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charliemwrites · 1 month

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There are men across the street.

The house (and you use the term generously) that slumps there has been vacant for some time now. Ever since you moved in a couple years ago, actually. It’s an eyesore for sure. Graffiti on the walls, boards on the windows, a basketball-sized hole in the roof. The porch is the worst of it. Sagging in the middle and crumbling on the ends, stripped and moss-encrusted wood.

But today there are men there, stomping up and down the groaning steps in big, steel-toed boots.

You watch for a bit from the safety of your kitchen window, sipping coffee and batting your cat off the counter. They don’t look like a normal construction crew - wearing all black and not so much as a hammer on their belts. Three of them that you can see, one about average height, one tall, and one very tall. The tall one tags after the shortest of them often, gets pushed and shoved and snapped at it seems like.

You lose interest when the coffee runs out and your phone chimes, shooing you off to the grocery store. All three have disappeared inside by the time you saunter out, keys jingling and reusable bags in hand.

Margot says they’re renovating - likely some rich man’s retirement project. The same thing happened just down the street six months before you moved in, and now Joe has solar panels.

She postulates over the situation across the street while taking delicate bites of the cheesecake she brought over. (A test recipe for her niece’s baby shower in a few weeks. You don’t tell her that it’s too sweet and just sip your tea between bites.) She hypothesizes that one of them is this hypothetical rich man’s son, bringing some handy friends around for extra hands to work.

It sounds about as plausible as Agatha’s mutterings that they’re drug lords, so you nod along and watch your calico sneak up on your tuxedo behind her.

The garden is your own little retirement project. (You’re not actually retired, no matter what your sister snipes. But some smart money moves and a successful writing career is virtually the same with no kids and no spouse.) It’s going about as well as the renovations across the street - which is say, better and quicker than expected.

You planted clover in the yard, and are working on wildflowers in the boxes. The clover is already blooming, little flower tufts springing up for bumblebees to perch on. The wildflowers are mixed success so far, but nothing is dead yet.

You mostly just tootle around to be outside - allotted sunshine lest you become the shut in Bertram accused you of your first couple months.

The cats watch you pick at weeds from the window. Or two of them do. The other one is glaring from the fridge, angry that you tossed her back inside when she tried to slip past your ankles. (With any luck, you’ll have another sibling for them soon, but the handsome orange thing that keeps coming by at dawn and dusk is too stupid to be caught.) All three of them shift to look at something over your shoulder.

“Excuse.”

You don’t startle, thankfully. The voice may be unfamiliar, but neighbors stop by consistently enough that you’re not surprised to have your solitude interrupted.

What you are surprised by is the tall (very, very tall) man standing at the edge of your front yard. One of the renovators.

“Hi,” you say, straightening.

He points a gloved finger at you - no, not at you. Past you. At your cats.

“May I see them?” He asks in a thick German accent.

You blink, surprised and confused.

He’s a big man. Not just unusually tall, but broad as well. Muscle tugs at the fabric of his shirt, cargo pants clinging to his thighs. He also hasn’t bothered to take off the heavy duty dust mask, black sunglasses, or jacket hood obscuring his features. Looks like he’s about to rob you, honestly.

But Agatha’s uncharitable muttering about delinquent men rings like a warning toll. You’re at risk of sinking into the judgmental sea of upper-middle class suburbia, and that’s not water you want to tread.

“Sure!” You reply, ignoring his lack of introduction. “One sec.”

The cats see you dart from view and hurry to meet you at the door, meowing and yowling. You crack it open only wide enough to snatch up your precious firstborn, his leggies sticking out in abject bafflement at being airborne. You make guilty eye contact with your other two fiends before swiftly wedging the door shut again.

Then adjust your son, his little paws resting on your shoulder as you turn. Your visitor is standing right where you left him, perks up when he sees the cat bundled in your arms.

“This is Guy.”

You step closer, ignoring that shred of nervousness that being close to any man (especially one so physically intimidating) brings. To his credit, he only shuffles just enough to offer his hand for inspection.

“Guy?” he asks.

“I wasn’t going to adopt him at first, so I just called him Little Guy for so long that he thought that was his name. And then I did adopt him and now he won’t answer to anything else.”

You come by the rambling honestly - an obligate introvert until you moved to this neighborhood. There are few things you ever want to talk about with strangers, but your cats are one of them.

“He is a little guy,” the man muses.

Guy has no reservations about rubbing his fat face on the stranger’s glove, a purr kicking up in his chest. You relax as the man keeps his touch gentle and slow, that little bit of paranoid tension trickling into the soil beneath your feet.

“The other two aren’t as well behaved, I don’t trust them without harnesses on,” you add, nodding at the window.

The man glances up at them. Doesn’t seem to realize that his demise (and yours) is imminent from their glares.

“What are their names?”

You flush. “Rasputin and Shithead. I tell everyone else her name is Susan though.”

A sharp bark of laughter splits the air like a falling ax, cracks right down the middle. It makes you jump a bit - Guy is expectedly unbothered - but still you find yourself gratified. Laughing is good, it means you’re doing things right.

“Sorry,” he says, “but my friend would like that name.”

You gesture at the house across the street. “One of them?”

“Yes, the short one.”

You only just manage not to snort in amusement, but it doesn’t stop him from noticing. The mask moves, you think he might be grinning underneath.

“Does he know you call him that?”

“Not if you don’t tell him.”

You doubt you’ll have the opportunity even if you wanted to.

Someone’s at the door.

