead tight. The man’s chest vibrates with a mute growl. 

In all actuality, you’d never seen him this worked up before. König wasn’t above giving your quips back even if he obviously disliked it—most of that was due to the strange familiarity between the two of you. In large crowds, the man preferred to stay silent. This only added to his almost deadly aura with others, though you knew the muteness was because of social anxiety and not some built silence. He wasn’t shy per se, just afraid he’d say something wrong; mess up the conversation. You did most of the talking in meetings and you never minded it. Added him in when the topic was something he knew a lot about.

Your mind had addled it up to thinking it was cute, actually. How his feet would shuffle; his half-lidded gaze and his intense eye contact to let them know he was still listening. When he’d have to remind himself to look away with a pinch to his thigh because it was starting to seem threatening. It was endearing, even.

But around people König knew, well, he was going to speak his mind. No matter how long it takes his brain to catch up with his lips.

The only thing the two of you were good at was being moths—hitting the metaphorical window over and over on the same topics and tension points. Slamming heads and flapping wings. You were at the end of your rope just as he was.

“I should have never taken you as a partner!” He calls, feet splayed. “Should have gotten out of this the second you were assigned with me. Gott, ich hab wirklich versucht, dich zu verstehen — Ich hätte gleich aufgeben sollen.” Your lips thin, lungs stalling as all the air vacates the room. You stand still and listen to what he really thinks, fingers shaking.

König’s large form towers over all, great sparks of electricity flying out. His gear shakes as he moves, thigh straps pushing fabric to shift and conform to his body. Your blood pumps with brewing hesitance. 

Maybe this had gone too far. I’ve never seen him like this.

“I can’t stand you any longer! Pathetic squabbles that mean nothing, absolutely ludicrous plans that make little headway.” Your head bursts with aggression and what little warning signs you have are squashed. “I can’t keep saving you because you can’t do your job correctly!”

“You don’t have to save me at all!” You scream. “You can’t keep your damn eyes off of me for five seconds, König.” Feet move away quickly from the armory door as if someone had come to put away their stuff but thought better of it. The next words burst from you before you can think of the contents. “It’s like you fucking love me or something!”

König doesn’t miss a beat, but for months afterward, he wishes he had.

“Oh, do not make me laugh—” he scoffs ferally, adrenaline making him talk, “as if anyone could ever love a woman like you in the first place.” 

Twin eyes widen and both parties immediately fall silent. A sharp inhale.

Too far.

Under the hood, König’s face goes an embarrassing shade of red all the way down to his chest. Fingers freeze. Jaw slackens.

You feel like your heart was just grasped in his grip and ripped out of your ribs with one violent motion—one sentence out of all the others enough to knock down the rebuttal that had formed on the tip of your tongue. Your throat closes up as you blink in shock.

“I-I…” König stutters, mind blanking as he struggles for words. But anger was easier than pain.

Numb fingers rip off the last of your weapons and belongings as you let them hit the floor with defining thuds as warm shame floods your cheeks. Shaky puffs of breath like a panting dog. Dark eyes watch with regretful panic, heart jumping and eyes flinching. The adrenaline it…it made him forget himself on occasion—how to properly act when not on the battlefield. It was like that with everyone but…but he hadn’t meant that.

Shame that it’s already too late.

Your fisted hand slams into his chest, brutal and unforgiving. König lets off a grunt but does nothing as you slither past, hissing into his ear, “Find yourself a new punching bag.”

His hand snaps to his breast where you had slammed your KorTac patch right into his heart, catching it. It’s many moments before he can think enough through the alarm; form words.

“I…I didn’t…oh, du blöde Kuh!” 

By the time the man composed himself, panicked tears burning in his eyes, the door had already slammed shut. His feet squeaked over the tile to an empty audience. 

—

Private Military Companies don’t have ranks. There are no Sergeants, Lieutenants, Generals or Colonels. Just people. Beyond the orders you’d been hired on, there was nothing keeping you in line with König on this mission. And those orders were loose at best.

Adhere to policy and listen to the Base’s COs. Shut up and get the job done. 

The Austrian and you weren’t due out for another week because of rotations. Since you’d failed to capture or kill the HVT that you were assigned, another group had picked up the tracks in the meantime. Like an oiled machine, the gears of this operation kept whirling. 

Evolve, or die. 

