#kurze

[like-tears-in-rain-storms]

I know I was joking when I said "Konrad Curze did not do enough things wrong", but as I'm getting deeper into the actual meat of his bibliography I genuinely feel like I'm staring into an abyss so dark it never even dreamed of the light.

Like holy shit. This is DARK. I know Warhammer 40k is grimdark and all, but this hits so much more deep and accurate than it has any right to. Almost suffocating in its hopelessness.

Suffice to say, this cannibalistic unwashed trainwreck is officially my favourite character. I'm kinda scared for myself, but hey, that's Night Lords for you I guess.

[deprieinhorngirl]

Ein Mensch der eine Kette aus Lügen trägt, muss sich nicht wundern, wenn sie bricht.

[thegodemperorsmycopilot]

[net-photos]

Die Erhebung Amerikas beschreibt den Aufstieg der USA zur Weltmacht, geprägt von kultureller Vielfalt, wirtschaftlichem Wachstum und politischer Einflussnahme. Den ganzen Artikel gibt es hier: https://nordischepost.de/unterhaltung/design/design-als-spiegelbild-der-amerikanischen-identitaet-eine-kurze-erhebung/?feed_id=81712&_unique_id=669ee130b7f82

[politikwatch]

»Es kann durchaus sein, dass sich unsere westliche #Demokratie nur als eine #kurze #Phase in der #Geschichte der #Menschheit erweist«

[bellaskleinewelt]

Sei dir immer bewusst, wenn der Chat zwischen euch kürzer wird, dann wird der Chat mit jemand anderem länger.

[druidwolf21]

Konrad Curze and Lion are unable to recognize their own feelings , so of they get a crush they enter full conspirancy mode with them accusing the woman of being a psyker messing with their heads.

Hey anon!

Love this idea, thank you so much for letting me write this! I hope you like it!

Confusion

Tw: mild threat.

Lion El'Johnson

"Please I didn't do anything wrong!"

The astartes didn't answer, red eye lenses focused straight ahead as he dragged you down the halls of the Invincible reason, the wrought iron floor scuffing against your boots with each long stride the marine took.

"Please, just tell me what is happening!"

The marine growled, an audible snarl and yanked you into line with him. you spluttered and whined, jogging to keep up and struggling against the vice grip on your arm.

He hauled you up towards a massive door, dark metal with intricate sigils carved across its surface. Panic rose like bile in your throat and you dug in your heels, a useless endeavour as the dark angel pushed the door open and tossed you through and slamming it shut.

clambering to your feet, you cautiously surveyed your surroundings. A simple room, an office maybe, from the soaring book cases and the huge desk sitting pride of place in the centre. A single dying flame in a scorched bracket cast sparse light into the room, shrouding half of it in shadow.

A flash of movement caught your eye and fear drove you to your knees as Lion El'johnson stepped into the flickering slight.

"My lord El'johnson"

The primarch prowled towards you, green eye bright, almost reflective even in the dark. the ground shook slightly with each step, heavy ceramite ringing as it struck the iron floor.

"What have you done, witch"

Dumbfounded you simply stared at him.

"I...what?"

Lion snarled, gripping you by the collar and lifting you into the air. you feet hung uselessly as you clutched his giant armoured fist with your own tiny hands.

"You Know what you have done. Whatever curse or spell you have cast, you will undo it. NOW" he punctuated his sentence by shaking you vigorously.

"please, I really don't know"

The primarch eyed you scowling, His grip refusing to ease even slightly.

"My lord if you tell me what the problem is, maybe I can help"

The lions scowl deepened, a grimace forming across his face. Reluctantly he set you back down, eying you suspiciously as you straightened your robes.

"Every time I see you, my chest tightens. I feel anger when someone else is near you. When I see you i want to-"

He grit his teeth before continuing.

"I want to touch you. Claim you. This is clearly warp sorcery. You are corrupting my mind to your own perverse ends"

Shocked into silence, a thousand thoughts ran through your head.