You’re only half-dressed, waist deep in laundry you have no excuse for putting off so long. Aren’t expecting company either - it’s Sunday morning, everyone should be at their various churches or visiting relatives. Can’t remember the last time someone knocked before noon on a Sunday.

Still, it was a big solid knock. The kind that makes you think it’s not the usual neighbor come by to impose on your space.

You glance down at the hem of your sweatshirt, determine it’s far enough down your thighs to be acceptable, and pad to the door.

You open it to another of the renovators. The “short” one - though you readjust that measurement quickly. He’s still taller than you, it’s just that most anyone seems diminutive compared to his friend.

“Morning,” you chime.

“We need your driveway.” His voice is low and rough, blunt. A sledgehammer to concrete. Also German-accented, you note.

“Oh,” you reply, “what for?”

He grunts. “Work.”

And you, a longtime observer of politely shaking people down for information by this point, smile without teeth.

“Oh, a work truck? It won’t make a mess will it?”

“No.”

You hum, glance at your stupid little sedan parked in the middle of the driveway.

“Okay, I’ll move — Shithead!”

You scramble to grab at the black and white blur of evil, sweeping her up in your arms as she meows in complaint. One of her back feet catches in the hem of your sweatshirt and starts to pull it up as she kicks. You curl an arm under her butt for support, but mostly she just takes the opportunity to chomp down on the meat of your thumb.

You glance at the man. “Shithead is very interested in the renovations.”

He stares. “So that is actually its name. I thought you were being rude and Konig didn’t realize.”

Ah, so that’s his name. You never did get that introduction.

“No, yeah, this is Shithead, I’m sure you can see why.”

The corner of his mouth twitches as she unlatches from your thumb, only to bite down on your wrist.

“So! The truck - when will it be here?”

“Noon.”

“Great! See you around!” You shut the door in his face without getting a name.

You threaten, not for the first time, to turn her into a pair of mittens. She responds by attacking your foot until Rasputin tackles her. Guy cries at the door, probably missing a man he met for all of two minutes.

The work truck stays through the night. Your cats spend all afternoon watching the men cross the street and back. Every once in a while, Guy puts his little feet up on the glass - Konig must be passing by.

You glance out the kitchen window only once and make hard eye contact with the third of their trio. He’s somehow even more covered up than Konig, and yet you get the distinct impression that your gaze is not welcome.

You blink and abandon the dishes for later.

The next morning, they’re already at it when you shuffle outside for the mail. Konig raises a slow hand in greeting, but visibly brightens when you smile sleepily and wave back.

You pass the work truck - the back panel is already open for them to unload wood beams and heavy-looking buckets. Construction stuff, as expected - and not messy, as promised.

You spot a red and white flag decal on the rear window. Austria, isn’t it?

“Did you just wake up?” a flat voice asks.

You squint a little through the morning sun at the man from the day before. The rude one.

You yawn. “Mhmm.”

He frowns at you, disapproval plain. Agatha will like him, you muse, shoving a hand in your mailbox. They both seem to have strong opinions about your sleep schedule.

“It is late.”

“It’s only 8.” You tug out a sheaf of envelopes and begin idly flipping through them.

“The sun is up.”

“So what?”

He clicks his tongue disdainfully. You absently click back. Then jump as a big body lands right in front of you. The third man, two wooden beams balanced on his shoulder. He makes brief eye contact with you again, then strides across the street.

“Shoo,” the rude one says. “Men at work, yes?”

You grumble. “See if I bring you cookies.”

Konig glances up from the truck bed, eyes shining. “Cookies?”

Well shit.

Rasputin keeps you company while you cook. He’s the only one allowed on the counter for any length of time. Shithead steals anything and everything, or bats at your hands while you work. Guy has the equal parts endearing and infuriating habit of touching everything with his paws.

Rasputin is the only one who will sit quietly to observe, leaning in for the occasional kiss. Today, he’s watching you bake cookies and assemble sandwiches. A dual-purpose welcome and peace offering to the three men across the street.

Is it too much? Maybe. But you’ve got nothing better to do and kindness won’t break your bank, so. Cookies and sandwiches.

You change clothes while the cookies cool on the pan - a sundress for the warm, late-spring weather. They’ve seen you in your pajamas far too much already.

At the door, you hesitate. This house doesn’t feel inhabited yet, but it also doesn’t feel right to just open the door. It’s quiet inside, so no power tools to drown you out. Making a face, you settle for a firm knock. It takes a minute or two - you think you might hear distant shouting. Then the door swings in fast and hard, nearly startling you.

It’s the third of their trio, the one you’ve yet to speak to. He’s covered head to toe, fabric around his head and face, leaving only sharp blue eyes to glare out.

“Hi,” you begin, hands thankfully too full to fidget. “I brought food.”

His eyes flick to the foil-covered platter in your hands. Then he swings the door wide and pivots on his heel.

“The cat comes too.”

Cat?

You glance down. Sure enough, Rasputin is standing by your legs, his remaining half a tail swishing. You sputter at him - didn’t even realize he snuck out - but all you get is his characteristic raspy “mah” noise. Right then.

He politely trots by your side as you enter, not even shy about your curiosity. The place is gutted, stripped walls and scuffed floors. It smells like dust and plaster and shaved wood. All the lights have been ripped out of the ceiling, exposing wires like nerve-endings.

There are two empty rooms to either side upon entry, a den and a dining room probably. The den even seems to be split into two, with one half sunk lower, accessible by a couple steps.

You follow your unexpected host through the “dining room,” which seems to be more of a satellite staging zone at the moment. There are piles of tools, stacks of materials, a little island of canvas bags. As you pass through, you notice a staircase, and even from the ground floor, you can see that it crosses over to the den on the other side.

