agrimbeamwrites

[agrimbeamwrites]

[agrimbeamwrites]

The rain hadn’t stopped in three days.

It slapped against the roof of the safehouse like a slow, bitter drumbeat, a constant reminder that they were cut off. No extraction. No comms. Just waiting.

You sat on the edge of the narrow cot, fingers trembling as you rewrapped the gauze around your ribs. It was soaked through with blood again. Not fresh. Not fatal. But persistent enough to make your teeth grit with every movement.

Across the room, König hadn’t moved in hours.

He stood near the window, his massive frame outlined by the gray light filtering in through the blinds. He hadn’t spoken since you got back, hadn’t looked at you. Just stood there in that silence he wore like armor. You knew he was angry. You also knew he wasn’t angry at you. That didn’t stop the silence from cutting.

“I didn’t mean to screw it up,” you said finally. Your voice barely carried over the storm outside.

He didn’t answer.

You looked down at your hands. They were shaking. Probably shock. Maybe fear. Or maybe it was the way König had barely touched you since dragging you out of that collapsed building. He’d carried you through the smoke and gunfire without a word, his hands steady and sure, even as you faded in and out of consciousness.

Now, you were alone with the aftermath. The blood. The pain. And the silence that filled the space between you.

“Say something,” you whispered.

Nothing.

You stood, too fast. The edges of your vision went white, but you pushed through it.

“Look at me, König.”

He didn’t turn.

Your voice rose. “Why won’t you look at me? What did I do? Was it that bad?”

He flinched.

That was all it took. That tiny twitch of his shoulders.

You took a step forward, pressing a hand to the wall to steady yourself.

“You saved my life. You got me out when no one else would’ve made it in time. But you haven’t said a single word since.”

His voice, when it came, was rough. Broken.

“I should’ve gotten there sooner.”

You froze.

He turned finally, and it hit you like a gut punch. The way his eyes looked underneath that mask. Not cold. Not hard. Just tired. Devastated.

“I saw the blood,” he said. “I thought you were already dead.”

Your throat tightened. “But I wasn’t.”

“I didn’t know that.”

You took another step. “But you got me out.”

He shook his head slowly. “You screamed for me. I heard it, and I couldn’t get to you fast enough. I heard your voice and I…”

He stopped. Something cracked in his voice that made your chest ache.

You crossed the distance between you slowly, pausing in front of him. He wouldn’t meet your eyes.

“I didn’t die, König.”

He laughed, but there was no joy in it. “No. But you could have. Because I hesitated.”

You reached up, fingers brushing against the fabric of his sleeve. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t move either.

“You didn’t hesitate. You risked your life to come back for me.”

“I should’ve known better,” he said. “I should’ve checked the perimeter. I should’ve cleared the northeast hallway. You trusted me and I failed you.”

“Stop.”

His mouth snapped shut.

You pressed your forehead against his chest. “You didn’t let me die. That’s what matters.”

For a long time, he stood frozen. Then slowly, his arms came up and wrapped around you. It was a hesitant kind of touch, like he was afraid he’d break you if he held on too tight.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered. “I kept thinking, if I just moved faster, maybe you wouldn’t have screamed like that.”

You closed your eyes. “I screamed because I was scared. Because I didn’t want to die alone. And then you came. You heard me. That’s what saved me.”

His grip tightened. This time there was no hesitation.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I’m so sorry.”

You felt it then. The tremor in his hands. The way he buried his face in your shoulder. The weight of his guilt. The pain of someone who always bore the cost of survival.

“I’m right here,” you said, voice trembling. “You didn’t lose me.”

But part of him didn’t believe that. You could feel it in the way he held you like you were a ghost that might vanish if he blinked.

That night, you woke up gasping. Your ribs ached. Your skin was slick with sweat. You couldn’t remember the dream. Only the feeling of being crushed under the rubble again. The smoke. The fire. The scream caught in your throat.

You stumbled to your feet, disoriented.

“König?”

You found him in the other room, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. His helmet sat beside him. His mask was pulled up just enough to show his mouth and chin. His hands were curled into fists against his thighs.

He looked up when he heard you, eyes wide.

“I… I didn’t mean to wake you,” you mumbled. “I just… needed to see you.”

“You’re not supposed to be walking yet.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

He stood slowly and came to your side, guiding you gently by the elbow. “Come here.”

You let him lead you back to the bed. You sat, wincing as your side twinged.

He knelt in front of you and pulled the blanket around your shoulders.

“Are you cold?”

“No.”

He hesitated.

You reached out, fingertips brushing his jaw. “Can you stay?”

He didn’t speak. Just nodded once and sat beside you on the narrow cot.

You curled up against him. He moved stiffly at first, then relaxed and wrapped an arm around your waist. His body was warm. Solid. Steady.

“I thought I’d lost you,” he said again, almost to himself.

“I’m still here.”

“I keep replaying it. Your voice. The sound of the building coming down. I thought… I thought I was too late.”

You turned toward him, your face pressed into the curve of his neck.

“You were exactly on time.”

His voice cracked. “I can’t stop seeing it.”

“You don’t have to protect me from your guilt,” you whispered. “You can let me carry some of it too.”

König didn’t answer right away. Then he pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

“I don’t deserve that.”

“Yes, you do.”

Another silence stretched out, but this one wasn’t empty. It was full of the sound of breath, of closeness, of warmth.

He stayed with you until you drifted off, and when you stirred again, he was still holding you.

⸻

Days passed. The rain stopped. Supplies dwindled.

Your ribs started healing, but König’s eyes never did.

One afternoon, you found him outside, standing under the stripped branches of a tree. The light caught in his hair where his hood had fallen back. You watched him from the doorway for a long time before stepping out.

He didn’t turn, but he heard you.

“Do you believe in redemption?” he asked.

You hesitated. “Sometimes.”

“What if you keep failing the people you’re supposed to protect?”

“You didn’t fail me.”

He looked at you, and you saw it. The tears he hadn’t shed. The ones he was still holding back

“I need you to stop saying that,” he said. “Because I want to believe it. But I don’t.”

You crossed to him, slowly.

“I need you to believe it. Because I do.”

He turned away, and you reached for his hand.

“I don’t think you’re broken,” you said. “I think you carry too much alone.”

“I don’t know how not to.”

“Then let me help you.”

He looked at you like he’d never heard those words before. Like no one had ever meant them.

Then he leaned in and rested his forehead against yours. No pressure. No masks. Just skin and breath.

“I don’t want to hurt like this anymore,” he whispered.

“Then let’s hurt together. Until it fades.”

König exhaled. It wasn’t a sob, but it was close.

And then he pulled you into him, and this time, he didn’t hold back.

⸻

Healing wasn’t linear.

He still woke from nightmares, sometimes with your name on his lips. You still flinched when doors slammed. There were days when he wouldn’t speak at all, but he let you hold his hand.

There were nights when you couldn’t breathe through the ache in your chest, but he would sit beside you and rub slow circles into your back until the world came back into focus.

You both carried ghosts.

But in that quiet safehouse, with no orders, no missions, and no more masks, you started building something out of the rubble.

Something that felt like peace.

Not perfect.

But real.

He kissed you for the first time without armor, without fear. Just König. Just you.

And it didn’t feel like a victory or a confession. It felt like forgiveness.

It felt like home.

[agrimbeamwrites]

Konig x reader

Rough, damaged König learns to be soft for her.

You knew better than to provoke him like this. But maybe that was the point.

The silence between you had stretched for days. König had grown colder, rougher, harder to read. Not that he was ever gentle… but something in him had shifted. Something jagged lived behind his eyes now.

You missed him. Missed the version of him that held you close afterward, even if only for a few minutes. Missed the way he would pause with his lips against your spine, breathing you in like a man starved. Lately, he barely looked at you when he fucked you.

So you pushed.

You mouthed off. Rolled your eyes. Wore that little lace set he hated, the one that made him call you a whore for attention. You teased and defied and bit at the chain until it snapped.

Now you were paying for it.

Your wrists were bound behind your back. His belt cinched tight around them, rough leather biting into your skin. You were bent over the bed, face buried in the sheets, ass in the air. Your panties were shoved to your knees, and he was behind you. Silent, seething.

His hand cracked across your thigh, and you jerked, letting out a cry.

“You want to be treated like a slut?” he growled.

Another slap. Your legs buckled. His voice was venomous.

“I’ll treat you like one.”

You choked on a moan as his fingers forced their way between your thighs. You were soaked already- of course you were. You hated how your body responded to this, how much it loved the pain, the power, the filth.

“Fucking dripping,” he hissed. “Of course you are.”

You flinched as he spread you open with one hand, the other still gripping the belt like he wasn’t done with it.

“Please,” you gasped. “Just- just fuck me.”

“I said you’d earn it.”

The belt came down across your ass again. You cried out. He hit you again. Again. You were shaking by the time he finally dropped the belt to the floor.

The sound of his zipper felt like a warning. You tensed, body taut as wire, trembling with anticipation.

Then he pushed into you—no warning, no patience, no words. Just the sharp, brutal stretch of him filling you in one vicious thrust.

You screamed.

He didn’t stop.

His hands gripped your hips like they were handles. He used you. Slammed into you like he was punishing you. No kisses. No tenderness. Just raw, relentless fucking.

You bit the sheets to muffle your sobs. It felt so good, and it hurt so bad, and you didn’t know where the two sensations split anymore. All you knew was that you weren’t okay.

And that he didn’t seem to care.

“König,” you whimpered. “Why are you-why are you doing this-?”

He growled low in his throat. “You wanted this. You made me.”

“No-no, I didn’t-”

“You always want it rough,” he snapped. “Don’t pretend you don’t love this.”

He pounded into you harder, rougher, until your arms were screaming from the tension and your breath hitched into something close to a sob.

You tried to breathe. Tried to keep control. But your body was splitting in two-one half of you begging for more, the other screaming for something softer. For him.

He pulled out, only to flip you onto your back like you were weightless. The belt twisted your arms behind you, chest heaving, eyes glazed.

He climbed on top of you, one hand pressing your bound wrists into the mattress, the other sliding between your thighs again. He forced you open and slid back inside, watching your face as he filled you.

You cried out, your body arching up against his chest. He didn’t kiss you.

“König,” you gasped, voice cracking. “Why do you hate me?”

He froze.

“What?”

You stared up at him, eyes brimming with tears. “You… you must hate me. To do this. To treat me like.. like I don’t matter.”

His breath caught. His hips stilled.

“Do you hate me?” you asked, voice trembling. “Do you hurt me because you don’t love me?”

His mask twitched. His hands softened just slightly, but his grip didn’t loosen.

“I-I know I wanted this,” you said. “But sometimes I think… maybe you do it like this because it’s easier. To treat me like a body. Like something you don’t have to care about.”

The room was deathly quiet except for your sobbing.

“I just… I want to matter,” you whispered. “Even if you only ever touch me like this. Even if it’s always rough. I can take it. I just want to know that I’m not nothing to you.”

He stared down at you, chest heaving, his cock still buried deep inside you—but now he wasn’t moving.

He said nothing for a long moment.

Then, softly:

“I don’t hate you.”

Your breath caught. His voice was ragged.

“I hate myself,” he said.

You blinked through tears, lips trembling. “Then why?”

His hands trembled on your body.

“Because I don’t know how else to be,” he muttered. “Because when I touch you like this, I don’t have to think about what I am. I just… take. And you let me.”

He lowered his head, forehead pressing against yours through the fabric of the mask.

“You should hate me,” he whispered. “I’m a monster.”

You stared at him-broken open, heart bleeding.

And then you whispered, “If you’re a monster… then I’m your monster.”

His breath hitched.

You leaned your forehead into his, tears sliding down your cheeks. “Hurt me all you want. Just don’t leave.”

