Work Text:
Using a ruler and a darker shade of red, you swipe a gory cut across your throat and raise your chin to examine the result. A little crooked, but a glance at your phone reveals that you don’t have the time to redo the entire thing. You were already lucky enough to find some leftover fake blood on such short notice, no need to push that luck any further. Some more splatters across your throat and collarbones along with added white on your cheeks and dark grey under your eyes tie the whole corpse-look together in a nice gruesome bow.
Your phone chimes.
Cassie
Where are you???
You roll your eyes and swipe the device from the bathroom sink. If Cassie and the others really wanted to party with you so badly, they should’ve mentioned it a bit earlier than 9pm on the one Halloween night you were actually planning to spend cuddled up in bed. They had found a bar that offered discounts for everyone who showed up in a creepy costume, so obviously you couldn’t turn up in plain clothes.
Ding.
Cassie
Theres this HOT guy here, immgonna try to get him to buy me adrink
Judging by the way she types, it wouldn’t be the first. You bite your lip and examine yourself one last time in the bathroom mirror. The person staring back at you looks a little tired, not exactly radiating party girl energy, but corpses aren’t supposed to look lively anyways. Quite the opposite. You ruffle your hair to add a touch of disheveledness and then turn to leave.
The bar is a little small and dingy looking when you arrive, far from your usual haunt, but the promise of cheap booze and potential “HOT guy” beckons you inside. You pass some costumed smokers near the door and push it open – kinda heavy – and immediately start looking for Cassie and the others in the colorful crowd. Drinking alone was the last thing you wanted to do right now as you – “um, excuse me, ah, thank you” – push past a scarecrow and a group of sexy cats with matching cocktails. Music pounds against your chest. Your eyes get caught on the counter with the barkeeper behind it and you make a mental note of the place like a gazelle coming across a new watering hole in the savanna.
The air is heavy with the smell of booze, tobacco and tendrils of various perfumes and colognes mingling with each other just like their tipsy owners. The crowd splits in front of you and you slip through the opening, towards a scuffed wall covered in posters. The cool concrete guards your back as you pull out your phone to text Cassie.
You
i’m here
Cassie’s a younger woman you had met once on a night out, along with her friend group. You weren’t exactly a social butterfly, but the right combination of vibes and blood alcohol level made for a really fun night. Since then you had joined them on outings every other weekend or so, not really socializing with them much more beyond that.
You
where are you guys
You look up from the device and let your gaze wander. Costumed people all around you, chatting, drinking, walking, pushing past each other. A dark figure stands out from the crowd little further along the wall you’re leaning on – a tall man in some kind of military getup, taller than pretty much everyone who tries to pass him while keeping their distance, as if he is at the center of an impenetrable bubble. He turns to your direction and you can only make out a pair of intense eyes poking out of the holes in his black hood before you instinctively snap your head downwards, back to the phone screen. Tall, masked and scary – the exact combination needed to hook you in and make your knees wobbly. And now the invisible line he cast threatens to pull you towards him, inch by inch …
No.
You’re too sober for this. In this nervous, awkward state you’d only embarrass yourself and blow your chances with him – if you even have any to begin with. The thing with masked guys is that they’ll make you forever wonder if they’re out of your league or not. Unless you sneak a peek under that hood … but he looks like he’d break your neck if you tried, which only excites you more.
Scared that he’ll somehow smell your nervous sweating, you take off to the bar to hopefully get some of that good, discounted booze. A few people are in line in front of you, but you don’t mind waiting. You stand on your tippy toes to get a glimpse of the prices – ah, yeah, hopefully your shoddy costume is enough to be eligible for that discount, otherwise you’ll be nursing the same cocktail all night.
Finally the people in front of you leave and you’re pushed to the counter. The barkeeper looks you up and down with a cocked brow.
“Pff, what are you supposed to be?”, he asks kind of dismissively, which kickstarts your nervous system.
“Um…”
You haven’t really thought about giving your “look” a distinct name. Dead girl? Horror movie star? First one to die in a zombie apocalypse? Vengeful ghost? It’s painfully evident that the barkeeper is losing patience with every second you let scrape by.
“I’m a serial killer and she’s my latest victim”, a cheerful voice announces behind you in a German accent, “Partner costume. See?”
You turn around and almost choke on your spit when you realize who just snuck up on you.