The kitchen is stationed towards the back of the house. You try not to wince at the state of the counters. Pockmarked, blistered, scratched, burned, cracked laminate.

The floor has already been pried up to reveal smooth concrete. You scan it quickly for anything that could hurt Rasputin’s feet before entering.

Your neighbor gestures for you to set the platter down on an empty patch of counter, so you do, peeling back the foil.

“Cookies and sandwiches,” you explain just to have something to say.

“Why?” he asks.

You shrug. “To be nice.”

He stares. You blink back.

“I mean, you don’t have to eat them,” you add. “It would just be a waste.”

Rasputin chooses that moment to leap onto the counter, taking a moment to steady himself once he’s landed. With only one eye and a crooked leg, he’s not the most acrobatic or graceful of your babies, but he makes do.

To your shock, though, once he’s gained his bearings, he makes like he’s going to eat one of the sandwiches.

“Ras,” you gasp, surprised. “Absolutely not!”

The little shit doesn’t even resist when you nudge him away, just settles on his haunches, staring at your neighbor. And, to your confusion, your neighbor grunts.

“Konig! Krueger!” he barks.

That must be the rude one’s name. Krueger. You file that tidbit away.

“What’s your name?” You ask. “No one’s told me.”

He eyes you - dare you say suspiciously - letting the silence stretch.

“Nikto,” he rasps finally.

You finish introducing yourself just as the other two enter. Konig’s down to just the dust mask today, while Krueger seems to have donned one for himself.

“You,” Krueger says.

You arch your eyebrows back. “Me.”

“What brings you here?” Konig interjects, much friendlier.

“Well, you really seemed to want cookies yesterday, so I thought I’d bring some with lunch as a welcome to the neighborhood.”

He practically shoves Krueger to get to the kitchen. You politely get out of the way so he can indulge in your offering without getting trampled.

“Danke schön,” he says, scooping up a sandwich.

“No problem,” you answer, smiling.

Krueger deigns to sidle closer, inspecting the platter with a keen eye. Still, you think you see a bit of appreciation in them before he snatches up one of the sandwiches. For some (concerning) reason, you’re gratified by that. (You’ll just blame it on your habit of feeding ferals and strays.)

“I also wanted to give you three a little warning…” Three pairs of eyes pin you in place. You try not to grimace. “Everyone on this block is nosy as hell. They will literally peak in your yard and check your mail.”

“The mail?” Konig asks, appalled.

“Yeah, I started using a PO Box,” you sigh. You’ve only got so much sanity before you start taking sniper shots with a water gun.

“We will handle it,” Krueger says.

“I’m sure,” you demure. “Anyway, that was all. You can drop the platter off later - or I can come get it. It’s not like you’re far.”

You start looking for Rasputin, only to find him perched on Nikto’s broad shoulder. The man doesn’t even seem bothered by the claws digging through his shirt, scratching a finger at the calico’s cheek.

“Huh,” you say, surprised.

Nikto glances at you, pauses. “What?”

You snort at the bluntness, but grin. “Usually I’m the only one allowed to pet him.”

That’s three for three. Well, two and a half. Shithead could have been trying or escape or go for the ankles for all you know. But Krueger seemed to like her, so that counts for something.

“C’mon my little tank, let’s go,” you coo, approaching.

Rasputin nuzzles his face against Nikto’s once, gives him a parting mraw, then leaps into your waiting arms.

“Bye, guys!” You call, waving over your shoulder as you head for the door.

Konig is the only one to respond with a polite, “see you!” But you don’t take it to heart.

#cod #thoughts™️#my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #konig #konig x you #konig x reader #nikto x reader #sebastian krueger #krueger x reader #cod nikto #konig cod #neighbor!reader

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konigsblog · 3 months

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WARNINGS: STEPCEST, NON-CON/DUB-CON, MANIPULATION, INTOXICATION, ALCOHOL CONSUMPTION.

stepbrothers könig and krueger... those cheeky, cruel bastards, having no remorse for what they do to their younger stepsister. :(

they're brutal and harsh with their words; slut shaming and victim blaming you, telling you that it was your fault, that you came onto them in your drunken, intoxicated and needy state.

krueger and könig will make you sob pathetically, after slipping an aphrodisiac into your drink, watching you fidget with your hands and squirm in your seat at the sensation of your cum-soaked panties. arousal runs down your soft, supple thighs in droplets, rubbing them together in fruitless attempt at concealing the way your body was suddenly reacting. they'd handed you more alcohol, forcing it down your throat while they became more touchy, your perspective on your stepbrothers beginning to change and become warped, twisted into something it shouldn't be.

as they were your stepbrothers, their duty was to protect you, to care for you. yet, they took advantage of the power and authority they had over you. through your drunken state, you didn't recognise them as your stepbrothers anymore, beginning to rub against them in an attempt to seduce them, smirking at one another as they began to peel your wet, slick panties off. your lips attached to krueger's, dragging your tongue over his bottom lip and intertwining your tongue with his, while könig pressed his muscular hips around you, running his bulbous, hot cock over your folds. he gave you a last chance to redeem yourself, to realise how perverted you looked, before he took what he desired.