He didn’t answer. Just held you there-still inside you, still trembling-and for the first time in weeks, he didn’t pull away.

The room was too quiet.

König hadn’t moved since you whispered those words-Hurt me all you want. Just don’t leave. He hovered above you, cock still buried deep, his chest heaving with something that wasn’t lust anymore.

You felt his body tremble.

It was the first time you’d ever seen him hesitate.

He pulled out gently, too gently, like he thought he might break you further if he didn’t. You whimpered at the loss, at the emptiness between your legs, and at the cold that followed once he was no longer touching you.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t untie your wrists.

Just stood beside the bed, towering and silent, the black mask hiding the man-but not the shame radiating off him like heat.

“König,” you whispered, your voice hoarse and wet with tears.

His back was to you.

“König… say something.”

His head dropped. You watched his shoulders rise and fall in deep, uneven breaths. When he finally spoke, it was quiet. Flat. Broken.

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

You stared up at him, tears still drying on your cheeks. “But you always do.”

“I know.”

“Then why?”

He turned slightly, just enough for you to see the angle of his jaw beneath the mask- tight, clenched, like he was holding himself together with sheer will.

“Because I thought you wanted it,” he said. “Because I told myself you needed it. And because if I gave you what you actually deserved…” His voice cracked. “I wouldn’t know how to live with it.”

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

He faced you fully now, but didn’t come closer. His hands opened and closed at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“You think I don’t care,” he said quietly. “But you’re all I think about.”

Your heart twisted.

He swallowed hard. “And that’s the problem.”

You waited.

“I was trained to kill,” he said, eyes locked on you now. “I was shaped into something that doesn’t know how to hold anything without hurting it. You look at me like I’m capable of more. Of love. Of softness. But all I know is how to destroy.”

“You haven’t destroyed me.”

Hollow laughter, bitter. “Not for lack of trying.”

He turned away again, pacing now. Rubbing his face like he could scrub the guilt off with his palms.

“I meant to scare you,” he said. “Meant to take control. But when you asked if I hated you..”

He broke off.

“I’ve never felt so ashamed in my life.”

You watched his chest rise. Fall.

“I felt like a fucking animal. Not even that-less. Like a weapon too dull to do anything but ruin what it touches.”

You shifted on the bed, twisting your arms behind you.

“Please,” you whispered. “Untie me.”

He turned, saw you still bound.

His expression shattered.

He crossed the room in two strides and dropped to his knees beside you. His fingers were too big for the buckle-he fumbled, cursed under his breath, finally tearing the belt loose with a rough jerk.

You winced, your wrists aching as the leather slid off. He reached for them with trembling hands.

“Don’t-” you started.

But he didn’t hurt you.

He cradled your wrists in his palms like they were glass, eyes scanning the angry red marks circling your skin. His touch was feather-light, reverent. And then-he leaned down and pressed a kiss to each one.

You froze.

His breath was shaking against your skin. His hands still trembled.

“I never meant to make you cry like that,” he whispered. “I didn’t think-I didn’t feel.”

He looked up, and for the first time, you saw the man through the eye slits. Not the soldier. Not the monster.

Just a man.

A scared, lonely man who’d never been taught how to love without pain.

“I don’t know how to want someone without hurting them,” he whispered. “But I swear to you, I don’t hate you.”

You looked down at him. Kneeling, wounded, raw.

“I know,” you said softly.

He leaned his head against your thigh, forehead pressing to your skin through the mask. His arms wrapped around your waist like he was holding on for dear life.

You ran your fingers through his hair, gentle now. “You’re not a monster.”

He didn’t answer.

But he held you tighter.

For the first time since you met him, König didn’t want sex. He wanted stillness. Warmth. Forgiveness he didn’t know how to ask for.

You curled into him, both of you naked and exposed in the worst ways, and for a long time, neither of you said a word.

But you both felt everything.

The air between you had shifted.

König hadn’t moved from where he knelt, arms still loosely wrapped around your waist, head bowed as though in prayer. His breath warmed your thigh. His mask scratched your skin. But his grip-tentative now-had none of the violence it held before.

You ran your hand through his hair again, slower this time, more deliberate. You could feel his heart racing against you like he’d just stepped off a battlefield.

Because maybe he had.

“König,” you said gently.

He tensed.

“König, look at me.”

He didn’t move at first. Then slowly—like it hurt—he raised his head, eyes meeting yours through the holes in his mask.

What you saw there nearly undid you.

He looked ruined.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to make you ask if I loved you. I didn’t mean for you to ever wonder.”

Your throat tightened. “But I did.”

His head dropped again. “I know.”

“I do wonder,” you whispered. “All the time.”

He slid his arms up your sides slowly-still trembling, still terrified you’d recoil-but you let him. His hands cupped your face like he was holding something precious. His thumbs brushed your cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Tears burned behind your eyes again.

“I just…” he shook his head, voice cracking, “I didn’t know I was capable of love until I met you. And by the time I realized it, I’d already done too much damage.”

You swallowed. “You could’ve told me.”

“I thought if I stayed distant, if I kept it all rough and cold, it’d protect you. From me. From what I am.”

“You think I needed protection?” you whispered.

He didn’t answer.

“I thought you hated me,” you said, tears spilling freely now. “I thought you used me to get off. I thought I was nothing.”

König’s breath hitched.

“I thought I didn’t matter,” you sobbed. “And I loved you anyway. I loved you every night you left me alone. Every time you touched me like I was just a thing.”

He moved closer on his knees. “Don’t say that-”

“It’s true,” you cried. “You made me believe it. You didn’t tell me otherwise. You let me sit in that silence and rot.”

He stared up at you, completely unraveling.

And then-quietly-he said it.

“I need you to forgive me.”

You blinked through the tears. “What?”

“I know I don’t deserve it. But please,” he whispered, voice breaking. “Please, Schatz. Forgive me.”

The rawness of it split something open in both of you.

He reached up, pulled his mask up over his mouth and nose, exposing the trembling curve of his lips. They were chapped. Pink. Vulnerable. Real.

You’d never seen him like this.

“I’ve never begged for anything in my life,” he said. “But I’ll beg for this. For you.”

Your heart clenched so tightly it hurt. “König…”

But he wasn’t done.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he whispered. “I’ll stop. I’ll learn. I’ll never touch you again unless you ask me to.”

You shook your head slowly, voice cracked. “I don’t want you to stop touching me.”

He blinked, stunned.

You reached forward, pressing your palms gently to his chest.

“I want you to touch me like I matter.”

He let out a broken sound-half relief, half agony. His hands hovered in the air, like he was afraid to lay them on you, like he didn’t trust himself.

“You’re not off the hook,” you said, voice steady now, firmer. “I just want you to care. To touch me like I matter.”

He nodded. “I don’t want to be off the hook.”

“But I want to move forward,” you said, softer. “I want to believe that you can love me without violence. That you can hold me and not crush me.”

“I can,” he said instantly. “I swear, I can.”

“Then show me.”

König reached for you slowly- so slowly-and when his fingertips touched your waist, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours. He trailed his touch upward, along your ribs, over the curve of your shoulder, then down your arm to your still-marked wrist.

He kissed it. Gently. Twice.

Then he climbed into the bed beside you, his body trembling as he settled in behind you and pulled you into his chest. You let him.

He wrapped his arms around you like a man afraid to fall asleep. His nose pressed to your hair. You could feel his heart hammering against your spine.

“I love you,” he whispered, so soft you almost didn’t catch it.

But you did.

You turned your head just enough to see his face, still half-masked. “Say it again.”

“I love you,” he repeated, firmer now. “I love you. Not your body. Not your submission. You.”

You exhaled shakily. “I need to believe that.”

“I’ll make you believe it,” he said. “Every day, if I have to.”

You turned fully and laid your head on his bare chest. He cradled you there. Your breath slowed. So did his.

His fingers brushed your thigh, tentative again. “May I?”

You nodded.

His touch trailed up your inner thigh—not for domination, not to bend you—but just to feel. To remind you that he could be soft. That he could choose it.

When he pressed his lips to your temple, something in you loosened for the first time in weeks.

You weren’t healed. Not yet.

But you weren’t afraid anymore.

It was hours before either of you moved again.

You laid together in silence, wrapped around each other like a battlefield truce. His arms stayed curled around you, but looser now-no more bruising grip. No more hands made to break.

Just the weight of his body warming yours.

The soft brush of his fingers down your spine. The slow, heavy breathing that let you feel every inch of him pressed against your back.

But even now, you knew he was waiting for permission. König-terrifying, enormous König-had spent the past hour touching you with the caution of a man handling sacred relics.

And you needed that. God, you needed that.

But you needed more too.

You rolled over slowly, facing him. He flinched slightly-still expecting rejection. Still braced for pain. But you lifted your hand to his face, dragging your knuckles over the edge of his jaw. His mask was still half-up, exposing just his mouth and chin.

He looked more naked like that than he ever had before.

You whispered, “Take it off.”

His eyes locked on yours. “The mask?”

You nodded.

He hesitated… then pulled it off, slow and unsure.

And then he was there. All of him.

Sharp jawline. Faint stubble. That long scar at the corner of his lip you’d never seen up close. His mouth looked kiss-starved. His eyes were ocean-dark, raw and unguarded.

You sucked in a breath.

“You’re beautiful,” you whispered.

His lips parted, stunned. Like no one had ever said that to him and meant it.

You leaned in and kissed him. Soft. Careful.

It was the first time a kiss between you didn’t feel like a threat.

He kissed you back with aching restraint, hands tightening around your waist, but not pulling—not controlling. Just holding.

You climbed into his lap and straddled him, your thighs bracketing his hips. You didn’t say anything when your bodies brushed together—just pressed your forehead to his and let your lips trail his jaw.

“Will you let me?” you whispered. “Will you let me take you in without being afraid?”

He looked like he might break.

“Yes.”

And he meant it.

You reached down and guided him inside you, slowly, sinking onto him like your body was made to hold him. He was big, but now you welcomed the stretch, the fullness. You moaned into his mouth as you slid down all the way.

His breath left him in a shudder. “Scheiße…”

You rolled your hips once. His head fell back, mouth open, jaw tight. You kissed his throat.

“Is this okay?” you asked softly.

“Ja,” he breathed. “Yes. Yes, please—don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”

You moved gently, grinding against him, both hands on his chest. He let you take the lead. Let you ride him slow and deep while he watched you with something like worship in his eyes.

There was no belt.

No restraints.

Just his hands on your waist, guiding you like he was afraid to break the spell. Like he wanted this to last forever.

Your pace stayed slow. Intimate. His cock stroked places inside you that had never felt tender until now.

You gasped. “Feels so good, König…”

He held your face. “You feel like heaven.”

Your hands found his. Interlocked fingers. He let out a guttural moan, so full of emotion it almost made you cry again.

“Kiss me,” you whispered.

He did. And it was real this time.

You came like that, his mouth on yours, his arms around your back, your bodies moving together like two broken halves finally meeting at the seam.

And when you did, he followed with a hoarse groan and a whispered curse in German, burying his face in your shoulder.

After, he didn’t let go. Not for a long time.

You collapsed against him, flushed and trembling. He pulled a blanket over both of you and wrapped himself around you like a shield.

“I’ve never done that before,” he whispered.

“What? Had sex?”

He let out a quiet laugh. “Had that kind of sex.”

You smiled into his chest. “We can do it again.”

He brushed his lips over your forehead. “We will.”

There was silence, soft and heavy.

Then:

“Will you stay?” he asked. “After tonight. After all of this.”

You looked up at him.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He nodded slowly.

“Good,” he whispered. “Because I want to learn how to love you right. Even if it takes me the rest of my life.”