The barkeeper inspects his military outfit, shrugs, nods approvingly and finally motions you to order. You stammer out your usual – did the guy behind you chuckle? – and right as you reach for your wallet, the masked man leans over you and slams a bill on the counter.
“Oh no”, you gasp, trying not to think about how close his arm is to your face, “you don’t–”
“Ah, it’s the least I can do”, he replies with a wink, “for killing you.”
You swallow hard and reach for the cool glass presented to you by the barkeeper. The ice cold sensation seeps into your fingers and helps ground you a little, but all that progress is shattered immediately once you fully turn around and face the masked man head on.
“Thanks”, you mutter and jiggle your glass a little to make the ice cubes clink against each other. The man lets out an approving hum and stretches out his arm past you, silently saying “lead the way”.
With him breathing down your neck, navigating through the crowd has suddenly become child’s play. Even those who don’t make direct eye contact with you or him make room immediately or get pulled out of the way by their friends. Is this how it’s like to be huge and menacing? The sensation alone threatens to make you drunker than the booze in your clammy hands. Not sure where he’s expecting you to go, you return to the wall with the posters and immediately flatten yourself against it like one of those moths you sometimes see on evening walks.
“So”, you begin with an awkward chuckle, “how’d you kill me? Was it, like, a planned thing or was I just at the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“Planned”, he replies, “I spotted you in the crowd and couldn’t rest until I finally had my hands on you.”
You solemnly nod, trying your hardest to hide the fact that his words almost caused you to inhale a half-melted ice cube. It doesn’t work and you try to cough as quietly as possible.
“Although…”
He leans in closer, inspecting the wound you painted onto your throat.
“Maybe that’s not my work after all. I’d be cleaner.”
“Cleaner?”, you whisper breathlessly, but he still hears you despite the loud music.
“Not as … ah, wobbly.”
You take another big gulp of liquid confidence. “You’re really in character, huh.”
“Hm? Ah, yeah.”
Only now do you notice that he doesn’t have a drink with him. Did he even drink anything at all tonight? He doesn’t even seem tipsy, as opposed to you. But maybe it’s just hard to tell with the majority of his face covered up like this. Speaking of which …
“Your costume’s pretty cool. Looks, uh, authentic.”
“You can tell?”, he asks, visibly amused, “Is that your area of expertise?”
“Oh, no, I’m not, uh … in the army, I just –” Shit, is he onto you? “– like looking at … uniforms …”
That just dug you into a much deeper hole.
The man’s eyes light up, as if he’s smiling underneath the cloth. You try to play it cool by downing the rest of the drink in one go.
“By the way, what’s your name?”, you blurt out after setting down the now empty glass in hopes of changing the subject.
“Right, how rude of me.” He straightens his back with a sigh, making you realize how much he had to hunch over to talk to you face to face. “Please call me König.”
“Kooo-oeneg?”, you try to repeat while ancient duolingo lessons you had taken out of boredom back in college rear their heads somewhere in the back of your mind.
Kööönig.
König.
King.
You reach out and shake his waiting hand – fuck, it’s warm, even through the tactical gloves, and the way he grips your palm injects that warmth straight into your nerve endings. It makes you stutter all throughout your own introduction.
“Everything okay?”, König asks, “You look a little … feverish.”
“I’m just a little … nervous, that’s all”, is all you can muster.
“Nervous?”
What is he, a sadist? Making you spell it out like that?
“Nervous”, you repeat, “I’m like, ugh, no, you’re way out of my … fuck, I don’t usually do this –”
“Do what?”, he asks and leans in again, this time while putting his arm on the wall above you, “Hit on strange men?”
You nod.
“I see.” König tilts his head. The low light inside the bar catches in his blue eyes, filling them with soothing warmth. He could’ve said literally anything at this point and you would’ve agreed wholeheartedly.
“Would you rather someone else take the lead, then?”
“Someone … like you?”, you retort with the last shreds of your dignity trying to hold on to your voice for dear life. But as soon as his gloved fingers creep up your shoulder and graze your cheek ever so slightly, you discard them into the deepest abyss.
Instead of answering, you tilt your head into his hand while your eyes, still sheepishly avoiding his, trail down the angry red streaks on his hood, tumble down his chest and threaten to fall dangerously low …
“Ask and you shall receive”, König mutters. Then the two of you are in motion, him cutting through the crowd, you trailing behind him, your mind not quite able to follow the speed at which this interaction has escalated.