he rolled his broad hips against your rear, chuckling hoarsely at the sound of you sucking in a sharp, deep breath. you moaned against krueger's lips as könig grinded himself against you, holding back his grunts as he prodded against your slit. your hole weeped, desiring to be filled and stuffed full, while your pretty head was all fucked up and confused, feeling krueger guide your head lower to his crotch. sat on all fours like a mutt, your ass in the air and your face pressed and nuzzled against krueger's hot, bulging crotch, the feeling and outline of his hard, stiff dick leaving you drooling over his boxers. you moaned blissfully as könig began to thrust against you, pushed inside of your puffy, wet heat. your body ached and your cunt throbbed at the stretch, yet, you pleaded for the man behind you to go harder, unaware of what was really going on...

your lips opened, wrapping around krueger's lengthy, veiny dick, as he began to push and guide your head lower, throwing his head back as you took him all the way down to the base. something inside of you twisted, your stomach churning with guilt and unknown shame, not understanding why it felt so wrong, but so so good all at the same time... your moans were silenced and muffled as you sucked krueger's dick, leaving his balls coated in drool as your coated him in spit, panting and heaving and attempting to catch your breath as könig rammed and slammed against your poor, tight ass.

your core tightened with your orgasm, arousal building up inside of you, causing your eyes to glisten and your pussy to throb and pulse around könig uncontrollably. god, they knew how disgusting and depraved this was; to perv on their younger stepsister, in your vulnerable and reliant state. you clung to them, sucking krueger off and looking into his eyes with shame, while könig's balls smacked against your cunt repeatedly, sending you over the edge, bruising your warm wetness and leaving you shaken up with cum dripping from your tongue.

the next morning, your body felt weak and the realisation left you trembling and disgusted. unable to look at them in the eye, or even yourself in the mirror. thinking about how depraved you were last night, while they told you it wasn't their fault – their bodies reacted, and they were just treating you right, after all, that's their duty, taube. :(

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diejager · 1 month

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Please, I need a continuation of the story of !kidnapper Krueger and Nikto! Please!!

New Neighbours Cw: DARKFIC, DUB-CON/NON-CON, obsession, non-con touching, condescension, manhandling, tell me if I missed any. Wc: 1k Boy, it been a fat minute since I wrote that small Drabble.

There was a knock at the door, three blunt and powerful hits of sturdy knuckles shaking your door with how strong - you presumed - the person was. Dropping whatever you were working on, you walked to the door and peering through the peep hole, shocked to see the familiar black and khaki fabrics of your new neighbour. You’ve seen them once or twice in the month between their first move and today, the grizzly look and scarred skin of a brash-toned and brutish man you came to know him as from the few times you met him. He would stare at you, wide, owlish gazes that left you shuddering from the gleam in his brown eyes, a deep-seated darkness as he… appraised you.

He called himself Sebastian, presenting himself one night when you were stumbling home from a tiring day at work, stopping to help you up the stairs since his door was right across from you. You thought he lived alone, but was surprised to see another man, covered from head to toe in black and army green, hiding any identifiable feather apart from his pale, blue eyes and his broad shoulders, big and bulky even in his skin tight clothes. Sebastian’s roommate had only stared at you, unblinking and unmoving, seconds spent gazing at your anxious and uncomfortable form, messing with your sleeve while Sebastian helped you moved the bags to your kitchen table.

If you thought Sebastian the weird one, then Nikto - he was spoken for - was the odd one, a fierce man that only knew how to stare silently to upset whatever and whoever he was glaring at. You only saw him once, and that was a blurry and tired view of him from the open doorway across yours when Sebastian was helping you. You had little to go on for him, being more familiar to his roommate and occasionally exchanging a few words when you crossed path —though rarely, the seemingly never left their home.

“Hey, Sebastian,” you tilted your head in greeting, opening your door only wide enough to pop your head out and kept a hand firmly wrapped around the knob in case he did something. You’d always been cautious, and Sebastian and Niktowere suspicious men, “How can I help you?”

“Ja, I need help with something,” his soft, yet brash tone made his accent more apparent, something small but attractive despite your apprehension towards him, “A woman’s touch.”

A woman’s touch? You didn’t know what he meant exactly, but when you looked down to his thick and crooked fingers - perhaps from his work, broken and reset too many times that it started to heal crooked - you could guess what he implied. Your fingers were smaller, lither than his with fat on your knuckles and smaller palms, it made working through small and complex affairs easier. Despite your understanding, you grew uneasy, squinting at him from the safety of your door, but Sebastian was nothing if not determined. So you nodded, excusing yourself to change your clothes from a small top and shorts for a t-shirt and sweatpants before you met him at his entrance, locking your door behind you.

This was your first look into the world they lived in, a bare and minimalist home, scantly decorated apart from the few vests and- was that a gun? And knives littering the kitchen counter with other dangerous items… Seemingly aware of your fright, Sebastian explained how he and Nikto were private contractors, working for a PMC, a private military company, and that they were just on leave, but would always be ready for a call back. Shaking off your paranoia, you followed him deeper into the kitchen, seeing the machinery littered on the table and beside it sat Nikto, ramrod and tense in his seat.

“женщина,” he growled out, his voice so raspy and low that you wondered if it hurt to speak a single word. [Woman]

“Nikto,” you returned, following Sebastian to the table and ignoring Nikto’s wide stare, his vacant eyes and lingering gaze, roving over your body and obsessively admiring you like a hunter would, “Is this what you needed help with?”

Sebastian showed you what he needed, explaining where each small piece went into the box, guiding you around the confusion machinery while Nikto watched, a sentinel in his own flat. You were so engrossed into fixing this small box, brows pinched with concentration get this thing fixed as quick as possible to return to the safety of your apartment, that you missed Nikto’s silent stalk towards you, his broad and silent figure looming over your unsuspecting form until a rough hand gripped your hip.