You kissed him again.

And this time…

It tasted like the beginning.

[agrimbeamwrites]

Trying to work on some bigger pieces for a little zine I’m making

[agrimbeamwrites]

This one is really dark, so please read the trigger warnings and take care of yourself. <3

König x reader

Seriously. Don't read it if you're not sure.

This is not an example of healthy sex. This is me safely writing about fantasies in a fictional format.

TW: Extreme rough sex, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, reader isn't ready but he does it anyway, crying, pain, punishment, fear, emotional whiplash

You knew the look.

That hard, dark stare behind the mask. König didn’t speak when he was like this—he didn’t need to. The silence stretched thick across the room as he stood in the doorway, one gloved hand gripping the frame like he was holding back a storm.

You had crossed a line.

He had warned you—don’t provoke him tonight.

But you couldn’t help it. The brat in you needed to see how far he’d go.

So you tested him. Again and again. Teasing, mocking, even walking out mid-sentence just to watch the way his jaw tensed. You pushed and pushed, and now the door’s shut behind him, locked, and you’re cornered like prey.

You wanted this.

But not like this.

Not with that kind of quiet.

König steps forward. You back up instinctively, bumping into the edge of the bed. He doesn’t stop. You can hear his breath through the mask, the low rasp of it like a growl. His shoulders are tense, that hulking frame barely restrained.

“You don’t get to run now,” he mutters.

The accent is thick. Cold. Different from the warm timbre he uses when he praises you, when he makes love to you.

This isn’t that König.

This one is furious.

He yanks your wrist so fast your breath catches in your throat. You’re spun around, bent over the bed before you can gasp his name. The sting of the first slap lands across your ass, open-palmed and vicious, dragging a scream from your lips.

“Lauter,” he growls. Louder.

Another slap. Then another. Your vision swims.

“You think you’re funny?” he snaps, his voice low and brutal in your ear. “Walking away from me. Talking back. You think I won’t do anything?”

You shake your head, but he grips the back of your neck, shoving your face into the mattress.

“Answer me.”

“No,” you choke out.

“Nein, what?”

“No, sir!”

The belt comes off with a hiss.

You brace yourself.

The first lash of leather across your thighs has you jerking up with a scream, but he holds you down, one giant hand pressing into your upper back. It comes again, and again, each strike cruel and calculated. No rhythm, no pattern—just punishment.

You're sobbing within minutes.

He doesn’t slow.

“Stupid girl,” he spits, striking low. “You know I hate being disrespected. You wanted this? You wanted to cry for me?”

You’re beyond words now. Your tears soak the sheets as your legs tremble beneath the force of it all.

He pulls you up by your hair, dragging you to your knees.

“Open your mouth.”

You obey, lips shaking, jaw barely able to hold open.

He shoves two fingers deep, gagging you instantly. You cough, but he doesn’t let up, fucking your throat with them like you’re nothing but a hole.

“Gonna scream for me, huh?” he growls, eyes burning behind the fabric. “Then scream. Cry. Let them hear.”

You choke again, tears streaming down your cheeks, soaking your flushed skin. He finally yanks his fingers out and smears the spit across your cheek like it’s a trophy.

“You look so pathetic like this,” he sneers.

Then he’s shoving you back down—rough, relentless.

He doesn’t prep you. He doesn’t ask if you’re ready. The stretch when he pushes in makes you scream out in pain, your hands clutching the sheets like they’re the only thing keeping you grounded.

You hear him moan low. A shudder.

“So fucking tight,” he pants, driving in to the hilt. “You beg for it and you’re never ready, are you?”

You can’t answer. You can barely breathe. His thrusts are merciless, his hands gripping your hips so hard you know there’ll be bruises. He’s not chasing your pleasure. He’s punishing you with every inch.

You cry harder.

You scream.

And he fucks you through all of it.

Your throat is raw from the sobs that tear out of it. You don’t even know what you’re saying—please, stop, no more, over and over, but you never say the word that matters. Because you asked for this.

You wanted to see how far he'd go.

Now you're breaking.

The moment it hits you—when you collapse under him, unable to hold yourself up, a sobbing mess of pain and overstimulation—he finally stills.

It’s like something in him snaps.

You feel his weight lift off you instantly.

Then silence.

You’re left gasping, trembling, sobbing into the sheets.

And then his hands—those same cruel hands—are suddenly gentle. Stroking your hair. Wrapping a blanket around you. Lifting you as if you’re made of glass.

“Schatz…” His voice is hoarse. Barely audible. “Nein… no, no, no…”

He’s cradling you now.

Sitting against the headboard with you in his lap like a wounded child. He presses your head to his chest, murmuring apologies in German, over and over. You can’t make them out. You’re too far gone.

But his hands don’t stop moving. He touches every part of you like he’s trying to undo it all.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were that close. I should have stopped.”

You cry harder.

And he holds you tighter.

You’re shaking, your entire body pulsing with leftover pain and exhaustion, and still—he doesn’t let go. He rocks you slowly, kissing the crown of your head again and again.

“You were so good,” he whispers. “So brave. I’m sorry, Maus. I went too far.”

You can barely nod, but you don’t pull away.

He tucks the blanket higher around you, lifts your chin gently so he can see your face. His gloved hand wipes the tears from your cheeks, and when he takes the mask off—finally—you see the guilt written in every line of his face.

You’ve never seen him look so wrecked.

“You’re not okay,” he murmurs.

You sob again.

“I hurt you too much.”

You nod this time.

His hands clench into fists.

“I’ll fix it,” he swears. “I’ll take care of you. For as long as it takes.”

You curl into his chest, body still heaving with quiet sobs, and he rocks you again, as if time could reverse and take the pain away.

No more harsh words. No more punishing grip.

Only soft whispers. Only careful touches.

“Don’t leave,” you mumble.

“Never,” he breathes. “Never, Schatz. I’m here.”

And this time, when you cry, it’s not just from pain.

It’s from everything—the vulnerability, the surrender, the feeling of being completely destroyed… and completely held.

By the only man who could break you like this.

And put you back together again.

[agrimbeamwrites]

new toy

[agrimbeamwrites]

Primal König smut?!

All acts in this smut are consensual.

———

The air in the cabin was too still.

Too quiet.

Too watched.

She’d been alone for hours—or at least, she thought she had. The sun had long since vanished, swallowed by thick mountain pines and a sky so black it made the windows look like mirrors. The power was out. The fire had gone low. And still… her skin tingled.

She wasn’t scared. Not really.

But her body? Her body knew.

It knew he was close.

She pressed her back to the wall, fingers gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, her breathing slow but shallow. The thick hoodie she wore felt suddenly too hot. Her bare thighs prickled. Somewhere out in the dark, the forest groaned—and then a twig snapped.

It wasn’t a deer.

It wasn’t the wind.

It was him.

She turned her head slowly toward the door. Locked. But it wouldn’t matter.

Nothing could keep him out when he was like this.

König had been patient.

Too patient.

Days of watching her move around the cabin. Watching her stretch, cook, bathe. Knowing what she was doing—what she was asking for—every time she lingered a little too long near the window, skin damp from the shower, mouth parted in boredom or expectation.

She wanted him to break.

And now?

Now she was going to pay for it.

He moved silently through the trees, massive frame melting into the shadows, blood humming with anticipation. His cock was already hard, aching in the tightness of his pants. His mask clung to his face like a second skin, catching the heat of his breath, feeding the beast in his chest.

He’d warned her.

Told her what would happen if she kept teasing.

Told her what he’d do once he finally stopped holding back.

Run, he’d said.

She didn’t.

Not yet.

But she would.

•

The knock at the door was soft.

Too soft for someone his size.

Her stomach dropped. She didn’t breathe. Didn’t move.

A second knock. Slower. A scrape of something heavy along the wood.

“König,” she whispered, more to herself than anything. “Don’t.”

She didn’t mean it.

The silence that followed was louder than thunder.

And then—

CRACK.

The door burst open, splinters flying as the hinges snapped and König stepped through like a god from some old nightmare. All black. All muscle. Mask shadowed. Breath hard and uneven. He said nothing.

She ran.

She darted for the hallway, bare feet slapping against the wooden floor, heart crashing in her chest. She could hear him behind her—those heavy, deliberate steps. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. He knew he’d catch her.

She rounded the corner and felt an arm like a steel beam wrap around her waist, dragging her backward with a grunt. She screamed—half-laugh, half-moan—as he threw her against the wall, body caging hers, heat pouring off him like fire.

“You made me wait,” he growled, voice thick and low and utterly feral. “You wanted this. Didn’t you, mädchen?”

Her breath caught. “Yes.”

“Then take it.”

He kissed her like he wanted to drown in her, teeth grazing her bottom lip before he bit it, hand already between her thighs, finding her slick and soaked.

“So wet,” he hissed. “You like being hunted.”

She whimpered when he yanked the hoodie up over her head, eyes devouring the curve of her breasts, the arch of her neck. His hand wrapped around her throat—not tight, just a warning—and he leaned down until their lips nearly touched.

“Next time,” he whispered, “run faster.”

Then he bent her over the table and shoved his pants down, no pretense, no gentleness, just the thick, heavy pressure of him pressing against her entrance—and thrusting in with one brutal, claiming stroke.

She cried out. He groaned.

And the beast inside him roared.

The stretch of him filled her to the edge of pain.

Not sharp—deep.

Slow, searing, perfect.

König didn’t move at first. Just stayed inside her, letting her adjust to his size, his heat, the weight of his hand on her back holding her down. She trembled, cheek pressed to the wood of the table, breathing ragged.

“I missed this cunt,” he growled in her ear, accent thicker now, voice hoarse with restraint. “Missed the way you fight it at first. Always so fucking tight.”

She whimpered.

He drew back an inch—then slammed back in. Hard. Unforgiving.

She cried out.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Scream for me.”

He set a brutal rhythm—hips snapping against her ass with a pace that made the table creak and the walls shake. One hand fisted in her hair, the other snaked around to rub her clit, rough fingers circling with ruthless precision.

Every thrust made her rise onto her toes.

Every breath came out a moan.

Every second, he pushed her closer to unraveling.

“You wanted me wild,” he gritted. “This is what that means. No mercy, liebling. Not tonight.”

“Fuck,” she gasped. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop—”

König barked a low, dark laugh. “You think I’m stopping before I breed you?”

He flipped her over in one smooth motion, lifting her like she weighed nothing and slamming her back onto the table. He tore the panties down her thighs and spread her wide, grabbing her knees and bending them back until she was helpless beneath him.

His cock slammed back inside—deeper this time, hitting her in places no one else ever had. Her nails raked down his back. She was shaking. Babbling.

“Already cockdrunk,” he sneered, watching her eyes roll. “You fucking love this.”

She did. God, she did.

Her orgasm hit like lightning—white-hot, shattering. She screamed, clenching around him, her whole body going tight and twitching. But König didn’t let up. He fucked her through it—relentless, punishing.

“Too much,” she gasped. “I—I can’t—”

“You will.” He grabbed her throat again, gently this time, thumb stroking her jaw. “One more. For me.”

And he didn’t even let her catch her breath.

He dragged her off the table, pushed her onto all fours on the floor, and took her again from behind—deeper, rougher, as if chasing something inside her. The slap of skin on skin echoed in the cabin. Her moans turned to sobs. Her body gave in.

And still—he didn’t come.

He was waiting.

She collapsed halfway through her second orgasm, legs shaking too hard to hold her up, face flushed and wet. König gathered her against his chest, sat on the floor with her in his lap, cock still hard and buried deep inside.

“You still want more,” he murmured, brushing the hair from her face.

She nodded, weakly. Barely conscious.

His smile under the mask was wicked. Satisfied. Starving.

“Then I’ll give it to you.”