"My lord. Have you never, uh. hmm"

your body was heating up as a blush broke across your skin.

"My lord, have you never felt uh, lets say affection, for someone before"

Lion cocked his head, sneering at your words

"Are you suggesting these thoughts are my own? That I have fallen so low, that is choose to lust for a serf?"

You dragged a palm down your face and sighed.

This might take a while to explain

Konrad Curze

"What do we have here?"

You shivered in the dark listening to the steady drip drip drip of water leaking through the shattered roof. The voice bounced around the shadows, reverberating around and distorting the sound.

"Who are you? What do you want"

Your foot touched one of the corpses, still warm and seeping ichor across the dirty floor. Blinded and scared you spun, trying to bite back tears and swallow your panic. The roof creaked under somethings weight and you collapsed to the floor, surrendering.

"Please just tell me what you want"

"I want you to fix what you have done"

"I havent done anything, please I want to go home"

The voice laughed. Deep and resonant it shook you to your core.

"I wont kill you, Psyker. Simply reverse your spell and we can be done with this matter."

The ground shook as a shadow landed near to you. Blurry in the dark you could make out the vague shape towering over you and the flash of white fangs.

"Curze" you whispered, your stomach dropping.

"Aaah so you do know me then."

The shape moved, disappearing into the blackness before reappearing next to you. A taloned hand grabbed your face, gripping your cheeks between two razor claws.

"Fix your sorcery."

"Please, i'm not a psyker i swear" you gestured in the vague direction of the tattered corpse somewhere in the building.

"If i was, don't you think i would've protected myself? you wouldn't have needed to kill him"

Silence. the only sound your heavy breath and that damned drip drip drip.

"Then explain"

The edge of the claw cut slightly into your cheek, keeping you facing away as the night haunter moved behind you. The faint whine of servos for a second and then his hot breath was in your ear.

"I have been watching you for a while, watching you ferry your little messages. It was so easy, you were so...pathetically oblivious. And yet when i moved to kill you, i couldnt."

Curze squeezed, drawing a slow trickle of blood down your cheek.

"You were so soft. So gentle with people around you. The thought of hurting you made me sick. It made me rage. I found myself lingering on thoughts of you, if you were....safe" he released your jaw, gesturing around you with a vague motion.

"Each time i saw you alive, it felt like a weight had lifted from my mind. When they came for you, I was unable to resist stepping in. So tell me. What. Did. You. Do"

He gripped your shoulder and spun you, pulling you inches from his face, hair tickling your shoulders as he loomed over you.

"What makes you so special that I need to protect you, if it is not your wretched sorcery"

"I don't know" your voice cracking.

"well then. We should find out, shouldn't we"

🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒🌒

@beckyninja @moodymisty @jaghatai-khock @echo-of-damnation @laura-naruto-fan1998 @lemon-russ @astrohymn @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan @incrediblethirst @kit-williams @iluminatka16 @cosmic-cryptid-from-beyond @bookandyarndragon @thisuserislilsilly @vithralith @absynthe-mind @saintsylestine @meervalv0

[castellankurze]

Possibly the funniest thing about Honey B Lovely is that the more you learn about her the more you realize that her character was rigorously crafted in an Arcadion lab to be the ultimate wrestling heel.

-her persona is a powertripping idol singer throwing tantrums and demanding affection from the audience -her fused soul is a stinging insect -her primary attack is charming opponents to leave them wide open for cheap shots, an easy way to "cheat" her way to victory -her secondary gimmick is slinging venom around the area, poison being typically themed as a coward's weapon -her themesong is an overproduced pop earworm sung in a high register -not least of all, her persona includes "queen" status in a society that has a popular female monarch

This woman was primed from minute one to walk out and holler into the mic "where's my AFFECTIONATE little bees?" and put a hand to her ear to luxuriate in a stadium full of boos.

Except they failed.