You jumped, dropping the box and turned your head to gawk at Nikto, looking back at his - still - vacant eyes and wide and hungry glint. Frowning at him, you sunk your fingers into his hand, trying to move an unmovable wall that pushed himself against you, backing you into the table until he bent you over the now broken box you were first invited to fix. You struggled against Nikto, growling out a warning and clawed at his covered forearms, but it only riled him up. Sebastian stood and watched with a perverted eagerness as Nikto rutted against you, holding you down by the nape, scruffing you like you would a misbehaving dog.

“Get off me!” You yowled, reaching back with your arms, trying to elbow a man you knew you wouldn’t be able to forcefully remove with how built and big he was, “Get off me, Nikto!”

“Shut up,” you could hear his bared teeth, the cold and condescending tone of his rasp, sliding his knee between your kicking legs, your feet arbitrarily hitting the air, “Stop struggling and listen.”

A low rumble left the man before you, your glare meeting the Austrian who found this situation funny, his chuckle slow and mirthful, finding enjoyment in your useless struggle and hissing.

“I would listen to him, Schnuckel, ” he lowered himself to show the eagerness in his dark eyes, a cruel smirk curling the corners of his lips and a teasing tilt of his head, “Be good for us, nicht?”

You shouldn’t have accepted to help him, you should have listened to your gut feeling, but you have no one else to blame expect yourself.

Taglist: @sae1kie @yeoldedumbslut @bvxygriimes @distracteddragoness @konigsblog @im-making-an-effort @daisychainsinknots @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @danielle143 @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @notspiders @brokenpieces-72 @petwifed @randominstake @hayleybarnesx @shironasumi @sparky--bunny @bloobewy @cod-z @sweetnanah @aldis-nuts @evolutionarry @kaoyamamegami @cassiecasluciluce

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vasyandii · 7 months

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Headcanons of The Cousins

Beforehand: These are just my personal headcanons, it's okay if you don't like them; you are entitled to your own opinions and can freely scroll by.

Creator Notes: I headcanon that König's birth name is Darius Doss, I will be using that name and König interchangeably.

DARIUS "KÖNIG" DOSS

-I headcanon that he's Krueger's younger Cousin by a few months on his mother's side, hence the surname "Doss"

-Born with a cleft lip, a possible reason why he was bullied as a child alongside him being a fairly chubby kid.

-Took up smoking when he was 15 as a way to fit in, he's been clean for 12 years.

-In regards to his social anxiety, it's not that severe as it once was when he was a teen; he gets dizzy when his social battery is running low.

- Darius has dark brown hair, not blond/ginger, natural freckles.

-Buzzes his head constantly to keep cool, it must get hot in his sniper hood.

-Carries an abundance of gear; as much as he is confident in his abilities, he overthinks

-had a huge growth spurt when he was 18, so he went from 6' to 6'8".

-He's mean, alot meaner than Krueger, but he's more patient.

SEBASTIAN JOSEF KRUEGER

-I headcanon that he's König's Older cousin ( He would be 38 in Modern Warfare 2, so König being a colonel still makes sense to a degree)

-Buzzes his head occasionally, or when it gets too hot to manage

-Lost contact with his external family after he killed his parents, didn't reunite with König until He was in his mid thirties.

-Grew up with childhood food insecurity; even though he lived in one of the more wealthy parts in Austria, his parents didn't make good financial decisions to support a child.

-Started smoking at 15 as an act of rebellion, it slowly turned into a way to relieve stress in the field so he never stopped.

-Too smart for his own good, he was a problem child

-Wanted to look out for his cousin; he doesn't know if it was out of pity or genuine care

-Had the stupidest gelled up hairstyle when he was 16.

-Can't wink, so he just squints.

HEADCANONS FOR BOTH

-Their families often went on trips to Nordsee Beach when they were younger, gave them time to bond

-Awkwardness runs in their genes, Krueger is just so overly confident that he convinces himself things worked out

-Both extremely observant to the point it's kind of scary, must run in the family.

-Both are extremely intelligent however the moment they are put into a a room together they are two of the dumbest people on earth

- They pretend not to know each other while on duty during cross faction missions. (Both are kind of embarrassed to be related to each other)

-Darius has not forgiven Krueger for parricide.

If you made it this far to the post, I want to thank you for reading! Hopefully my rambles are coherent enough to be understandable xD Please have these Old sketches of them as babies/teens as a thank you :)

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod krueger #art #digital art #sebastian krueger #artwork #cod könig #könig cod #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #headcanons #cod headcanons #Vasyandii Art #cod art #call of duty art #COD fanart

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rookiesbookies · 5 months

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Geek Gods AU for CoD Boys

Masterlist is pinned on my account

Price:

Son of Zeus. God of Protectors and Leaders. Takes sacrifices of home cooked meals, razors, single woman over 30, and violent children who need a mentor/dad figure.

(See master list for the fic on what happened to the woman he got that was under 30)

Soap:

Son of Ares. God of Explosives. He takes gunpowder, ammo, lighters, flammable things, gas, and bakes goods.

Ghost:

Son of Hades and Persephone. God of the Winter (bc he’s so cold lmao). He takes sacrifices of animal furs, grain, spices, and face masks that protect from the cold.

Konig:

Son of Atlas. God of Mountains (im hilarious you can laugh). Hikers and travelers sacrifice to him for safe travels, especially if traveling North. Mount lions, cured meat, baked goods, and pine cones are sacrificed to him.

Keegan:

Son of Thanatos. God of Silent Deaths. Like being murdered silently or dying in your sleep. People sacrifice scorpions and poison berries to him. He has a holiday similar to day of the dead where you bring gifts to your dead family members.