“Lieutenant!” You call to the geared-up man on the tarmac—the one heading that very same group. It had been only a few hours since the incident in the armory. You needed a distraction; blood was still running high and brain pounding for release. There were only so many times you could bruise your fists and legs on a punching bag before people started giving you nervous looks. “Need an extra hand?”

Your voice sounds strained, even to you. The man looks you over once and narrows his eyes. Nods not moments later. 

“Get tired of your big friend? Okay, how fast can you be ready for me?” You feel your shoulders loosen, a relieved sigh exiting your lips.

“Three minutes.”

“...get to it then. We move in five.” 

So that was how you found yourself backed into a corner five hours into the op from hell—bloody knife held tightly in your grip and mouth open in ragged pants. 

“Fuck,” your vest is torn and riddled with bullets; your entire chest must be bruised by now because it surely aches like it is. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You really are reckless, just like König had said you were. Maybe you’d just never realized it because he always seemed to watch your six. This…this was really bad. The comms were awash with screaming orders and panic, ringing out across the abandoned mining factory that exploded with light from gunfire and the sounds that accompanied it. You knew for a fact three soldiers were down; two KIA. 

The Lieutenant is one of them. 

Your hand snaps to the radio strapped to your chest, one eye squinted in pain at the ragged slice across your left brow line. At your feet, two heavily armed men lay dead. 

“Pull back! They knew we were coming!” But your word didn’t carry weight here. Your face twists between pain and rage. König’s comment still rings in your ears as the onset of tinnitus does, as if anyone could ever love a woman like you in the first place. It wasn’t ideal to be thinking about this now—it was detrimental that you didn’t. 

But König and the things he did often stained your brain. No matter how much you tried to distance yourself from that fact. 

Snapping the knife in your grasp down in an arch to dispel the blood from the blade, you take a steel-laced inhale and shove off the wall. Limping, but moving. Sprained ankle. Nothing you hadn’t dealt with before.

The concrete under you is splattered with crimson viscera and you stumble over spasming bodies riddled with bullets. With a subdued shink you slip your knife into its thigh sheath, grabbing the FTac Recon strapped around your chest after slamming a fresh mag into it. With a numb calm overcoming you, you slip your forefinger into the trigger guard, poised over the easy press of the trigger itself. 

The long shadows spread over you; your head illuminated by the dull sheen of the moon as you pass under a stretch of open sky to slink into the building across the empty street. Feral yells still bounce off the air and you go to them readily, purpose settling in your veins. 

Pain flies to the back of your mind, displaced by adrenaline and the rabid puffs of breath that fall like grinding thunder from your lips.  

You wonder what König’s thinking right now—he’d without a doubt noticed that you were gone. He’d even probably gone to your barracks room to try and apologize and found it empty. That was just how he was. 

Would he be happy? You wondered. Relieved to see you out of his life? You’d both done nothing but fight, but there were moments of peace. Understanding. 

Shared meals and comfortable, yet sarcastic, comments; soft glances when the other wasn’t looking. Heat in your face and obviously shown on his when shy hands brushed. 

Your hold tightens on your gun, brows dripping with sweat as it dribbles down along with the blood. Gunfire flashes. 

Closer now.

Shadows scream on top of a raised walkway attached to an in-mountain compound, targets with trigger fingers firing on your fellows who take cover behind crumbling walls. Pinned down. You watch, unseen, from a broken window as dust and moths collide. 

Your eyes lock on the closest hostile and you raise your weapon slowly, barrel resting on the frame between shattered glass. You clock the distance and adjust accordingly; breaths falling steady. 

The small insect that keeps hitting the window plays in your mind over and over—drowning out the yells; the fire. 

Just a moth readily willing to smash into that barrier until it dies. You hum under your breath and rest the gun into the crook of your shoulder, cheek to stock. 

Your finger slams into the trigger. 

—

You stumble out of the loud infirmary with a bloody rag pressed deeply into your forehead, medical pouch under one arm. You hear rushing feet and barked orders from nurses and doctors just before the door closes, cutting off as you stake out on your own.

Limping, you reason there were others with more severe wounds than your own; as blood drips from your flooded rag, your feet take you deep into the base one broken step at a time. You’d figure it out yourself. 

Plus, the silence would give you time to think. Think about König. 

You just gritted your teeth and decided that was better than taking up space in the infirmary. 

In times like these, the Austrian would fix your wounds for you, just as you did his. While you had your disagreements and heated fights, he’d never made it as personal as he had hours beforehand. Never made it hurt. 