People loved the new girl. By the end of night one the Arcadion crowd had a stomp-stomp "QUEEN BEE" chant going. By the beginning of night two people were holding up I'M STUNG and DAT ABDOMEN signs. Attempts to reinforce her heel status just backfired further as insulting her fans as "drones" had them latch onto the title. A video "leaked" of Metem telling her to turn the pheromones down got facemasks thrown at the announcer booth the night after.

Until in the end the Arcadion basically had no choice but to roll over and support the new queen of the ring.

[reverieveil]

Kid!Konrad - III. Teethy Terrors.

Characters/Mentions;

Konrad Curze, Child Primarch of the Night Lords.

You, owner of a Nostromian restaurant.

POV: Second Person.

Synopsis; Have you ever brushed a feral cat’s teeth? Well, same idea, except the cat is a boy that barely reaches the height of your stomach and probably wouldn't hesitate to bite your finger off.

Taglist; @iluminatka16

I literally have nothing to do this week so I'm writing more

Part I.

Part II.

___

The moment you’d said those accursed words, the boy recoiled.

His lip lifted in a sneer, baring his filthy little fangs as he hissed, curling the cloth tighter around his body. His eyes narrowed and the three harsh fangs that replaced his canines spat at you. You wiped the spit off your cheek and sighed.

“I know, bud, but your teeth are filthy,” you muttered.

You reached in the cabinet underneath your sink, grabbing the second toothbrush in your pack. You held the blue-bristled brush out for him to inspect and sniff before speaking;

“This,” you explained, shaking it slightly, “is for your teeth. You scrub them with it. Gets rid of the grime. Stops them from falling out later.”

You hesitated, wary before adding;

“If it hurts, you can bite me. Okay…?”

You trailed off, realizing you hadn’t learned his name.

“Uh, you got a name, hun?”

He hesitated, looking down, away, and huffing.

“I…don’t like my name…” he hissed, voice hoarse from disuse. “Kon—Konrad.”

Your brow softened, and you nodded.

“You want me to just keep calling you different names?”

He only nodded.

“Alright, bub.”

He perked up slightly, looking up at you, then looked warily at the brush, sniffed it, then shook his head, sliding the towel off his head and biting the air in front of the toothbrush.

You recoiled, listening to the crack of his teeth as your eyes widened, doing your best to avoid his little chompers.

“Hey!” you lightly scolded before sighing. “Look, you��ll like it. Minty. Cold. Not poison, promise.”

He growled under his breath, pulling his lip back as his eyes watched your every move.

You reached on the side of the sink, grabbing your half-full toothpaste and squeezing, holding it out for him to sniff. He did, then huffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, as if recovering from a sneeze. He sniffed, then looked up at you, lighter this time.

He slid the towel off his head, revealing his flushed pink cheeks and the black hair that stuck to his forehead. He slid his hand out of the towel and reached, grunting softly as he looked at you expectantly. When you didn't react, he grunted louder, shaking his hand.

“What?” you asked, tilting your head. “Oh, the brush?”

He nodded, grunting louder as you kept the brush in your hand.

“Here. Hold it.”

He took it with a snatch, curling it close to his body as he sniffed it, then licked it, then fully bit it, sinking his tiny little molars into the plastic. You raised your brow. Then, he started chewing.

Hard.

“Aye! No!” you reached out, nudging the brush away. “No chewing plastic—you’ll crack your molars.”

He clacked his teeth like a dog, narrowing his eyes as you scolded him. He chuffed, and you crossed your arms.

“Here,” you set the toothbrush down and took your own, squeezing a glob of toothpaste onto your own red brush. “Watch me.”

You wet the brush before dragging it across your teeth in a slow, exaggerated arc. Up, down. Left, right. You made a face of dramatic effort, letting your upper lip curl, foaming slightly like a rabid grox—making ridiculous, slow faces the whole time. You looked at him sidelong.