Gaz:

Son of Hermes. Easy. He’s the God of falling from high places. People sacrifice feathers, birds, and bad drivers to him.

Krueger:

Sebastian is the son of the three Erinyes (goddess of vengeance and retribution). His job is to fulfill their wishes, as God of Executions. Likes sacrifices of dark colored birds, weapons, metals, and meat.

Let me know who else you want to see and if I should do lil fics about them?

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gremlingottoosilly · 7 months

Note

krueger mentioned!! i was so excited to see his name in IYNTBM! do you have any silly/dark hcs or plans to write about him?

Yes!! Krueger my beloved!! I feel like the only reason he isn't as popular as Konig is because he has a canon height that is shorter than 180, so people literally don't see him hehe. Hc and my plans under the cut!

I imagine him like a childhood best friend of Konig - probably around the same age, maybe Krueger is 2 years younger. He is a lieutenant in rank(idk about the mercenary ranks bear with me here, Konig is a colonel) and he wasn't promoted as much specifically because of his violent tendencies. PMC doesn't really care about war crimes as long as it's not a public spectacle, but even the companies he was working in were quite weirded out by the shit he was pulling. yes, he is the best man if you want to torture someone - and then again, he is the best torturer out here, and he sleeps next to you, drinks next to you, hits on the same girls as you etc... He is a nasty, nasty gremlin. The type to hit on the waitresses in a very sleazy manner, the type to say "Hey guys, let's protect this one" in a creepy manner if he sees a woman agreeing with him on his very controversial statements. Currently, in the timeline of IfYouNeedToBeMean, he is sitting home because of his arm injury(got stuck in the burning car, and had to break his arms to get out) and is very angsty and bored about it. Like Konig, he can't really enjoy civilian life, medical discharge is literally his worst days, and he actually has a history of depressive episodes. He DOES NOT cope well with civilian life, and his preferred hobby at home is drinking and ignoring his therapist's messages. Konig helped him quite a bit in his habit - gave the number of his therapist, bless this poor human, trying to support him as much as he can. Konig asks him to babysit his darling because he knows that more than one month at home would probably make Krueger consider killing himself, and he also trusts the man with his life - and his wife. Sebastian has a very perverted sense of morality, but he recognizes the reader as Konig's girl, and he would not touch the stuff that belongs to him. Yeah, we are "Konig's stuff" for him. If I was writing a different story and if Konig and Krueger met the reader at the same time, I would actually see them sharing her - they are not attracted to each other, but they feel like brothers sometimes and could have this mentality of sharing everything between them. Darling stuck with two nasty perverts...yeah, not the best scenario. Unlike Korangi x Reader, Konig and Krueger wouldn't sleep with each other - so you'd have to be their release every time, each time, giving him equal attention because Konig is insecure and Krueger just loves causing problems on purpose.

#cod #konig x reader #yandere konig #sebastian krueger #krueger x reader #yandere cod

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hvman-scvm · 5 months

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Hi, I heard you were taking requests. Do you write for Krüeger (cod) by any chance? If so, do you have any headcannons Yandere Krüeger x male military reader and how such a relationship might work out?

I do !! :) I didn’t mean 4 this 2 b so short but studying squeezed all the creativity out my brain

!! CW ;; typical yandere stuff, krueger is a bit manipulative, I went by the traditional / og meaning of yandere !!

🔪— yandere ! Krueger who, unlike lots of other yanderes, needed some time for his obsession to flow. It started when your units were sent on a mission 2gether and naturally, he gravitated 2wards the unit’s leader; you.

🔪— he treats you like you belong to him, even if you aren’t in a romantic relationship yet, because he decided you belong to him the moment he felt the nauseating feeling of lovesickness in his guts.

🔪— a relationship would b so hard because of your busy schedules, and he despises it. He’s highly considered kidnapping you but paranoia crept up on him, making him worry abt all the possibilities of you getting hurt while he’s away on deployment.

🔪— he’s always hovering over you when he can, scaring away any potential recruits tht might get a little too brave w you. And even if they did, this sets a target on their head.

🔪— he’s a very straightforward man, and he straight up told you how he felt; no matter if you accept or not, you’re his. This man is not afraid 2 lyk tht he’ll kill 4 you (and he prob did)

🔪— can b cruel and manipulative; lovebombing you, feeding you paranoid thoughts tht others are after you and only he is capable of protecting you, gaslighting you in2 thinking tht his obsession is your fault. But he won’t hurt you physically, you aren’t one of his enemies, you don’t deserve tht. Unless, yk, you like being hurt then he’s more than happy 2 oblige.

🔪— if you accept his love, as intense and insane it is, it wld b easier 4 you then if you didn’t; he’s not afraid 2 use force. You will love him. Doesn’t matter how much manipulation he has to use, or how many rivals he has 2 kill, he will have you. And by openly accepting him before it gets to tht point, you spare yourself a whole psychological battle between you and him.

🔪— not the jealous type, but he’s extremely possessive, and is very open about it.

🔪— like I said in one of the previous HCs, a relationship w him wld b hard bcuz of you two’s job. He’s alway sending you letters tht may or may not b stained w some blood whenever one or the both of you are deployed, and expects you 2 send letters back giving exact details on yourself, like your location and mental being, etc.

🔪— once both of you are free, he makes you cuddle w him. Like, bro just wraps his strong ass arms around you and keeps you in place so tht you can’t move a muscle.

🔪— it’s a possibility tht he’d use trackers on you, especially since he can’t keep an eye on you w your schedules n all.