“Jesus,” you mutter, rubbing your other crusty hand over the mud along your chin. Everything ached and you don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. 

Flinching along like a downed bird, you shove through into the last door into the barracks; thoughts now stuck on finding a chair to sit down on before your legs gave out. The darkness of the common area was deep—staining your eyelids as you grunt, bumping into the back of the couch. 

It’s almost funny the way the lamp flicked on mere moments later. 

You hiss, eyes snapping shut as the rays attack your sight, rendering you blind for a moment. The shaking hand on your dripping rag tightens before the spark of pain makes you lighten the pressure. 

There’s a dark grunt just as you open your eyes back up.

“You are late.” König. 

He sits in one of the chairs—sniper hood still over his head yet only clothed in a large compression shirt and casual camo pants. Like a disappointed parent, the Austrian’s arms were crossed over his chest; feet resting out and crossed at the ankles. With such a big stature the look could strike fear into anyone. 

Anyone but you, that is. 

König’s dark eyes rove over you, stopping immediately on the fabric you keep to your forehead. The previous, furious, tone stops and the flash of very real concern takes precedence. His hands tighten on his biceps, thighs tensing over the cushion; spine just a little bit straighter. 

You watch and say nothing—dead-faced. 

Your heart suddenly skips beats, stuck into the framework of the man’s eyes. König’s brows peel back and a timid stutter stays in your breast.

“...Vögelchen?” Lids blink rapidly, and before you can register anything because of your blood loss and fatigue, you’re being dragged to the couch and forced to sit down. 

Strong hands encompass your shoulders and small breaths flutter in front of your face as König peels back to kneel in front of you; spying the medical pouch in your under-arm. 

“What is this?” He mutters to you, vision flinching along your body but always dragging back to the bloody rag on your face. “What did you do to yourself?” 

Scarred hands raise before pausing, obsidian eyes staring deeply into yours as if in frantic question. Your own gaze keeps him close, spying on his veiled fear at the sight of your blood and your disappearance. He’d heard about the mission, then, that much was upfront because of his earlier comment. 

The humvee had been late arriving back. Half an hour. 

“Fuck off,” you utter, shoving off the couch before you’re captured in an unyielding press again, shoved down. Your anger spikes along with your unease, “König! I don’t have the patience—”

“I’m sorry.” The fight leaves you. 

Fingers squeeze your biceps, hold lightly shaking with nerves. “I did not mean it.” Obsidian pierces you, “Please, Vögelchen, I am sorry. Utterly. I speak so fast I misplace words—get far more,” words fail as you stare so intently at him, a strange feeling swirling in your gut. König’s face was going crimson again, though not from anger. His tone was deep and honest, accent becoming more whole with emotion. The hands on your skin stay. “Rude than I intend. It is not an excuse, but…”

In the horizontal oval of his hood, you spy the dots of tiny freckles; the whispers of auburn hair. That hawk nose still points violently from behind the fabric. König never finishes his sentence, just takes a large breath and looks to the side after a moment of silence. 

Then he steals the medical pack from your grip and opens the zipper with firm fingers, taking out gloves and gauze. Needle and sutures. It’s all placed on the side table as the bear of an Austrian stays on his knees for you—bending and shifting as the bottom of his shirt rides up. 

It’s a tense affair of touching skin; warmth and hissed curses. Gentle shushing. But you say nothing through it. Until he’s up in your face trying off stitches with forceps and a needle holder, breath making his hood lightly caress your bloodless face. His fingers are large and firm, never second-guessing or stuttering over the course of directing tools that dig a needling and thread into your flesh. 

He’s warm and every motion elicits shivers. You see his form from the side of your eye; his face’s outline as the lamp light illuminates the hood’s fabric. Shadowy silhouette of König’s strong jaw that shifts with every other breath from his wide chest. 

“You’re an asshole for saying that to me, y’know.” you slip your gaze away just as he snaps over. “Adrenaline or not.” 

The needle pauses and a swift nod is given. 

“I…I know it was. No amount of apologizing can explain how very horrible I feel. It was like I was so…so…” An annoyed grunt was leveled at himself.

“Pissed off?” You offer quietly. 

“Yes! Pissed off.” Amused glances were shared, the air slowly smoothing out between the two of you. Dark eyes quickly look away from yours and König clears his throat terse-like. But softer, steadier, “I…could not bear it if I were to see you in harm and be unable to assist you. That…is why I was watching. Why I do watch you.”