He shifted, still fully seated inside her, and started moving again—slow, thick, grinding strokes that made her sob into his neck. Her pussy was so sensitive, her whole body trembling from aftershock, but he kept going.

She was already broken.

Now he would own her.

She didn’t know how long he kept going.

Time dissolved into a blur of pressure and heat—of trembling thighs and tear-slicked cheeks, of whispered curses in German and the low, possessive growl of a man gone entirely feral.

König was everywhere. Inside her. Around her. Under her skin.

He held her like she might disappear, wrapping those massive arms around her middle while he fucked her slow and deep from behind, their bodies slick with sweat. Every time she started to come down, he found a new way to push her back up—thumb on her clit, hand around her throat, teeth on her shoulder.

She was ruined. Shaking. Raw. And still, she whispered, “More.”

And he gave it.

God, he gave.

He shifted her into his lap again, thick thighs bracketing her hips, and let her ride him—his hands on her waist, guiding her, while he sat back against the wall and watched her fall apart.

“That’s it, bunny,” he murmured, voice low and strained. “Fuck yourself on it. Show me who you belong to.”

She whined—desperate, overstimulated—and moved her hips in tight circles, clenching around him. Her cunt was so swollen, so soaked, it made obscene sounds every time she sank back down. His cock throbbed inside her, thick and relentless, stretching her open again and again.

“König—” she gasped.

“I know.” He grabbed her jaw, made her look at him. “You feel full, ja?”

She nodded. Couldn’t speak.

“Gonna make you mine, liebling. For real this time.”

He surged up, catching her in his arms mid-thrust and flipping her onto her back—pressing her into the floor with the weight of his entire body, hips grinding against her clit as he started thrusting again, faster now, harder.

She was crying. Moaning. Saying his name like a prayer.

“Please—please, come—inside me—”

He growled like an animal.

“You want that? Want me to fucking breed you?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—”

He snapped.

He slammed into her, once, twice, and on the third thrust he came with a roar, cock pulsing deep inside her as his hips locked against hers. She felt it—every drop—warm and thick and endless, spilling into her like she was made to take it.

König didn’t stop moving. He rocked into her slowly as he came, hand pressed over her belly like he needed to feel it, to mark her from the inside out.

“So good for me,” he rasped. “Took it all. Just like I knew you would.”

Her nails dug into his back. Her legs wrapped tight around his waist.

And finally—finally—the tension drained from his body.

He collapsed over her, heavy and warm, chest rising and falling like a man finally at peace.

They lay there in silence, bodies tangled, breath mingling. His cock still inside her. Her body still trembling.

Then, softly—

“I’ll never let anyone else touch you.”

She blinked up at him, dazed. “I don’t want anyone else.”

He cupped her cheek. Pressed his masked forehead to hers.

And just like that, the beast went quiet.

[agrimbeamwrites]

She tasted like regret.

Not the kind that made him stop — but the kind that made him linger longer than he should’ve, tongue sliding against hers with something bordering on desperation. He had her pinned to the wall of the apartment, one hand braced beside her head, the other wrapped tight around her hip like he was holding her together — or maybe holding himself.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, even as her legs parted to let him step between them. Her voice was breathless, her mouth swollen, but her hands were already clawing at the hem of his shirt.

“I know.” His voice was low. Rough. Mask still on. “Tell me to leave.”

She didn’t. She never did.

König buried his face against her throat, letting the warmth of her skin drown out the screaming in his head. He could still smell the blood from earlier. Still see the way her body had crumpled behind the barricade when she saw him storm in, his hands soaked, his breathing wild. He’d almost lost her — again.

Now she was here. Now he could touch her.

And he was going to ruin it.

He slid his hand up her thigh, palm rough, calloused, possessive. She gasped when he squeezed, when he ground into her, slow and hard, like he wanted to crawl inside her and stay. She reached for his mask — not to take it off, just to feel him through it.

He grabbed her wrist, firm. “No.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she breathed. “I just wanted…”

“Don’t look at me like I’m human.”

She looked anyway.

“Too late,” she whispered, leaning forward until their foreheads touched, cloth to skin. “You always bleed like one.”

That broke something.

He lifted her then — effortlessly, like she weighed nothing — and walked her backward until her spine hit the bedroom door. Kicked it open. Laid her down on the bed like a man preparing a sacrifice. His movements were sharp, almost angry. He needed to feel something real, something that didn’t come with orders or targets or graves.

She looked up at him, pupils blown wide, chest rising and falling like she was scared — not of him, never of him — but of what came next.

“Take it out on me,” she said.

And just like that, his restraint shattered.

He dragged her panties down and shoved her knees apart, growling something low and German under his breath. His fingers slid between her thighs and she arched with a cry — so wet already, so ready, and God, she always took him like she’d been made for him. He pushed two fingers in, hard, curling them just right, and her moan went straight to his cock.

“Louder,” he growled. “Let them hear what you do to me.”

And she did — crying out his name like a confession, while he fucked her with his fingers and kissed her like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Maybe it was.

[agrimbeamwrites]

Don't Mean a Thing

Okay I know what y'all are thinking... yes it's a song off of Mister Asylum, but it doesn't fit my actual fic. However, this song is so fucking Ghost-coded, I had to write a oneshot about it >:)

Warnings: SMUT. Infidelity (by reader and her husband). Kinda mean Ghost tbh. Alcohol consumption. Mentions of a gun. Fingering. Eating pussy/ass from the back hnghh. Big dicked Ghost. Unprotected PIV, creampie (for fuck's sake y'all, please don't let a stranger hit it raw). MDNI.

Asshole. You’ve had this night planned for weeks, a nice, home-cooked dinner and your husband’s favorite dessert for your third year wedding anniversary. You gave him a kiss this morning, told him not to be late, and sent him on his merry way to the job he fucking hates. You spent all day preparing the meal and baking that godforsaken cinnamon-swirl cheesecake he’s so fond of just for him to call you thirty minutes before his shift ended to tell you that he’d be—surprise, surprise—working late. He thinks you’re a moron, apparently, a naive little white-collar wife who’s oblivious to her husband’s infidelity with the secretary. Quite the fucking opposite. 

     Since he wants to be an ass, you’re going to be petty. The beautifully crafted, aromatic dinner you made goes straight into the trash (but not before giving his beloved obese chihuahua a good portion—the poor fucker’s supposed to be on a diet) along with the creamy dessert. You left it right on top of all the other garbage so when he opens it he’ll find what would have been a delicious treat surrounded by onion scraps and dirty paper towels. It’s less than what he deserves. 

     You take off the long, boring dress your husband got you for your birthday a week too late and leave it in a pile on the kitchen floor. Fleetingly you debate on dousing it in vinegar but decide you’d rather not smell it for the next two days. Instead, you head straight to the bedroom and pull out a short, skintight dress you’ve been hiding in the back of your closet for a special occasion. You bought it with the intent of wearing it for your stupid bastard of a spouse, but this is probably the seventieth time he’s abandoned you in favor of fucking his mistress. You’re not going to waste the slutty little number on someone as pathetic as Mr. CEO. Not anymore.

     You slip the dress over your body and stare in the mirror at the way the fabric clings to your soft tits and belly, your nipples poking through the silky bodice. When you turn, you purse your lips with distaste at the outline of your panties showing through. No, that won’t do, so you slip them off and toss them aside, admiring the smoothness that rewards you for your efforts. You look hot, and you feel good for the first time in a while. Your husband would never allow you to wear something that shows off all of your fat like this—especially not in public, which is precisely why you’re doing exactly that. You can’t remember the last time you did anything for yourself and not for the image of the man whose last name you took and therefore represent. 

     You could have your chauffeur take you wherever you desire to go, but there’s still part of you that craves normalcy, the life you had before you met your husband. You order an Uber instead, meet them a couple of blocks down from your house and have them drive you to what used to be your favorite dive bar. You tip the driver with a wad of cash you pulled from the top of your dress and smile at the sound of your heels clacking along the concrete instead of marble flooring for once. You even have to show your ID to the bouncer, which you do with no complaint—it’s nice not being recognized by some big-shot you don’t even know. When you step inside, you’re hit with the overwhelming aroma of cheap alcohol and mediocre hot wings, and it takes you back to a happier time.

     It’s not difficult to fall back into your old habitual patterns—sway your hips all the way up to the bar, squeeze in between two occupied seats, and order a fruity cocktail with way too much sugary syrup and way too little tequila. Loud music blares in your ears, some local rock band playing their hearts out on the tiny stage near the front. You used to listen to stuff like that all the time before your husband got you listening to classical music instead. You miss the fuzz, the imperfections, the feedback of the guitar, the bass that vibrates throughout your entire body. It’s dirty, invigorating, unpredictable. Everything you crave, and everything you need. 

     The two men you squeezed between are less than interested in your company. You can take a hint, so you excuse yourself and make your way over to where the band plays. It smells stale like sweat, pure energy, and it intoxicates you far more than the small bit of alcohol you consumed could ever dream of. Before you started dating your now-husband, you always used to go for musicians. A little less forward than a groupie, but still ready to throw yourself at them at the first sign that they find you attractive. 

     This group, as expected, is not lacking in sex appeal, but none of them quite catch your eye. At least, not in the way that the huge man guarding the stage does. He looks more like a bouncer than anything, but you can see why he got stuck with indoor security duties for the band—biceps probably bigger than your damn head, tattooed arms crossed over a strong, broad chest, thick thighs that could crush someone’s skull with little to no effort. God, he’s the complete opposite of your lanky husband. He could break you, and those dark eyes imply that he would do so with no remorse.

     You’re starting to wish you’d worn panties because you’re getting soaked, arousal shamelessly dripping down your thighs. 

     Your brain runs on overdrive as the band finishes their set. It’s just distant noise to you now, background music for the little fantasies you’re conjuring up about this colossal fucking beast. Honestly, you’re not even sure if you’ve blinked since you first laid eyes on him. When the swarm of listeners starts moving around you, your foggy brain finally clears up enough to realize that the band has completed their show. Even despite the chatter, you can still hear the squelch between your legs when you take a step. Without the music, your confidence wavers, and you decide to head to the bathroom to calm yourself down instead of doing something you might regret.

     The beast has other ideas. He steps in front of you with his arms still crossed, and when you look up at him in shock, you find that his scarred eyebrow is raised. His expression is unreadable, and that’s truthfully more intimidating than his stature. 

     “Quite the set o’eyes on ya, girl,” his deep voice rumbles, and you have to bug your eyes out of your head so that they don’t roll into the back of your skull.  

     “Didn’t think you could see me,” you breathe, chewing on your bottom lip nervously. 

     “Hard no’ t’feel a pretty bird’s gaze on me,” he sniffs, leaning down to get a better look at you. “Pretty fuckin’ bird.”

     Your breath hitches in your throat as the man’s thumb hooks beneath your chin, tilting your head from side to side. He grunts approvingly, placing his hands on your waist and dragging them up your sides, coaxing your arms to stretch out. When his eyes land on the flashy wedding ring on your left hand, he huffs and takes a step back, watching as your arms unceremoniously fall down again. 

     “Ya don’t belong ‘ere,” his tone is harsher, now, grating, and he won’t look at you anymore. 

     “Excuse me?” You scoff.

     “Did I stutter?” He barks. “Get ‘ome t’ya husband.”

     You laugh in disbelief, following close behind as he starts to walk away. You’ve about had enough of men disrespecting you. You grab his arm and pull him back, forcing him to look at you.

     “I don’t know why you’re acting like such a dick-”

     “I don’t know why ya think I’d give a married woman the time o’day,” he interrupts, shoving your hand away.

     “Does it matter?” You hiss, glaring up at him. 