🔪— uses force 2 get his way, whether it’s physical or not.

🔪— uses your fears against you and then disguises himself as your “savior” 2 get you 2 b reliant on him. As in, he’d put ypu in situations where you’re faced w your fears and come 2 your rescues. Doesn’t matter how irrational or bad the fear is. Scared of the dark ? You get trapped in a dark closet after “some rookie” pushed you in, only 4 Sebastian 2 come help you out. Scared of dying ? Your unit is killed off one by one by a “sniper” and you get fatally shot due 2 a lack of coverage, luckily Sebastian has came 2 cover you and practically saved your life. Scared of bugs ? Suddenly a lot more seem 2 appear in your room, and (rather suspiciously) Sebastian seems 2 b always around 2 kill them 4 you. At the end he’d always remind you in his thick, German accent tht you need him around, etc.

#cod mw2 #cod x male reader #cod mw2 x male reader #🥩.hcs #sebastian krueger x male reader #sebastian krueger

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nrdmssgs · 14 days

Text

Serpent tongue

Masterlist Genre: Angst with a happy ending. Characters: Sebastian Krueger, Phayvanh "Nak" Sotsvahn belongs to @vasyandii, Olga 'Zhar" Samoilova TWs: strong language, description of military operation, canon typical violence AN: this is set somwhere arond the begining of Nak and Kruegers interactions, so they are a bit silly around each other. But I promise, they will be in love soon-ish.

“phai bo non maew, si kad kaem.*” Words roll down Phayvanh`s tongue and echoe in the empty, dark hall.

Even if there are any other soldiers around at this late hour - they'll know better than to bother her. Because she's deep inside her thoughts - she's humming and mumbling the words, obscure to their ears. Her very own cantrips to keep others away, her mnemonic spells to help her with the routine. So what if it's just a lullaby? As long as it helps her shut her brain off and run the preparations mechanically…

“phai bo aem, kai noi tod taa.*” On this verse she always checks the flashlights before attaching them to her vest.

Click. The strobe flashlight works perfectly.

“phai bo aem…”

Click. The spare flashlight Illuminates Krueger's face in the semi-darkness.

Phayvanh doesn't flinch nor shriek from the suddenness of him appearing just a few meters behind. She turns off the light and watches Sebastian face.

Pathetic fucker had his own share of humiliation today, much to Nak's enjoyment. Oh, how cocky he was all the way to Zhar's office. Only to get dismissed at the very beginning of a debrief. “I'm not coming, but the baby is?” - Krueger's outburst was so loud, it seemed like the whole base would hear that: “What is that she can, and I don't?!”. Zhar didn't even raise her gaze from the documents, she was checking before the meeting start. But when she answered, Nak had to bite her cheeks to not grin victoriously. “The list would be long, Sebastian, but it would start with the fact, that Nak can obviously read the list of soldiers, I called for this debriefing. The list that contained her, and didn't contain you. Now stand up.” That was the first time she looked up since they gathered around her desk. “And leave my office. I have soldiers to prepare for the mission.”

And just like that the notorious ‘golden boy’, ‘Zhars favorite’, ‘the faceless Chimera’ was shown his place. So it was only natural for him to come mock Phayvanh later, when the audience is not that big.

“Serpent tongue!” His idiotic smile doesn't bode well.

“Going straight for racism this time, moron?” Nak feels almost disappointed about how plain Krueger's attack is. Even calling her little baby hit harder than this bullshit.

“No, I… Wait-wait!” He jumps closer to the table, where she prepares her tactical vest to not get lost from her gaze. “I meant it in a good way! Like these Lao letters, they look like little snakes! I looked it up and there is that one like a confused snake, another one like a happy snake, a bunch of letters with a snake that looks at its own tail. They are lovely.”

Since when this idiot has an interest for Lao alphabet?

“What you're gonna say, I'm seeing shit? C`mon, admit it, your letters are beautiful, but it's easy to memorize them when you think of them as little snakes. Serpent tongue.” He looks so proud, as if he just solved one of Landaus problems, not invented some nonsense.

“Gonna say, that a confused snake, watching his own tail, has more brainpower than you.” Phayvanh goes back to preparation routine, trying to ignore Krueger, who seems to not be in a hurry to leave her alone.

They spend a few long minutes in silence, which is a good thing for Nak. She's not ready for questions like ‘why don't you sleep before the important mission?’, ‘is it really just a preparation, or are nervously fidgeting your own equipment?’, ‘are you afraid to turn out worse than me?’. Krueger takes a step to the desk and start helping her arrange all the essentials. She tolerates it, but everything has its limits. Phayvanhs patience cracks when Sebastian reaches out to one of her push daggers. Her hand is quicker, her smooth movements are more precise, and the blade freezes only in mere centimeters away from a vein pulsing on Kruegers neck. A bold hint, but quite a clear one.

“I just wanted to help.” He raises hands in a surrendering gesture. “Olga likely threw a ton of timings, plans, routes and whatsoever at you. The first time with her is overwhelming, I know. There must be a few ‘tiers’ of action plans for each of you, right?”

Nak doesn't lower her dagger, but nods. There were, indeed, different plans for each step of her part in the mission. She didn't quite catch, why would she need a plan B, С and so on. She either does her job or dies trying - that was always how it went.

“Listen, if anything goes south - just don't hesitate and go straight to the plan B, ok? Forget commander's bullshit about top-tier goals and minimum goals. She always gets what she needs in the end and that is her ‘least satisfied’ plan. Always. So you worry about yourself, ok? Not the goal or plan A.”