He blinked, tilted his head, and watched with a predator’s intensity.

You spat into the sink. “See? That’s it. You just—” you mimed brushing again “—get in there. Like scraping rust, you know? Can you do it?”

Konrad leaned forward slightly, toothbrush still clenched in his fist. He gave the paste one more skeptical sniff, then made a gagging face like it had offended him on a spiritual level.

“Oh, come on,” you muttered. “It’s not poison. It’s peppermint. Artificial, but peppermint.”

You paused.

“…do you even know what peppermint is?”

He shrugged, then jabbed the toothbrush between his teeth in a motion so violently wrong you winced. He held it sideways, like a bone, then gnawed at it with the sides of his mouth like a feral rat trying to reach the marrow.

“No, no, not—!” You reached forward. “Not like a chew toy!”

He snarled, pupils shrinking in the half-light. You froze mid-reach, watching him with a surprised stare.

Konrad’s tiny fingers flexed around the brush. His teeth bared again. Warning you—setting that harsh boundary. You nodded, slowing your movements before settling your hands on your hips.

“Got it, no reaching.” you nodded. “Just..don’t brush your teeth that harshly. Let’s do it together.”

You reached for the red cup beside the sink, filled it with a bit of water, and offered it to him. “Rinse first.”

He sniffed it, licked the edge of the cup like a cat, then poured half of it down his chin. You barely suppressed a sigh.

“Close enough.”

You rinsed your brush, gestured again.

“Now this—” you mimed again, brushing slowly “—not too hard. Just… a little pressure. Like scrubbing mud off boots.”

He looked up, watching you.

“…like..blood in a puddle.”

You laughed in surprise.

“Sure—yup. Like blood in a puddle. Or blood when it’s stuck on the kitchen floor.”

That got his attention. His eyes flicked to yours.

You saw it—the recognition.

He knew that.

Good.

You continued.

“Had some dude try to rob me once,” you resumed the brushing. “Some druggie, high off his ass. He put a gun to my side and told me to empty the register,”

You spat, wiping the corner of your mouth before continuing.

“…but he didn’t know I had a kitchen knife under the counter.”

You made a little swish motion in the air, toothbrush still in hand. His little eyes narrowed in interest.

“Cut him across his chest, straight through his clothes and right into his muscle,”

Konrad watched you like you were the most entertaining thing, the toothbrush hanging between his lips as you told your tale.

“He bled a lot,” you said, voice casual. “Left a smear all the way to the back exit before he finally collapsed. Took me two hours to get the stains out.”

You grinned, rinsing your mouth again. “So, yeah. Like that. Just a bit of pressure, not enough to scratch the enamel, but enough to get the gore off.”

You tilted your head toward him. “That’s what brushing your teeth is like. Just…cleanin’ up after your own mess.”

Konrad blinked. Then—slowly, like a beast watching someone test a snare—he raised the toothbrush to his mouth again.

Konrad blinked. Then he looked down at the brush again, considering. He rotated it in his palm, squinted at the foamy paste, then tentatively dragged it along his front teeth. The motion was jerky, unsure—like he expected it to bite him back.

He tried. Genuinely, this time.

Too much foam. Too little technique. He didn’t brush so much as poke, jabbing at his teeth like he was trying to shank plaque into submission. But it was progress. You bit your tongue watching him smear minty froth across his cheek and half his little curved nose.

You didn’t comment. Just nodded, slowly.

“Yeah. There you go. Little more up and down. Like that. Good. Try and get it in your mouth—okay?”

The toothbrush lowered to his mouth again—not sideways this time. Still too awkward, clumsy, but better. He smeared the bristles across his front teeth with a rough sort of rhythm, uncertain and too strong. It made you wince, but he didn’t stop.

His face contorted like he was chewing something bitter. Eyelids tight. Lips curling back.

He hated it.

You could see it in the way his shoulders hunched, the deep tension in his jaw. He hated the smell, the texture, the process. But he kept doing it.