     “Yeah,” he answers, leaning down once again to get in your face. “It matters when y’keep lookin’ at me like y’re tryna get fucked.”

     “Maybe I am,” you challenge, narrowing your eyes at him. “Can’t really ask that of my husband when he’s balls deep in his secretary.”

     The man’s face mellows. You pull back to give him a cocky look, but he draws you back in with his fingers tangled in your hair, crooked nose brushing up against yours.

     “Unhappily married, then,” he muses. “Shoulda started w’tha’, sweet’eart.”

     “You didn’t give me a chance,” you whisper. 

     “Lemme buy ya a drink,” he offers, and you suck in a breath as you feel his own hitting your lips. 

     “You don’t have to work security?” You ask, holding onto his arm as he makes his way towards the bar.

     “Fuck nah,” He chuckles, leaning against the counter and waving over the bartender. “Don’t even work ‘ere. Couple o’my mates are in the band, so I keep a lookout for ‘em. Wha’ d’ya wan’?” 

     You tell him your favorite drink, lightly shoving his arm when he makes fun of how sweet and fruity it is. He gets a whiskey for himself, neat—no surprise there—then ushers you to sit beside him in one of the stools. You can’t help the way your eyes travel down to admire the wide expanse of his thighs. They land on a bulge other than what you know is a massive fucking cock, and you furrow your brow at him.

     “Never seen a gun before, sweet’eart?” He quirks an eyebrow, thin lips hinting at a smirk. 

     “You’re not supposed to have one in a bar,” you tut, placing a hand on his knee and trailing it up towards the weapon. 

     The man grabs your wrist before you can touch the gun, gently placing your hand back in your own lap. You pout, and he huffs in amusement.

     “M’no’ a good rule follower,” he shrugs before taking a long sip of whiskey. “Y’re sittin’ with a dangerous man, lovie.”

     “Suppose I should be scared, then?” You muse, leaning in closer and resting your chin in the palm of your hand. 

     “Very.”

     Fucking hell, your thighs are slipping off of the damn barstool because your slick is absolutely drenching the material. This man is intoxicating, and every rumble of his voice gets you weak in the knees. Everything about him is so masculine—rough hands, calloused fingers, such a pronounced adam’s apple—he even smells insanely delicious, like musk and smoke and bad fucking intentions. He’s a cocky bastard, but it’s natural on him because he knows he’s sexy and he doesn’t need anything to prove it, unlike your money-flaunting husband. 

     “Have you ever used it before?” You question, unaware of the slow drip of your cocktail slipping off of your bottom lip.

     “Take a wild guess,” he whispers, thumbing away the sticky mess you’ve made of your mouth. 

     You nod dazedly, and the beast before you pries your lips apart to push his thumb inside. Your tongue instantly curves around the digit as you suck the sweet substance right off of his calloused skin. Heated brown eyes stare into your own as he uses his left hand to pull out a decent wad of cash that he slams onto the bar.

     “My place,” he growls, and his sudden grip on your wrist leaves no room for you to argue.

     You giggle and just barely get to wipe off your seat before he drags you towards the exit, your legs wobbly from both the alcohol and the knowledge that you’re about to get absolutely ravished. You nearly trip over your heels trying to catch up with him, holding onto his big arm to support yourself. He’s tense, the muscles flexing beneath your touch. You’re so fucking horny that it makes you nauseous—there’s no way you’ll make it all the way to his place.

     “Hey,” you slur, dragging out the vowel. 

     The asshole ignores you. Offended, your free hand tugs at his shirt, and when that doesn’t work, travels down to cup his aching cock through his worn jeans. That gets his attention, and he grabs you by the shoulders, stopping right in the middle of the sidewalk.

     “Wha’?” He hisses, narrowing his eyes at you.

     “I need you,” you whine, batting your lashes up at him. 

     “Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he exhales deeply, scanning the area before pushing you backwards into the nearest alley. 

     You smile excitedly, wrapping your arms around his neck as he shoves you against the solid brick wall. He leans down to smash his chapped lips against your plush ones, tongue forcing its way inside of your mouth to explore and taste every single inch. His big hand tangles into your hair as he cradles your head, pulling you as close as possible. The other squeezes whatever it can reach, from your waist to your ass and up again. When he pulls away for air, you attach your lips to his neck, peppering the sweaty skin with open-mouthed kisses. 

     “Dirty little girl,” he mutters, tilting his head to give you better access. “Tried t’give ya a nice bed to get fucked on, but ya jus’ couldn’t wait.”

     He shudders when your tongue runs over his adam’s apple, groaning when your teeth graze the flesh. 

     “Enough,” he hastily pulls you back by your hair, giving your ass a rough squeeze. “Turn aroun’, lemme see tha’ pretty arse.”

     You obey with another elated giggle, bracing your hands on the wall as you spread your legs further apart. It’s not the most comfortable position with your heels barely touching the ground, but it’s so fun to wiggle your hips against his crotch just to rile him up even more. He lifts the skirt of your dress at the same time he sinks to his knees, his hot breath combined with the cool night air causing goosebumps to splay across your skin. Another broken groan escapes the beast when he finds absolutely nothing under your dress. 

     “Gonna give me a righ’ heart attack,” he grabs your asscheeks and spreads them to watch as your slick pussy pulses in anticipation of his touch. “Drippin’ like a faucet, mama.” 

     “Please,” you beg, pushing your ass back against him impatiently.

     The behemoth chuckles, dragging his hot tongue up the insides of your sticky thighs just to hear your irritated whimpers. He decides he’s kept you waiting long enough, kissing your hipbone before diving right into your cunt. You taste even sweeter straight from the source, and his eyes roll back into his skull at the discovery. His delighted moans vibrate against your sensitive clit as he wraps his lips around it, causing your knees to shake. His hands hold your hips steady as he continues lapping at you like a starved dog eating his first meal in weeks. His stubble rubs your delicate skin raw, but the feeling is addictive, and you’re far too high on him to complain. 

     He drags his tongue up to prod at your puckered hole, laughing softly when you squeal and pull away.

     “Never ‘ad this tigh’ li’l arse played with before?” He questions, thumbing the same place where his tongue just was.

     “N-no,” you respond softly, and the man removes his hand.

     “S’alrigh’, lovie,” he hums. “Wan’ my fingers in y’r cunt instead?”

     “Yes,” you gasp, whimpering as his middle finger teases your slit, circling your entrance. “Fuck, please, I’m s-so-”

     “So- so-” He mocks. “So wha’? Needy? I know, baby, y’re gushin’ all over my hand.” 

     You nod frantically, unable to let out the words stuck in your throat. The man behind you tuts teasingly, finally allowing his long finger to slip inside of you. He grunts with approval as your walls clench around him, wet and warm and irresistable. Your forehead falls against the brick as he slowly adds another finger, curving them to press against that rough patch that makes your head dizzy. 

      He uses your paralyzing pleasure to his advantage, flicking his tongue against your tight hole when you don’t expect it. You start to protest, a whine caught right on your parted lips, but when he doesn’t let up, you realize that it feels nice. His free hand thumbs at your neglected clit as his talented mouth continues to break apart your inhibitions, fingertips continuing their assault on your sweet spot. Fuck, you don’t think you’ve ever gotten so close so quick, but in the middle of this alleyway with a stranger’s face buried between your asscheeks, you fall apart faster than you can blink.

     “Tha’s fuckin’ it, cum f’me, mama,” his voice is muffled, mouth still occupied, but you hear the praise clear as day as if he’d said it right into your ear. 

     “Fuck!” You wail, using his tongue and fingers to ride out your orgasm until the tremors in your legs settle a bit. 

     The man presses a kiss to your pussy before standing up once again, crowding you against the wall. Every part of you is surrounded by him—his stature, his warmth, his scent—and you adore it. Your husband never takes the time to kiss down your neck the way this beast is, nor does he use half as much care when releasing your soft tits from their confines. All he does is lay you out on the bed, get his dick wet, and promptly fall asleep without so much as cuddling you. 

     Even in this cool night air, exposed to whatever wandering eyes may look your way, you’ve never felt so warm, so seen by someone you met not even an hour ago.

     “Gonna take every inch o’my cock?” His teeth nip and pull at your earlobe, pinching both of your nipples between his calloused fingers. “Reckon I’ll fill ya righ’ up.”

     You shudder at his words, still hazy from your orgasm but oh-so-eager for him to fulfill his promise. One big hand leaves your breast in favor of unzipping his jeans, and although you can’t see when he pulls it out, you can feel the weight of his fat, heavy cock against you. 

     “Feel tha’?” He murmurs, guiding the length of himself through your sloppy folds. “S’big, lovie. Sure y’can handle it?”

     “Yes! Just fucking fuck me already,” you demand, and the man’s dark chuckle from behind you sends a shiver down your spine. 

     “Gonna break this pretty pussy.”

     The smack of his tip against your swollen clit is all the warning he gives you before shoving his way inside of you. The stretch is a searing burn, and your wide eyes fill with tears at the sensation. You hold onto the brick wall for support, pitiful gasps escaping you with every inch he bullies into you. His grunts only make your walls clamp down harder, and eventually his patience runs thin. He grabs onto your hips with a painfully tight grip and thrusts his own forward, forcing his cock to fill you completely. You let out a pained wail and he covers your mouth with his hand, lazily grinding against you so you can adjust to the feeling of being stuffed full.

     “I know, mama,” he coos, allowing two fingers to slip into your mouth to distract you from the discomfort. “Takin’ it like a bloody dream.”

     You push your ass back just slightly when the pain fizzles into a dull pleasure, swirling your tongue around his fingers.

     “Yeah?” 

     “Mhm,” you hum approvingly.

     The man slowly pulls out until just the tip remains inside, then punches back in deep enough to steal your breath. If you didn’t know any better, you might have been able to convince yourself that this monster is in your fucking throat. His pace is measured but punishing, and you can already tell you’re gonna be sore all over tomorrow. 

     “Y’re so fuckin’ tigh’, lovie,” he praises. 

     “You’re s’big,” you slur, grabbing onto his forearms and digging your nails into the scarred, tattooed skin.

     He huffs with amusement, leaning in close to press a kiss to your cheekbone. His speed increases but his thrusts remain just as deep, just as devastating. Your head falls back against his shoulder and your eyes squeeze tightly shut as you fall victim to the absolute ecstasy he’s giving you. 

     “Am I losin’ y’already?” He teases, letting his hands grope the fat of your stomach and tits shamelessly. “Wha’s wrong, huh? Y’r husband can’t make y’feel like this? Hm? He can’t reach y’r guts? Fuck y’the way a man should?”

     “N-no,” you pout. “He doesn’t- doesn’t- oh fuck, right there, please!” 

     “Poor, neglected little girl,” he tuts, shaking his head. “Don’t worry, love, m’gonna take care o’ya.”

     Your palms once again land flat against the brick as he readjusts his hands so that one wraps around your throat and the other trails lower, his two middle fingers circling your clit. You gasp at the feeling, biting your lip as he squeezes your throat just enough to make you see stars. His cock is hitting places inside of you that you weren’t even aware existed with ease, and his lips slotting over yours does nothing to clear your head. He moans into your mouth when he feels your walls constricting around him.

     “Y’close?” He questions, fingers consistently massaging your aching clit.

     “Mhm, gonna- ah! Gonna cum,” you babble, becoming putty in this huge man’s hands. 

     “Yeah, tha’s it, baby. Cream all over this fat fuckin’ dick, girl, squeeze me good,” he growls, picking up the pace of his hips.

     You come with a broken sob, clawing at whatever part of him you can reach. He fucks you through it with unwavering force, panting into your ear. 

     “M’gonna cum,” he warns, moving to pull out, but your hands reach behind you and grab at his shirt to keep him as close as possible. 