He pulls you towards a door with an “Out of order” sign hanging from the handle. You try to protest, point it out to him maybe, but he doesn’t seem to care. The door is already open and you’re already following him into the void.
“Scared of the dark?”, he asks when your hand tightens around his.
“Y-yeah”, you lie. The door closes behind you two, shutting out most of the sounds, smells and – most importantly – the light from the rest of the bar. Only a small glimmering strip on the floor assures you that the outside world is still there, just the push of a doorknob away.
“Broken toilet”, König remarks and you hear his uniform scrape against the tile as he feels his way around. “Not very romantic, huh?”
“Could be worse”, you mutter. Goosebumps have awoken all over your arms, so you attempt to soothe them a little by rubbing your hands over them. You look up to assess your surroundings, but everything is pitch black, not even König’s previously so imposing presence can stand out against the darkness.
No wonder you let out a little yelp when he suddenly reaches for you.
“Shhh. You don’t want them to hear us, hm?”
Hear us doing what?
Cold tiles at your back.
Searing heat in front of you.
Your heart rate accelerates into astronomical levels.
“Shame I can’t see you, though”, he rasps somewhere very close to you. “But at least I can do this...”
Fabric shuffles and scrapes against fabric, against skin. His hand finds yours, clenched against the safety of the wall behind you, and gently guides it over your head. Fabric pushed into your palm.
“Hold that, yeah?”
You do. You almost drop it, though, when you feel his breath ghost over your face and then his lips on yours. With your one free hand you slide over his tactical gear, grasp the tough fabric of his sleeves until you land on his neck, higher, a little higher … mirroring your movements from earlier, it’s him who leans into your touch this time.
“Mh-ah”, you mumble against his mouth and he uses the opportunity to swipe his tongue against yours, testing the waters. His hands begin to roam your body, exploring you, testing you with each squeeze and gentle caress.
The arm holding up his mask is beginning to tremble, and so do your knees. In response, König shoves one of his own in between your legs, keeping you upright. You bite back a hiss when he makes contact with your most sensitive body part, even if layers of clothing still separate the two of you. Pleasant tingles spread inside you like a wildfire.
As if he read your mind, he lets his hands wander under your shirt. Slowly but surely the hem slides upwards. A gasp escapes your gritted teeth after he pushes you against the wall and your previously covered skin makes contact with the ice cold tiles.
“Shh”, he commands softly, “I can barely hold myself back already.”
Your shirt slides past your face and drops somewhere into the void. Blood rushes through your veins akin to a river raging through a broken dam.
“Then don’t.”
You could’ve sworn you saw his eyes light up in the darkness.
With a thump, he falls to his knees and presses his face into your warm belly, inhaling the scent like a starving man. His hands slide over your skin, one cupping your breasts, one dipping down towards the button holding up your jeans.
“F-fuck”, you breathe. The sense of anticipation is just too overwhelming. With the lights off, every scrape of his gloves against your body feels exponentially more intense. Your jeans spring open and rough hands work together to slide them out of the way. They, too, drop onto the tile floor. Only the thin cloth of your panties stands between the two of you, and König moves to peel them off so delicately, like he’s unwrapping a gift. You don’t hear them fall to the ground, though.
What you do hear is the needy, almost desperate noise escaping him before his lips dive between your legs. You whimper in tandem, hands reaching out for anything to hold onto – landing on the smooth surface of his helmet. He holds you steady with a firm grip to the back of your legs. His tongue licks hot, tingling stripes along your slit and teases the bundle of nerves that desperately bumps into his face, begging to be touched. For a moment he pulls away and you can hear him slide off his gloves. Finally his fingers are on you, rough, strong, eager to make up for what they’ve missed inside the gloves. They creep closer to your pulsating core and you can feel one gather some slick in between your folds before gently sliding inside you.
“Perfect”, he groans as you clench around the intrusion.
König picks up a slow, but intense pace as he pumps his finger in and out of you, feeling his way through your most delicate insides, preparing you inch by inch for what’s been straining at his pants ever since he could finally put his hands on you. Another finger follows another and you jump a little, instinctively trying to move away from the source of the pain. It’s more than what you’re used to from your own fingers on those lonely, lonely nights.