You leaned back against the sink, letting your own brush hang out of your mouth as you watched him. He kept at it for almost a minute—then gagged.

You grabbed the red cup just in time as he reeled back, hawked up a horrible mix of mint foam and spit, and spat it violently into the water like it had personally wronged him. His three fangs hung out of his mouth as he hung over the sinks edge.

“Blegh,” he groaned, eyes watering.

“Congratulations,” you said, patting the counter. “That was brushing your teeth. See? Now you won’t die of tooth rot at nine.”

He stared at you, slack-jawed and dribbling.

You gently splashed water on his chin and nose, which he yanked over his head again like a funeral shroud, grumbling something between a death curse and a wheeze.

“Yeah, yeah,” you sighed, rinsing the sink. “Next time’ll be easier.”

You didn’t expect a thank you. You definitely didn’t expect him to walk over, dripping and bundled in that oversized towel, pause beside you——and bump his little forehead against your arm.

Not hard.

Not soft either.

A headbump of acknowledgment.

You blinked.

“…you’re welcome,” you murmured.

He turned his face into your sleeve for a second, pressing his cheek against it like a cat scent-marking its territory.

Then he bolted.

Off the stool, down the hall, wet feet smacking on tile, dragging the towel behind him like a half-mummified goblin.

You stood there in the bathroom, red toothbrush in hand.

You exhaled slowly and yelled out, “You forgot your clothes!”

Silence.

Then the echo of tiny feet sprinting faster.

You pressed your fingers to your eyes, stifling the tired laughter bubbling up your throat. The kid had the grace of a sewer rat and the stubbornness of a las-gun jam.

You leaned on the counter, finally spitting out the last of your own mint foam, staring at the little streaks of white flecked on the mirror and sink. Toothpaste. Spit. Possibly blood. You weren’t going to ask.

You glanced at the blue toothbrush still lying sideways, bristles slightly mangled, bent from tiny vice-grip teeth.

“…well,” you muttered to no one, “better than nothing.”

You rinsed it off with warm water and set it gently on a washcloth to dry. Then looked up again at the mirror.

Your reflection stared back. Haggard. Tired. A bit of foam still on your chin. You wiped it off with the edge of your sleeve.

Behind you, somewhere deep in the house, something thumped.

Something crashed.

Then—suspicious silence.

You waited.

Waited.

And waited.

And then—

Then—

Thunk.

“…that better not be my pantry door,” you muttered under your breath.

You stepped out of the bathroom and down the hall. The towel trail was easy enough to follow, like a rain trail left by something vaguely homicidal. You turned the corner into the kitchen and stopped.

Konrad stood there.

Still completely naked.

Holding a sealed tin of canned fruit with both hands and trying to gnaw the edge of it open with his teeth.

“…Kid.”

He paused. Blinked. His lip peeled back again—not in anger this time. More in confusion. He glanced at the tin, then back at you.

“…how else do I open it?” he asked, teeth already denting the steel.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I have a can opener, you little night terror.”

He perked up at the insult like it was a badge of honor. “What’s that?”

“A tool. Like a knife but safer.”

“Knives are good,” he muttered, licking the tin now. “They open things.”

You crossed the kitchen, took the fruit tin from his hands before he broke a tooth and set it on the counter.

“I’ll open it,”

He perked up.

“On one condition.”

He deflated again.

“You put on some boxers and a hoodie. The last thing I need is you gettin’ sick and me getting in trouble with the legal system.”

He stared at you. Just stared.

Eyes narrowed. Shoulders squared. Chin slightly tilted in the way feral dogs do when you ask them to drop a bone.

“No,” he said firmly.

You raised an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“You’re not eating until your ass is covered, gremlin.”

He gasped. Full-body offense. Like you’d just insulted his mother.

“I am not a gremlin,” he hissed, clutching the towel around his middle with all the dignity of a dethroned emperor. “I’m a Primarch.”