     “Inside,” you beg. “Cum inside me, please.”

     “Fuck, y’filthy thing,” he snarls, burying his face into the crook of your sweaty neck. 

     His arms wrap around your waist tightly as he forces himself as deep as possible, an uncharacteristically vulnerable moan released into your ear when he reaches his peak. Hot ribbons of cum coat your insides as he pumps his hips until the high is gone and the two of you fall into a heavy silence. An emptiness remains where the man’s cock slips out of you, his release dripping down your thighs. When he finally lets you go, you turn to find that he’s already zipped himself back up. He helps you adjust your dress, then wipes away the mascara that’s stained your puffy cheeks. 

     “I never asked for your name,” you realize, blinking away the moisture in your eyes as you look up at him. 

     “I never offered it,” he retorts, tilting your chin up with his thumb. “I’ll get y’an Uber.”

     The beast—you’ve really got to find a different name for him—leans down to plant another kiss to your lips, short and sweet and not nearly long enough for you. It takes everything in you not to jump into his arms and wrap your legs around his waist, demand that he take you far away from here. Instead, you rest your hands on his stomach gently while he taps on his phone to buy you a ride.

     “Can I at least get your number?” You frown.

     “Nah, baby. M’not on my phone much,” he tucks his phone back into his pocket as if trying to prove a point. “Tell y’wha’—I’m at the pub every Saturday nigh’, so if y’re feelin’... unsatisfied w’ya husband, y’can meet me there, yeah?”

     You’ll take anything you can get at this point. 

     “Yeah, okay,” you agree, eyes flickering to the car that just pulled up. “This me?”

     “It is,” he confirms, giving your ass one last squeeze. “Take care, lovie.”

     He’s gone by the time you’ve settled into the vehicle and looked out the window, but the remnants of him have already made their home inside of you. That, at the very least, is enough for now. 

[agrimbeamwrites]

Sanctified

Giorno Giovanna x Reader x Bruno Bucciarati

The hideout was quiet, and you should’ve been asleep.

But sleep never came easy anymore—not since the missions got messier, not since the tension in your body had grown too thick to burn off during daylight hours.

Your room was dark save for the dim orange glow of a streetlight outside. You’d just rolled onto your back when the doorknob turned. You froze.

A voice—low, smooth, unmistakably composed—broke the stillness.

“You’re still awake.”

Giorno. And behind him, another shadow. Broader. Slower to enter.

Bruno.

They didn’t knock. They didn’t ask. They just… stepped inside like they’d already decided something. The door clicked shut behind them.

Your heart jumped. “Everything okay?”

Bruno’s eyes met yours, and you saw it. The tension. The restraint. The heat.

“We’ve had a long day,” he said. “And so have you.”

Giorno moved closer to your bed, his golden hair catching the faint light. “You’ve been patient for so long,” he murmured, gaze trailing over your body like a slow caress. “You’ve earned something, don’t you think?”

You sat up slowly, pulse thudding in your neck. “What are you talking about?”

Bruno stepped beside Giorno now. “You. Us. This.” He reached out, brushing your cheek with the backs of his fingers, and it felt like a lightning strike.

“You’ve been waiting,” Giorno said, voice like silk over fire. “So have we.”

There was heat blooming low in your belly, but you still hesitated. “Together?”

Giorno smirked, a rare edge of mischief on his tongue. “Would you like that?”

You couldn’t answer fast enough.

“Yes.”

The shift in the room was immediate. Bruno leaned down, kissing you without warning, slow at first but firm. He tasted like coffee and something darker, like restraint unraveling. His tongue slid against yours, deliberate and searching. You moaned into his mouth.

When he pulled back, Giorno took his place,hands on either side of your face, lips softer but hungrier, more possessive. He kissed like he needed you.

You reached for both of them, and they let you, Giorno’s hand threading through your hair, Bruno’s palm pressing to the small of your back.

You felt caged. Owned. Worshipped.

And you loved it.

“Lie back,” Giorno whispered. You obeyed.

He and Bruno moved like they’d done this before—like they’d choreographed every touch, every breath. Bruno’s fingers slid under your shirt, dragging it up, baring you inch by inch. Giorno’s hands followed, cool and reverent against your skin.

“Look at you,” Bruno murmured, voice rough as his hands cupped your breasts. “So good for us already.”

You arched into his touch. “Please…”

“You don’t have to beg yet,” Giorno said, crawling between your legs and hooking a finger in your waistband. “But we’d like it if you did.”

You let out a breathless laugh.. half nerves, half arousal, and lifted your hips so he could strip you.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, dragging your panties down slowly. “Strong. Loyal. We see how hard you fight. We want to reward you.”

Bruno’s fingers were at your throat now, just enough pressure to keep you present.

“You don’t need to think tonight,” he said, lips grazing your ear. “Just feel.”

And then Giorno leaned down and felt you.

His mouth was heaven and sin. Soft lips, clever tongue, every flick and suck designed to pull pleasure from you like silk from skin. You gasped and grabbed at the sheets as Bruno whispered praise against your cheek.

“That’s it. Let him hear how good he’s making you feel. You’re such a good girl for us, aren’t you?”

You whimpered. Nodded. “Yes—yes—”

Giorno moaned into you like your pleasure fed him, and when he pulled back, his lips were wet, his eyes darker.

“Ready?” he asked.

You didn’t answer with words. You reached for him, dragging him up and crashing your mouth to his.

“Fuck me.”

Giorno growled. “Bruno?”

Bruno was already undressing—methodical but fast, stripping away his control layer by layer until he was naked and impossibly hard, his gaze sharp as a blade.

“I’ll hold her,” he said.

He knelt behind you, wrapping you in his arms, pulling you flush to his chest. You could feel his cock pressed against your lower back, heavy and hot and restrained—for now.

Giorno lined himself up, guiding the head of his cock through your folds, teasing you open slowly. You were so wet you heard it.

“You’re ready for this,” he said, voice low. “Say it.”

“I’m ready.”

And he thrust in.

You cried out, not from pain, but from fullness. He was thick and long and buried to the hilt in a single motion, and it was too much and not enough and perfect.

“God—Giorno—”

“You feel incredible,” he groaned, starting to move. “So tight. So warm. You were made for this.”

Bruno held you tighter, his hands on your breasts now, rolling your nipples between his fingers until you cried out again.

“Take it,” he whispered. “Take all of it. We’ll take care of you.”

Giorno thrust deeper, faster, eyes locked on yours as your mouth fell open in a silent scream.

“So perfect. Look at you falling apart for us. You’re such a good girl.”

Your orgasm crashed into you like a wave, ripping through your body as you clenched around him and gasped his name.

Bruno was right there, praising you through it. “That’s it. Let go. You’re safe. We’ve got you.”

Giorno slowed, then pulled out, panting.

“Switch,” he said.

Bruno growled low in his throat and flipped you gently onto your knees, guiding you back against him.

He didn’t tease. He didn’t ask.

He just filled you.

You shouted his name as he sank in—slower than Giorno but no less intense.

“F-fuck—Bruno—”

“You’re mine now,” he growled against your throat. “Ours.”

Giorno knelt in front of you, still hard, eyes blazing.

“Open for me,” he said.

You did.

And the moment his cock hit your tongue, you moaned. So full, so overwhelmed, so owned.

They moved in sync, Bruno’s thrusts timed with Giorno’s gentle, commanding grip on your hair. You were floating. Spiraling.

Bruno slapped your ass and growled, “You take us so well. Fucking perfect. You like being used like this?”

You nodded, tears stinging your eyes from the stretch and the praise.

Giorno pulled back, letting you breathe, then leaned down and kissed you.

“Good girl.”

And you shattered again.

Your throat was sore, your thighs trembling, and your mind had dissolved into a haze of sensation and submission, but they weren’t done with you yet.

Bruno still had you on your knees, his cock buried inside you to the hilt, hips grinding hard as his hands bruised your waist. Giorno’s taste lingered on your tongue, your lips swollen and wet, your cheeks streaked with tears you didn’t remember shedding.

And you still wanted more.

Bruno’s thrusts grew ragged, faster, less restrained. His control, so pristine, was breaking.

“You feel that?” he panted. “You feel how much I want you?”

You moaned, helplessly clenching around him, and he cursed against your shoulder.

“You’re gonna milk me dry, dolcezza. Keep squeezing me like that and I’m not gonna last.”

But he slowed suddenly, drawing back just enough to keep you wanting. His lips brushed your ear.

“You don’t get to come again until Giorno’s inside you too.”

Your breath caught.

“W-what?”

Giorno was already behind you again, stroking himself slowly, eyes drinking you in like art. His golden hair was messy now, his chest heaving.

“We want to feel you together,” he said. “Can you take it?”

Bruno pressed a kiss to your temple. “You want that, don’t you? You want both of us?”

You were shaking, but not from fear.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Please—yes.”

They didn’t need any more convincing.

Bruno stayed where he was, deep inside you, as Giorno eased in beside him. Slow, so achingly slow, stretching you wider than you ever imagined possible.

You cried out, fingers clawing at the sheets, eyes wide.

“Too much?” Bruno asked, voice tight.

“No,” you gasped. “Don’t stop—don’t stop—”

They filled you completely. One slow thrust from Giorno, another from Bruno, back and forth in a rhythm that made your whole body quake. You couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began, just heat and friction and praise.

“You’re taking us so well,” Giorno groaned, lips brushing your spine. “So perfect for us.”

Bruno’s hand found your clit, and he didn’t go easy. He circled it firmly, deliberately, watching your head fall back with a broken moan.

“That’s right. Come for us again. Come with us inside you.”

And you did.

The orgasm hit like fire: violent, beautiful, devastating. You screamed their names, your body locking down around them as they groaned in unison, their own peaks ripping through them as they filled you.

Hot. Deep. Claiming you.

You collapsed onto the mattress, every limb shaking.

But they still weren’t done.

You didn’t know how much time passed. Minutes. Hours. An eternity.

But they kept going.

Touching you. Worshipping you. Testing how far they could push you.

Giorno kissed your neck while Bruno fed you water. Giorno whispered in Italian as he spread your legs open again, his voice silk-soft but relentless.

“You’re glowing,” he said, brushing your hair back from your damp forehead. “You’re made for this. Made for us.”

You reached for him. “I can’t, I’m too sensitive—”

Bruno kissed your palm. “You can. Just one more. Let us give it to you.”

They held you in place. Giorno between your legs again, Bruno kneeling behind your head, stroking your hair as you whined with every stroke.

It shouldn’t have been possible to feel so much. To want so much. But they gave it to you, over and over—each orgasm building on the last until you weren’t even sure who you were anymore.

Only that you were theirs.

Bruno came again with a growl, collapsing beside you and pulling you into his chest. Giorno followed, curling against your back, lips on your shoulder, one hand over your heart like he could feel it racing.

They stayed like that.

Not just sex anymore.

Worship.

“Brava,” Bruno murmured. “You were perfect.”

Giorno nodded against your skin. “We’ll take care of you. Always.”

You couldn’t speak. Just sighed, content and ruined, between them.

“Rest now,” Bruno whispered. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

And you believed him.

You believed both of them.

[agrimbeamwrites]

König x reader

Multi part smut with the same premise. This is just filthy, pure smut 😏

——————-

König’s footsteps were heavy—measured but tense. You looked up from the couch, legs tucked under you, and met his eyes just as he unlatched the helmet.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t kiss you hello.

Just stared.

Bruises already bloomed down his neck, fading into the collar of his black tactical shirt. Blood dried at the edge of his temple, wiped but not fully cleaned.

“König,” you said softly.

He said nothing.

But he walked toward you—slow, deliberate.

You rose to meet him. “What happened?”

“I need you.”