Inside of you, it was like there was a pot of water on the stove, steadily boiling under the heat. Your eyes are delicately wide when the man’s hands leave your face; kneeling body still tall enough to stare into you.

“You are…” König pauses, but not to find the words. To ready himself. He takes a long breath. “You are special to me, my Vögelchen. I can not see you hurt,” a gesture to your forehead and creased eyes. As if your pain was his own. “Not like this.”

“What are you saying, König?” You whisper, face twisted with hurt and confusion. Apprehension. “You’re giving me mixed signals. We always fight with each other. I’m not saying I’m blameless, but…c’mon, now. Look at us.” 

“Not…always.” He grumbled like a child, tools placed away and hands dripping blood before he slips the gloves off. They meet the side table with a tiny toss. The Austrian leans back onto his ankles, butt to heel. He begins to look at your forehead and you can practically hear his heart break. “I do not like arguing with you, you know that, yes?” 

“Me neither,” you whisper, fingers fiddling as a sheen of anxiousness sets in. “You just,” you pause, “confuse me.”

 König blinks in surprise, head tilting and large eyes shimmering. Your mind flashes to a curious cat and you try to explain with a burning face and fast lips.

“You say we’re partners but you never act like it,” he stares and listens. When had you both had a conversation like this before? “You make it seem like you can’t trust me to do the simplest task. I’m not,” your voice betrays you, cracking, “I’m not that useless, am I?” 

He freezes, muscles going taunt. 

“U-Useless? Nutzlos? No, no,” A hand comes to capture your chin and you let him move you where he wishes. Creased eyes lock on yours. “That is not right. You’re not useless to me—how could you be?” Pained brows move in, “did I make you think like this? Like I did not appreciate your skills?” 

Your eyes burn, and the aches from your wounds mix with the pure fatigue in your flesh to leave your emotions running between sanity and sadness. A moment later you’re turning your head away. 

König recaptures it, hands finding both sides of your cheeks. He looks shaky; desperate. 

“No, please, Vögelchen, please. I need you to look at me.”

“König, I don’t—” You close your mouth before you let out the beginnings of a sob. “I can’t keep fighting with you.”

“I know, oh, I know,” his hands are so grounding it’s like you’re the inner pages of a book, and his grip the thick leather cover—leather laced with shared scars and the same that had stitched you up countless times. This push and pull had to end. “I cannot fight with you either—it tears me apart. Oh, du weißt gar nicht, wie sehr es mich schmerzt, dein wunderschönes Gesicht anzuschreien. Mit dir zu streiten bedeutet, meinen Verstand und mein Herz gleichzeitig zu brechen.” König’s thumbs run up and down your skin, still bloody with dried flakes falling to the ground. He seems not to care a bit. 

“What can I do to fix this? Anything. Anything to get us to stop doing this to each other.” You stare into his eyes, both creased and glazed over. 

There’s a brief moment where you wonder if anyone truly even knew you as well as König did—there was no one else that you shared such a deep connection with. Years upon years of being stuck at his side. 

And someone else’s hands had never felt as good as his. They were hard and callused over but cupped your face as gently as one would cup water from a rippling stream. His eyes were stars; visible skin like porcelain, his breath raised a large and wide chest with a fast-paced heart. You could sense his throat trapping air. 

König kneeled to you and bared himself. 

Anything, he had said, to fix what he had said. To stop this. 

There was one way you could think to stop this—it might not have been smart, certainly not, but…hmm…You gradually raised your hand raised from your lap and slipped it under the front of König’s hood. 

Slowly, with all the delicateness of a glass dragonfly, your fingers strayed to the side of his neck to press into tight flesh. A rapid pulse.

The man goes to stone. It’s like you’ve stolen his nervous system. Dark eyes stay locked onto yours as you gaze back, hand dragging nails up with a light pressure near to the speed of a slug. 

König whispers your name into the empty space and the oxygen seems to dry up. Warm light from the lamp cast phantoms on walls and over skin in a small moment of foreign discoveries. The Austrian swallows saliva and you feel his neck flex. You don’t answer him, just watch and feel his own hands tighten on your cheeks in warning. 

But you never listen, do you? Reckless you were called. And König had been right.

You were reckless.