“Relax”, he mutters from somewhere between your legs, “you can take it.”
You try to do what he tells you. With a sigh, you relax your trembling thigh muscles and lower yourself on his slick fingers, fucking yourself on them in a nervous, imperfect pace.
He smiles against your sweat-slicked skin and presses a soft kiss on your belly. “Good.”
The back of your head thuds against the wall behind you while the word echoes in your mind.
Good.
The shuffling of fabric against fabric breaks you out of your pleasurable trance for a moment. König stands up, grabs your hands and guides them towards his now exposed skin. Rock hard muscles greet you, occasionally broken up by bumps and grooves your brain can only interpret as scars – scars?– but your attention is quickly diverted onto the little trail of hair leading down his pants. Your roaming fingers follow the path, over the cloth, still a little too shy to step over that boundary. König’s breath hitches when you feel along his thick length.
“Fuck me”, you gasp incredulously as soon as you realize what you’ve gotten yourself into.
König takes that as a sign. With quick fingers he undoes his pants and frees himself just enough to return your hand where he wanted to feel it the most. Firm, thick, already leaking precum into your carefully exploring palms. You close your fist around him and before you can begin pumping, he moves into you, his arm bracing against the wall. Hot slick paints a streak across your skin when the tip of his dick bumps into your belly. You slide your fist along his length.
He makes another desperate noise that only emboldens you – knowing that, for a moment, you have the upper hand on this giant of a man who could probably crush you like an overripe berry if he wanted to.
But that feeling of power is short lived when his hands flip your around, press your bare chest into the tiles and shove your ass against his groin.
“I’ll be careful”, he whispers into your ear, maybe trying to convince himself too, “You trust me, yeah?”
“Mhm”, you mumble in agreement. You thank every higher power up there that he can’t see your face flush beet red.
“Good.”
His one hand rests on your back, the other squeezes the soft flesh of your buttocks, separating them from each other so he can slide his length in between your slick folds. He thrusts against you, letting you get used to the strength that he’s about to impale you with. His fingers snake around your hip and dip between your legs, rubbing and flicking at your clit to draw soft noises out of you. The hand on your back slides in between your shoulder blades to push your upper body down and your butt backwards into him. He thrusts in between your thighs once, twice, then leans back to align the tip with your entrance.
“Deep breaths.”
You press your lips together to swallow the moan rising in your throat. König slides inside you inch by inch, hands at your hips to secure you in place.
Too much.
Too much.
Too –
Rattling.
You whip your head around towards the source of the noise.
Someone’s outside, rattling at the door handle, trying to get in.
König’s hand on your shoulder signals you to be quiet, but that proves increasingly more challenging with him relentlessly continuing to bury himself inside you. How much more is there?
“Forget it, man, it’s out of order”, a muffled voice from somewhere beyond the door says.
The rattling doesn’t stop, and neither does König.
Instead, he seems to take pleasure in the way your entire body tenses up, trying to divide your attention between the strangers at the door and König’s dick now embedded deep in your insides.
“Fine”, another voice grunts and finally the rattling stops. Only when the distant music drowns out their footsteps do you finally dare to take a breath. König seizes that exact moment and begins thrusting. You groan in a mix of pain and pleasure and immediately his hand is on your mouth, silencing you with his fingers.
He’s everywhere, around you, on top of you, inside you, the softness of his skin clashing with the hard edges and buckles and grooves of his uniform scraping against yours. Each thrust seems to push you higher and higher above the clouds and each circle his fingers rub into your clit makes your head spin more and more.
Pressure starts building inside you.
“Please”, you stammer, not quite sure what exactly it is you want, but he seems to understand. He keeps up the pace until stars dance along your field of vision.
“König, I’m–”
Your name in his mouth almost sends him over the edge, too, but he keeps himself together long enough until you finally reach your point of no return and a deep shudder shakes your body. He follows with a hitched groan, relishing in the sensation of filling you up to the brim with his spend.
“Fuuuuuck”, you sigh as you realize what just transpired. The hot, wet proof leaves long trails down your legs.
At least you’re already in a bathroom.
Cassie
sorry i think we went to the wrong bar whoopsie haha
Cassie
i got the hot guys number buuuut we didnt go any further tonight, BUMMER :///
Cassie
hopefully you were more lucky lmao
Cassie
you there??