That was all.

But it was enough.

He didn’t undress you gently. He tore at your clothes—shirt dragged up over your arms, bra tossed aside, mouth hot and greedy against your neck. You gasped as he spun you around, hand on your shoulder, pressing you face-down over the back of the couch.

“König—”

“Quiet,” he growled.

His hand wrapped around the back of your neck. Not cruel. But firm enough to make you feel it.

“You said I could be myself with you,” he said.

You nodded.

“I need to fuck something until I stop shaking.”

Your thighs clenched.

You whispered: “Then use me.”

He didn’t prep you with fingers. Didn’t tease.

Just yanked your panties down, spat between your thighs, and lined himself up.

You were wet—already—because that was what König did to you. Just the weight of him, the heat of his presence.

He slammed into you in one stroke.

You cried out, fingers digging into the cushions.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “That tight little cunt—every time, like it’s made for me.”

You couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe.

He set a brutal pace—hands gripping your hips, your skin slapping against his thighs. Every thrust was a claim. A purge. A need.

“You take it so well,” he growled. “You fucking love being ruined.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Yes, König—please—”

He bent forward, chest pressed to your back, hand sliding around to grab your throat.

“I could do anything to you,” he whispered. “And you’d beg for more.”

You moaned, body shaking as your orgasm crashed over you.

König didn’t stop. He fucked you through it, chasing his own release.

And when he came—deep, hard, growling against your shoulder—you felt it like a wound splitting open.

When he pulled out, your legs gave out.

He caught you.

Held you against his chest.

And kissed your temple like he hadn’t just torn you apart.

Part 2: Obedience Lessons

Two nights later, you pushed him.

Just enough to trigger that glint in his eyes.

You wore his shirt to bed with nothing underneath—sat on the counter while he made coffee, bare legs swinging.

“I’m not in the mood,” he said when you brushed your fingers down his chest.

You smirked. “You’re always in the mood.”

His eyes flicked to yours.

You pressed your mouth to his ear and whispered, “Or are you scared you can’t handle me?”

You didn’t even see it coming.

He grabbed your wrist, yanked you down, and tossed you over the counter like you weighed nothing.

“I warned you,” he growled.

Then he spanked you.

Hard.

Once.

Twice.

You cried out, arching under the sting.

König held you down with one arm, the other delivering sharp, searing slaps to your ass. By the fifth, your skin was blazing, your breath ragged.

“You like mouthing off?” he snarled. “Try it again.”

You whimpered. “Please—more.”

He growled low in his throat and reached between your thighs.

“So fucking wet,” he muttered. “All from a little punishment?”

He shoved two fingers inside you and grinned when your legs trembled.

You were gasping, drooling onto the countertop, thighs soaked.

König leaned over you.

“You want me to fuck you like a disobedient whore?” he hissed. “Or like a good girl who finally knows her place?”

Your voice broke: “Both.”

He chuckled darkly.

And gave you exactly what you asked for.

Part 3: You’re Mine

He tied you up the next night.

Hands above your head, wrists bound with soft black rope he kept hidden in the closet. You stood at the foot of the bed, naked, trembling—not from fear, but from anticipation.

König circled you like a predator.

“This is trust,” he murmured, trailing one finger down your spine. “You’d let me destroy you if I wanted.”

“Yes,” you breathed.

“But I won’t,” he said. “Not really.”

He shoved you onto the bed. Spanked you again. Spread your legs wide and knelt between them.

And he ate you out like a man starved.

His mouth was hot and rough—tongue curling, lips sucking your clit hard. You tried to buck, tried to close your legs, but the ropes held you fast.

“König—please—please!”

“Stay open,” he growled. “Take it.”

Your back arched. Your screams echoed.

And when you came, he didn’t stop.

He kept licking. Sucking. Teasing until you were sobbing with overstimulation.

Then, finally, he flipped you onto your stomach, untied your hands, and shoved his cock inside you with a brutal thrust.

He fucked you with his full weight. One hand on your throat, the other tangled in your hair.

“Say it,” he panted. “Say who owns you.”

“You do,” you sobbed. “You do.”

And that was when he came—groaning, pressing his face to your neck, shaking from the force of it.

You both collapsed.

He curled around you like a shield.

Part 4: The Mirror

You didn’t expect him to take you to the mirror.

But that night, he lifted you, carried you across the room—and pinned you to the glass.

“Look,” he said, voice low and dangerous.

You did.

You saw yourself, flushed, panting, marked.

You saw him behind you. Eyes wild. Muscles flexing as he slid inside you again.

“Look how pretty you are,” he growled. “Look how you fall apart for me.”

You moaned, tears spilling as he fucked you hard—so hard the mirror trembled.

He grabbed your chin and forced your gaze upward.

“Tell her she’s beautiful.”

You hesitated.

Spank.

“Say it.”

“She’s beautiful,” you gasped.

“Louder.”

“She’s beautiful.”

He kissed your neck. “Good girl.”

He kept going. Faster. Rougher.

You came screaming, legs giving out. He held you up, fucked you harder, chased his own release.

When he came, he bit your shoulder gently and growled your name.

❣️❣️❣️

Afterward, he bathed you.

Held you in his lap. Whispered in German. Kissed your swollen lips like they were sacred.

“You’re not just mine,” he said. “You’re the only person who’s ever let me be mine.”

You curled into his chest.

And whispered:

“Because I trust you too.”

[agrimbeamwrites]

König x Reader

TW:torture, angsty, smut

Ashes in the Mouth, part 3

You don’t pull away.

That’s the first thing he notices.

He’s waiting for it—flinching at the idea, the image of your body stepping back. But your skin is warm under his fingers, your breathing steady, your hands reaching for him like you want more.

“Tell me to stop,” he says again, voice rough and uneven. You don’t.

Instead, you rise up onto your toes, curl your fingers around the hem of his shirt, and whisper, “Take it off.”

His breath catches. Not because of lust, not yet, but because of fear. Hope. The kind that tastes like hunger and pain all at once.

He doesn’t move for a second.

Then he peels the shirt off slowly, exposing that broad, scarred chest, the one you’ve only seen glimpses of beneath cotton and hesitation.

You step closer.

Your fingers press to his sternum. He’s solid under your touch. Warm. Real. And trembling slightly, like he’s still not convinced this isn’t a dream.

“Hmm…” you murmur, your voice soft, reverent.

His hands hover at your sides.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you say.

And that’s what breaks him.

Not lust. Not the shape of your body.

But the way you say it.

Like he’s worthy of being wanted.

⸻

The first kiss is quiet.

It shouldn’t be. He’s massive, all muscle and shadow, with hands that could crush and a past that almost did.

But when he kisses you, he’s gentle.

Soft.

His mouth trembles against yours, unsure at first—like he’s afraid of his own hunger.

So you guide him.

You tilt your chin, press closer, part your lips slowly. He breathes you in like you’re oxygen. Like he’s been suffocating and didn’t know until now.

Your hands slide up his chest, feeling the tremor in his muscles, the hesitation in his breath.

When you whisper, “It’s okay,” he lets go of a breath that sounds like a prayer.

⸻

Clothes fall away slowly.

You undress each other in pieces, layers of fabric, layers of fear.

When your shirt drops to the floor and he sees you bare for the first time, his hands clench at his sides.

“You’re…” His voice breaks. “You’re beautiful.”

You flush, but hold his gaze.

“So are you.”

He huffs a disbelieving breath, but when you touch his chest again, he lets you.

You trace every scar. Every freckle. Every line he’s spent years hiding.

“You’re not too much,” you whisper. “You’ve never been too much.”

He closes his eyes. His hands finally settle on your waist. Huge, calloused, but tender. Like he’s still afraid he’ll break you.

“Let me show you,” you say.

⸻

When he lays you down, he moves like someone carrying a secret.

Careful. Silent. Intentional.

He leans over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other trailing along your side like he’s memorizing the shape of you.

“Still okay?” he asks.

You nod.

He doesn’t just want permission—he wants certainty. Trust.

You thread your fingers through his hair and tug him down for a kiss.

“More than okay.”

⸻

He takes his time.

Worships you.

His mouth maps your skin, hot and reverent. He moans into you. Small, breathless sounds that feel like gratitude.

Every kiss, every touch, is a quiet confession:

I’m still learning how to want without shame.

I’m still learning how to take without hurting.

I’m still learning how to be touched.

When he finally presses himself inside you, he freezes—overwhelmed by the feeling, the intimacy, the gravity of it all.

You cup his face, grounding him.

“Breathe. You’re okay.”

He nods, jaw tight, eyes glassy.

He’s so big. Stretching you wide, slow and deep. You gasp, your legs tightening around his hips.

“I—I’m not hurting you?”

“No,” you breathe. “You’re perfect. Don’t stop.”

He lets out a strangled sound and begins to move.

⸻

It’s not rough.

It’s deep.

Every thrust feels like it comes with a piece of him, buried inside you like he’s trying to carve out a space to belong.

His name falls from your lips like worship.

He drops his head to your shoulder, panting, muttering things in German; soft, desperate phrases that sound like please, like more, like don’t let this end.

You rake your fingers down his back, whispering that you’re here. That he’s not lost. That this is real.

His hips stutter.

The pressure builds between you, unbearable and beautiful.

And when you fall apart beneath him, shaking and gasping his name, he lets go with a raw, broken groan—like he’s never come before. Like this is the first time he’s ever been allowed to.

⸻

After, he doesn’t move for a long time.

You stay curled together, skin slick with sweat, breaths still uneven. His hand cradles your back. Yours strokes through his damp hair.

He doesn’t speak. Just holds you tighter every few minutes like he’s checking to make sure you’re still real.

Eventually, you whisper, “You’re shaking.”

He nods into your shoulder.

“Not scared,” he murmurs. “Just… I’ve never felt that before.”

“What?”

He pulls back just far enough to meet your eyes.

“Loved.”

Your heart cracks open.

You cup his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone.

“You are,” you say. “You are so loved.”

And for once, he doesn’t doubt it.

[agrimbeamwrites]

König x reader

TW: torture, angst, eventual smut

Ashes in the Mouth part 2

The first time you laugh in front of him, König freezes.

It’s not loud—just a breath of air from your chest, light and surprised, barely more than a smile with sound. He’d said something dry under his breath, so unexpected you couldn’t stop it from slipping out.

But he stiffens.

Like a threat just passed through the room.

You watch the change in him—his shoulders pulling back, his throat working as he tries to keep still.

“Sorry,” you say softly, setting your mug aside.

He doesn’t speak. For a second, you think you broke whatever fragile trust had started to form.

Then: “You weren’t laughing at me?”

Your heart cracks a little.

“No,” you say gently. “God, no.”

His hands rest on his knees, motionless.

“I forgot what that sounds like,” he murmurs.

The silence that follows is thick, but not heavy.

You shift just slightly closer on the couch—not enough to touch, just enough to be felt.

And when you smile again, he doesn’t look away.

⸻

He starts coming to your office more often.

At first, he just lingers near the door, standing with that giant frame of his like he doesn’t know how to shrink himself enough to belong. Eventually, he starts to sit.

Sometimes he watches you while you type. Sometimes he stares out the window, mask shifting with each slow breath. Sometimes, if he’s especially tired, he leans his head back against the wall and closes his eyes—never sleeping, but resting in your presence like it’s the only safe place in the world.

And once, during one of those quiet spells, you glance up to find him watching you.

His gaze doesn’t flinch when you meet it.

He doesn’t look ashamed. Or startled. Or caught.

He just watches, slow and careful, like he’s learning your face.

It leaves your chest too full for words.

⸻

You find him in the gym one night.

It’s close to midnight. The halls are quiet, lights dimmed. You only went to grab something from the office—but the sound of movement drew you in.