Your hand had now explored like a map the indents of hidden facial scars; long and short over jaw and lips. The hand that was doing this had hiked the sniper’s hood up around your wrist so that the man’s lashes were twitching as the fabric got too close to his eyes. And you watched. And so did he. 

A twin pair of moths hitting a glass window, staring from opposite sides at one another until they realized the break in the frame. 

“Anything?” You ask in a loose tone, barely heard above the flood in both of your ears. 

König was breathing heavily but didn’t pull away. Pupils wide and body heavy to your touch. His spine briefly straightened, until he realized he had moved back slightly and immediately hunched again if only to keep your hands on him. 

“I…” he grunts, “A…anything.” Fingers touch his nose, they spread under the hood to trace the bumps and marks he keeps hidden like buried treasure. Your vision takes in the otherworldly hue on his visible skin; the glaze of rapture in his eyes yet still that ingrained heat. 

Your body shivers at the gravel in his accented English. 

Fingers stall over his lips, hood showing you the pale being of König’s strong chin and jaw. You shift your touch to the side and find chapped lips revealed to you, a small palate scar that had healed to nothing more than a line up to his nostril. 

You spare it nothing more than a glance before you look back into obsidian. Dark ether and dead galaxies devoid of stars. Swallowed in a sea of pasts and futures. You look for hesitation; for disgust. 

You find none. 

“You said that no one could ever love someone like me,” your head leans in, and your breath mingles together with an intimacy that had never been shared between this type of partners. König, as if broken from a spell, takes down a swift inhale of air into his stiff lungs. He stares with far back lids. Flashes of unidentified emotions. “Why did you say that?”

A moment of silence and of rabid hearts. The man’s lips twitch over yours as he answers slowly, not breaking eye contact for a moment. As if he did he’d be turned to rock. As if he’d miss something amazing from happening. 

He speaks with a whispered confession.

“Because if they did—I would have to kill them. Because no other than I would be able to love you more.” Your world slows and your ears strain with the breathy words. 

Face burning your lips part with shock and awe. Violent to any other, but to you this was a confession from a man that could meet you blow for blow—calm you and infuriate you all in one. Challenge you, but knew when he’d gone too far and how to properly apologize. 

He’d waited in that chair for you all night, you’d realized. 

For you to come back to him. His partner. 

You press your lips to his and hear his pitiful sounds of gasped reassurance. Slipping your tongue into his mouth, you let saliva drip off of your chins to splatter onto bent knees and shaking thighs.

König’s arms cage you; capture your waist and draw you closer, lips breaking apart before you both share a wide-eyed look of momentary pause. There was no room to breathe; to think. Chests hit together and fingers tighten to a tendon-visible hold.

The man's growing smile is wide from where you still hold his hood up by his nose, and with a lick of his red and wet lips, he reconnects your awaiting mouths. 

This time, you’re the one to gasp.

“Lass mich zeigen, wie leid es mir tut, Vögelchen.”

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[rowarn]

konig playing with you like a fidget toy is so cute hfkgkfbkfnd thank you writing it i love it sm

but i wonder?? what if you played with him like that??? slow and distracted, cockwarming his cock with your mouth. . .

the thought i had reading this is a lil different from what you said but....using konig as a toy <3

the way he just lays back, legs spread and fingers gripping the cushions of the couch to keep himself from trembling as you mindlessly squeeze and fist his cock <3

he's not even watching the show he put on anymore, instead eyes just glued to where your little hand is wrapped around the base of him. you occasionally stroke your thumb along the throbbing vein there and his eyes fucking roll back into his head and it's so...dirty.

the way you just play with his fucking cock??? its leaking precum all over and you dont even seem to notice. he's so hard and throbbing under your touch and he wishes so badly you would just do more. he wants more. but you're engrossed in the show and...he kind of....enjoys being just.....used.

it makes him feel so filthy. like a toy. your own little toy!! he loves that.

you can easily pull an orgasm from him. konig is difficult to edge, once he gets close he will spill over at the tiniest bit of stimulation. so when you stroke him and he feels his orgasm build and you stop, he doesnt even fret because your fingers twitch around him mindlessly and that sends him over the edge.

the only problem is...when you don't move and it ruins his orgasm, leaving him spilling a mess all over both of you with none of the pleasure so he has no choice but to throw his head back and whine!!!

that gets your attention and you have the audacity to glare at him like it wasnt your fault to begin with <3