You raised a brow at that word, but shook your head either way.

“You’re naked and trying to open a tin can with your teeth.”

He considered that. He didn’t disagree with it.

Just grumbled something under his breath that probably translated to “killjoy” or “clot-brained food-hoarder.” Nostromian was not a language to be whispered.

You pointed toward the hallway. “Clothes. Now.”

He made a snarling sound halfway between a growl and a child’s whine, then stomped off dramatically—towel flaring behind him like a cape of defeat. He didn’t even close the door to your spare room. Just disappeared inside and emerged thirty seconds later wearing your oldest black hoodie (down to his knees), a pair of boxers half-falling off his hipbone, and stupid mismatched socks that weren’t even his.

You blinked.

“…Where’d you find my socks?”

“They were in the drawer.”

“Which one?”

“The one with the ugly sticker.”

You didn’t ask further.

You cracked open the can while he clambered back onto the kitchen stool, hoodie swallowing his hands, chin resting on the counter, and mouth parted like a baby grox waiting to be spoon-fed.

You poured the fruit into a teal bowl and handed it to him wordlessly. He didn’t say thank you, but he did stop to tear one piece of synth-pear in half and push it across the counter toward you.

You accepted it. No words.

Just a quiet agreement.

He scarfed down the rest with alarming efficiency, syrup sticking to his chin again. You handed him a wet rag. He hissed at it, then wiped his face anyway.

“…So,” you said slowly, watching as he pushed the bowl aside and stretched out over the counter like a sunbathing gargoyle. “How often do you brush your teeth?”

He blinked. Thought about it.

“…Never have.”

You sighed.

“Right. New rule.”

He perked up at that. Eyes sharp again. “Say it.”

You pointed a finger at him.

“One minute every night. Just one. You can snarl, growl, spit, threaten to bite me—but you’re brushing. That’s the deal.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Or what?”

“Or I stop sharing the canned fruit.”

Silence.

A long, tense silence.

Then—slowly—he slumped over the counter, hoodie sleeves dragging like limp noodles.

“…Fine.”

You grinned. “Good.”

He paused. Then looked up at you from under his too-long fringe.

“…Will you brush your teeth with me?”

You didn’t even need to consider it.

“…Sure, kid.”

His lips twitched, and the smallest smile graced his pale face. He curled his hands in the sleeves of his sweater and nodded.

And just like that, Konrad Curze—for the first time in probably his entire life, had a bedtime routine.

Sort of.

[germanpostwarmodern]

Church St Anton (1924-27) in Augsburg, Germany, by Michael Kurz

[antiqueanimals]

Rudolph Friedrich Kurz (1818 – 1871). American Bison. Oil on canvas.

Coeur d’Alene Art Auction

[like-tears-in-rain-storms]

It's so tragic how much of the meaningless suffering and destruction of Horus Heresy happened because of conversations between brothers that should have been had earlier in privacy, with a mind to comfort and understand, instead of shouted across battlefields in a last desperate attempt to cause as much hurt as possible.

[banannasposts]

Oida 😫😫😫😫

[piassportjacke]

mir ist beim mittagessen eine rigatoni runtergefallen, die dann direkt von einer taube verspeist wurde, und ich musste vor anderen leuten so tun, als würde ich das auch überhaupt nicht bemerkenswert finden

[reverieveil]

Kid!Konrad - V. Heartbeat.

Characters/Mentions:

Konrad Curze, child Primarch of the Night Lords—unofficial little night terror.

You, owner of a Nostromian restaurant and Nostromo’s least prepared parent.

POV; Third person—mainly Konrad.

Taglist; @iluminatka16

Part IV - Monsters under the bed.

Synopsis; Konrad watches as you sleep. With his ear against your chest, he can hear your steady heartbeat. It’s so much nicer than he thought.

Shorter this time but like yuh

____

The body wasn’t cold like a corpse.

Konrad had seen the dead.