König’s shirt is damp, sleeves rolled up, hands wrapped. He’s not hitting the punching bag. Just standing there. Breathing heavily. Fists clenched at his sides.

You step softly into the room.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

He doesn’t answer.

You move closer, but slow. Always slow with him.

He speaks without turning. “I keep hearing them.”

You stop.

“In the walls. The floors. When it’s quiet.”

You exhale. “Phantom sounds. It’s normal. The brain tries to fill the silence after trauma.”

He turns toward you, and even behind the mask, you feel the weight of his stare.

“They called me a dog,” he says. “Said I’d follow anything if it sounded like a command.”

Your chest tightens. “They were wrong.”

His jaw works under the fabric.

“Were they?”

You cross the room, heart pounding. “You’re not a dog, König. You’re not a weapon. You’re a man who survived something that should’ve killed him.”

He stares at you for a long moment.

Then, almost brokenly: “Then why do I still feel like a thing?”

Your hands tremble before you reach out, brushing your fingertips along his forearm. He tenses—then relaxes under your touch.

“You’re not a thing,” you whisper. “You’re here. And that matters.”

His eyes soften. Just a little.

“Stay,” he says quietly.

You stay. Until the lights flicker off around you. Until you forget what time it is.

⸻

You don’t know exactly when the touches start.

They’re never inappropriate. Never even discussed.

But they linger.

A hand on your back as you pass each other in the hall. His fingers brushing yours when you hand him a coffee. The way his knee sometimes bumps yours under the table and he doesn’t pull away.

And once—just once—you fall asleep in your chair while waiting on a report.

When you wake, your legs are draped over his lap. One of his giant hands rests at the bend of your knee, warm and steady, and he doesn’t move until you do.

⸻

He takes off the mask one evening.

Not in a grand gesture. Not with a warning.

Just lifts it slowly as you read aloud from a worn book. You pause when you realize, heartbeat stuttering.

You’ve seen him without it only once—briefly. But this time, he wants you to see.

His face is all sharp lines and bruised history. Scars—old and recent. A small nick across the bridge of his nose. A healing cut near his lip.

You close the book.

He watches you cautiously, breath shallow.

“You don’t have to pretend,” he says.

You reach out, brushing your fingers against the side of his jaw.

“I’m not pretending.”

He closes his eyes, head tilting slightly into your touch like it aches just to be held.

⸻

There are nights when he paces.

Nights when you find him shirtless at the kitchen table, sweat-damp and haunted, eyes red like he hasn’t blinked in hours.

He never asks you to come close. But when you do, he softens. Slowly. Always slowly.

And one night, while the rain taps gently at the windows, you press your hand to his bare chest.

He doesn’t stop you.

Your palm rests over his heartbeat.

Steady. Solid. Human.

He looks down at you, eyes wide and searching.

“You’re the first person who’s ever touched me like I’m not something to fear,” he says.

You feel that in your ribs.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you whisper.

He swallows hard. Then, almost pleading:

“Stay.”

So you stay. And you sit in his lap, and his arms curl around you like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground.

⸻

The discharge comes through two weeks later.

Medical leave. Psychological trauma. Clean record, but clear message: you’ve given enough.

He doesn’t say anything for a full day.

Then he shows up at your door, holding the letter like it’s burning his fingers.

“They’re right,” he says.

You fold your arms. “No. They’re just done taking more from you.”

He slumps into your chair. “I don’t know who I am without this.”

“You’re still König.”

He shakes his head. “No. I’m Aleksander now.”

You kneel in front of him, place your hands on his thighs.

“Then let Aleksander figure out who he wants to be.”

He looks at you like he wants to believe that.

Like you might be the only reason he’s still here.

⸻

He invites you to leave with him.

No plan. No promises. Just raw hope.

You don’t hesitate.

⸻

The place he finds is outside the city. Quiet. Secluded. Safe.

You take a leave of absence. A few weeks at first, then longer.

It doesn’t take long to fall into rhythm.

He’s still restless at night. You still talk him down from nightmares. But there’s laughter now. Inside jokes. He calls you by your first name like it’s something precious.

He watches you when you’re not looking.

And when you are.

And you let him.

You want him to.

⸻

One night, you step out of the shower, towel-wrapped and half asleep, and find him in the doorway. He’s freshly shaven, hair damp, t-shirt clinging to his chest.

He just stares at you for a second.

You stare back.

Neither of you speaks.

Then, he steps forward. Slowly. One hand lifts—shaky, reverent—and brushes your cheek.

You don’t move.

You can feel the heat in his touch. The way his eyes search yours for hesitation. For doubt.

There’s none.

You press your hand over his. Lean into the warmth. Let him see how much you want this—him.

He swallows hard. His thumb brushes the corner of your mouth.

You whisper, “Aleks…”

His name hits him like a strike to the heart.

He leans in—slowly, carefully—until his forehead rests against yours. Breath mingling. Heat growing.

But he doesn’t kiss you.

Not yet.

You feel it building, thick in the air between you.

When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse.

“Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

Instead, you whisper back:

“I’m right here.”

[agrimbeamwrites]

[agrimbeamwrites]

König x reader

Angst, eventual smut

TW: Torture

Ashes in the Mouth, Part One

They found him in a concrete hole six days after his last transmission.

The intel had been bad—purposefully so. A set-up, a trap, a cruel manipulation of trust. König had gone in expecting scattered hostiles and came face-to-face with a blacksite rigged to break ghosts.

They hadn’t expected him to survive.

He nearly didn’t.

When they pulled him out, he didn’t speak.

He didn’t fight, didn’t cry, didn’t thank them.

He just stood there—shaking, shirtless, drenched in blood and something darker—and stared at the floor like the sky had caved in.

And when they tried to take his pulse, he flinched so hard the medic almost lost a hand.

⸻

They gave him a private room in a secure facility. No windows. Neutral lighting. Soft voices. The kind of place designed for men who’ve seen too much and lived to regret it.

You’d only been there a few months—trauma support, mostly. You weren’t military. Not like them. You were a civilian psychologist with a file full of confidentiality waivers and a bedside manner sharp enough to cut through armor.

But König didn’t want help.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t eat much. Didn’t sleep.

He didn’t even take off the new mask they gave him—black, cloth, loose around the edges. His old one had been stripped from him. Burned, probably. A symbol of his identity taken away along with everything else.

You read his file twice.

Once as a clinician.

Once as a person who gave a shit.

Austria-born.

Severe childhood bullying.

Enlisted young. Sniper. Massive. Barely fit in most vehicles.

Hypervigilant. Anxious. Prone to overstimulation and overcompensation.

Terrifying in combat.

Gentle outside it.

You knocked gently the first time you entered.

“May I?”

No answer.

He sat on the edge of the bed, massive frame hunched forward, fingers clenched into fists so tight the knuckles went white. The mask cast his eyes in shadow.

You sat anyway. Not close. Just near enough to count as present.

“I’m not here to fix you,” you said after a while. “I just didn’t want you to be alone.”

Silence. Heavy. Tense. But not rejecting.

So you stayed.

⸻

Days bled together.

He didn’t talk, but he started letting you sit near him.

He flinched less when you entered. Sometimes he even looked at you—just for a second. Long enough to feel the weight behind those eyes. The kind of weight only men who’d been dragged through hell understood.

You didn’t ask about what they’d done to him. You’d seen the marks—deep bruises, cigarette burns, rope wounds around his wrists. The medical team said he had three cracked ribs, one fractured orbital bone, and countless contusions.

But he never complained.

Didn’t wince.

Didn’t grimace.

Just existed in silence.

⸻

One night, the storm came.

Thunder rattled the windows in the hallway. The rain slammed against the roof like gunfire.

You heard it before you saw it—something crashing, a chair overturned. The door to his room was ajar.

You found him on the floor, crouched in the corner, hands over his ears, body trembling like a bomb waiting to detonate. His breaths came fast, panicked. The mask was soaked through with sweat.

“König,” you said gently. “It’s just a storm. You’re safe. You’re not there anymore.”

He didn’t hear you. Or maybe he did, but the memories were louder.

You dropped to your knees beside him.

“I’m here,” you whispered. “You’re not alone. You’re not trapped. You’re not broken.”

His hands twitched.

“I’m not touching you,” you added. “But I will if you want. Just nod.”

A long pause.

Then, the slightest movement. Barely a dip of his head.

You reached out, slow and careful, placing your palm on his forearm.

It was like touching a furnace.

The heat of adrenaline. The panic. The pain.

But he didn’t pull away.

⸻

After that, the silence began to break.

In pieces.

Some nights he’d ask if you’d sit beside the bed. He’d say it quietly—gravel and rust in his voice—but he said it.

Once, during a thunderstorm, he asked you to talk. Anything. Didn’t matter what. Just sound.

You told him about your favorite book. About a street vendor in Prague who sold candied plums. About the time you tried yoga and tore your hamstring.

He didn’t laugh.

But he listened.

Another day, he murmured, “They kept the lights on.”

You didn’t ask what he meant.

He told you anyway.

“All night. Bright. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t hide. They wanted me to lose time.”

You swallowed thickly. “That’s torture.”

He flinched at the word.

You softened. “That’s what it was. What they did. Not who you are.”

He was quiet for a long time.

Then: “They said I was a dog. Said men like me only know how to follow orders.”

You stared at him.

“You’re not a dog, König.”

He looked up. His eyes, when they met yours, were bloodshot but searching.

“I feel like one,” he whispered. “I keep expecting the next command.”

⸻

There were good days, too.

One morning, he stepped outside. Just for a moment. Just into the courtyard.

The sun hit his shoulders. He tilted his head like he hadn’t felt it in years.

Another day, he caught you yawning mid-sentence.

“Go,” he murmured. “You need sleep.”

It was the first time he sounded like himself. Like König. The version people described in the field—blunt, protective, loyal.

You smiled. “Only if you promise to sleep too.”

He hesitated.

Then nodded.

⸻

But healing isn’t linear.

And some nights still hurt.

One evening, you found him standing in front of the mirror, staring at his reflection. His mask was off.

You froze. You’d never seen him without it.

His face was gaunt, bruised. His eyes were hollow.

He didn’t look at you. Just asked:

“Would you still sit with me if I looked like this?”

You stepped into the room.

“Yes,” you said. “A thousand times yes.”

He didn’t cry.

But his shoulders dropped. And something deep inside him shifted.

⸻

The nightmares came less often.

He started walking without flinching at shadows.

He started using his real name again—just once, under his breath.

“Aleksander.”

You smiled. “That’s a good name.”

“I used to hate it.”

“Do you still?”

He thought for a moment.

“No. Not anymore.”

⸻

One afternoon, you found a package outside your office door. No note. No name.

Inside was a stitched patch—his old insignia.

Underneath it, in jagged, careful letters, were the words: Thank you for seeing me.

You didn’t cry.

Not right away.

You just held it to your chest and whispered, “Anytime.”

⸻

Later that week, he knocked on your door.

Not shuffled. Not stumbled.

Knocked.

You opened it and found him standing tall. He still wore the mask. But his posture was different—steadier. Stronger.

“I was thinking…” he said, voice slow, deliberate. “If you’re not too busy… maybe we could sit outside again. Just for a while.”

You smiled, heart warm.

“I’d like that.”

⸻

The wind was soft that day. The sun low and golden.

He didn’t say much. But he didn’t have to.

Because sometimes healing isn’t about forgetting.

It’s about remembering with someone beside you.

And for the first time in a long time, König wasn’t alone in the silence.

He was seen.

He was safe.

And he was still here.

[agrimbeamwrites]

I miss Stardust Crusaders like a MF

so I sketched my faves

[agrimbeamwrites]

I can feel the hyperfixation

hola lindo