He’d caused it. He had slammed the skulls of criminals into pipes until they caved in. He ripped out throats with his bare teeth. He’d severed arteries with shards of broken glass.

He knew how to kill before he uttered his first demand.

He had watched you for weeks. You were so different from the scum of the slums.

You smiled every day. You were friendly. You offered little children pie—with slices bigger than their little tummies could handle.

No one had done that for him. No one had called him with affection. No one had cradled his hand and let him set boundaries. No one cared enough to check for monsters under the dumpsters.

But you. Sweet, silent you. With your shut eyes and shallow breaths. With the soft mutter and groan under your breath as you slept. With your hands, where he’d seen you chop and cleave meat with a blade, you held him. You offered him safety. You gave him a bath and a bed. You fed him. You made sure to see him finish the meal.

You were so warm.

So different from the corpses he leeched off of on those cold nights.

He pressed his ear against your chest and sighed. He shut his eyes and listened.

Bah-bum. Bah-bum. Bah-bum.

He shifted, slowing his breathing to match the gentle rhythm. His clean hair—clean—he can't remember the last time he was clean—brushed against your nose, and you huffed, gently blowing it away.

Konrad hummed and curled closer, clinging to your arm with a tight grip. It’d bruise come morning—he knew it would. But he wasn’t going to lose this. Not yet.

He pressed his head closer, burying himself in the crook of your neck, under your chin. The beat was slow and steady. It was there.

By the endless night, you were alive.

The last time he’d cuddled was two weeks ago. Two gangsters had chased him down for digging through their trash. He slit both of their throats before they could touch him.

He clung between them, dragging them together and sliding in the middle, feeling their blood dribble down his face and spine. He leeched off their warmth until they grew cold and stiff, and he ran away when the stench of rot began to grow.

That warmth had been fleeting. Borrowed. Wronged. Lost and not mourned. Their hearts didn't beat like yours did. They beat frantically, until they stopped completely.

Bah-bum. Bah-bum. Bah-bum.

He didn't understand how you could still be so kind in this world. Where people stole and ravaged and murdered without a second thought, you remained kind. Gentle. You told him the story of the attack, but it was defense.

Would you defend him like that?

Would you drag your knife across the chest of an evil man if he were in danger?

He’s sure you’d die before you could save him. He thought the kindness would gouge out your black eyes and spit on your rotting corpse. They’d cut you loose before you became a liability. That’s what he wanted to do. He wanted a meal—and that's it.

But then, when he licked his second bowl clean, you offered him a place to stay.

He thought about it. He was tempted to throw the bowl in your face for even offering. But he thought it over.

If you wanted to, you could’ve killed him with the stew. Poisoned it. Drugged it. Watched as he seized and sprawled on the floor. Or gut him as he lay comatose.

But you didn't.

You treated him like he was something worth being gentle to.

You mumbled in your sleep—something he couldn't understand—his name, he hoped—and tugged him a bit closer.

With a slight grumble, you rolled on your side. He tensed momentarily, nervous that you’d push him off, scream in realization that his hands were soaked in blood, that he relished the screams of those he’d killed. You’d shove him off and cry “monster!”

But you didn’t.

Konrad didn't cry.

He hadn't cried in years.

But something in his throat clogged, and a small whimper left him. He buried his face into your throat, shutting his scarred eyes so tightly that they ached. His throat burned. His chest felt heavy. A strange noise curled in his lungs, something between a whine, a sob, and a growl.

Bah-bum. Bah-bum.

You were real. Still there. Still letting him hold you.

Still warm.

Still alive.

He sniffed your neck, smelling the same almond soap he smelled like. With a soft purr, he made a vow.

He would kill the whole world if it meant keeping you safe. He’d flay the skin off the fat bastards in charge if it meant you were here. So long as you still held him.

You were his now.

Not in the way the gang-lords took their slaves. No.

His person.

His.

Forever, if you’d let him.