Phayvanh doesn't believe her ears. So the golden boy doesn't always hit the top goal? That spoiled brat that dares calling her a baby, turns into a loser, once he's given freedom to operate on any level besides perfect? Oh, he didn't actually hear the real Serpents tongue. The one that pushes her to the limits, demands no less than perfection, accepts no excuses. Krueger wouldn't last a week with that voice ringing in his ears.

“There are either perfect results or no results.” Nak is kind enough to tell this in English, so Krueger understands one of the basis principles, that the Serpent once taught her.

***

The mission under Zhars command feels different from what is going on, when Nikolai is around. With him It's always about what you do in the end. But with his second in command, it's about how you do it.

Naks route is planned to the last meter, her timing has limits of steel - not only can't she fall behind - she will ruin everything, should she appear at her next point too soon. She gets a good reminder, when the street, she is supposed to enter 10 minutes later is being turned into a bloodbath with a drone squadron just before her eyes. Phayvanh hides around the corner of a building and swears while checking her watch.

“Perfect result or no result.” A too familiar voice sounds in her head. But she ignores it.

It works for some time. Nak follows the path of fire, the path paved by other Chimeras and brings death to her objectives. Plan A works so well - they are never prepared to meet her.

It almost feels too easy, until it doesn't. One of them turns out too massive, too full of life, too stubborn. One second Phayvanh has him in her hands, the other she's drowning in a muddy puddle with his hands pushing her deeper. She knows, this is not the end of her: Nak had a fair share of similar situations, both on the field and at the training. It takes just a little patience and dexterity to turn the fight upside down. After all, it's him trying to balance in a sloppy mud. She tries to wiggle her way out of his clasp… and fails. Her body freezes struck by a terrifying flashback.

“Perfect result or no result!” Nagas voice. She was here already. Face pushed deep in filthy water, subtle teenage body struggling to break free from old man's grip.

He was shouting at her. Every time she dared to deliver anything but the perfect result - there was a punishment to come. And there were screams. Not her - Naga made sure, she couldn't even breathe. He was the one screaming.

“Perfect result or no result!”

She hates this voice for keeping her awake before the mission, for destroying her every time anyone refers to her as a child, for drowning her mind in terror. The reals Serpents tongue is made of pain, humiliation and endless requirements, that she doesn't fulfill. Not of ‘funny snaky letters’, Sebastian was babbling about.

Nak gathers all her strength, every part of her body feels like a coiled spring waiting to set loose. And she snaps. The poor fucker believed, he had her. Well his mistake. Because now Phayvanh is on top, and she doesn't even need a knife to end his pathetic life.

Strangling him with her bare hands, she shouts “shut up” on and on. As if the voice taunting her doesn't echo just in her mind. It feels like forever before he stops struggling. But when she lets go of him - a barely audible breath leaves his chest.

It drives her mad. After all she's done - he has an audacity to live on? So she hits face. Hard. And then again. And again.

She snaps out of it only, when a familiar voice appears behind her. “Nak? You're hurt?” Phayvanh turns back and meets Zhars gaze.

“Komandir? Ya seichas… Ya. Ya s nim razberus`!*” For some reason Nak answered in Russian despite Olga rarely using it.

“He's long gone, soldier.” Zhar glances at the guy lying on the ground under Nak and Phayvanh follows her gaze.

Her enemy has no recognizable face anymore, the puddle of mud, he's buried in turns red. His body gave up a long time ago, but Nak was too blinded by painful memories to recognize it.

An unsettling thought appears in Naks head. How long has she spent here over the dead body? She checks her watches and frowns. Too long. She's supposed to be elsewhere a long time ago.

“Go, Nak. Skip your next point, you're on route B now.” Zhar doesn't raise her voice - she never does. But this time Phayvanh wishes she would.

“Perfect result or no result.”

That only means one thing - she failed. And she deserves to be screamed at. She desperately tries to fight the numbness off, but can't even make herself get up.

Better shout at her. She's used to it.

Olga touches her shoulder and Nak flinches. She remembers only Zhars eyes moving closer and a few words in a low voice.

“Get up and go. Now.”

She stands up and doesn't go away - she flies as far as she can. Phayvanh runs as fast as she can, as if that can help her escape the guilt building up. Her body accomplishes the plan B automatically. Point after point, objective after objective.

She is restless on their way back, she barely reacts to her squadmates questions and commentaries. Even at the Chimera base, Nak can't seem to slow down and keeps herself occupied until late night.

***

“phai bo non maew, si kad kaem.*” Words roll down Phayvanh`s tongue and echo in the empty, dark hall. A wet mop draws intricate wet patterns on the floor.

It was nobody's order - Phayvanh just couldn't calm down. So she rearranged all her stuff. Twice. And then she tidied up their armory room. And another one. And then she mopped.

It's a good thing, Nikolai's base is so huge - lots to do in the middle of the night, while others sleep.

“phai bo aem, kai noi tod taa.*” On this verse she usually enters ladies locker room, when she mops.

Click. The light turns on, illuminating the seemingly clean floor. Well, an extra cleaning never hurt nobody…

“Potushi svet, ya tebya umolyaiu.*” Olgas voice. Only it sounds husky and tired, as if she was crying or coughing for a long time.

Nak turns and sees her, sitting on the floor. The ever so serious, busy, on-her-way-somewhere-else commander curled up against a wall like a lost child. Zhars face is red, closed eyes swollen, cheeks wet.

Phayvanh rushes on her knees, pushing the mop away and proceeds straight to inspecting Olgas body, searching for a wound. But her commander only smiles.

“Phay, it's only the tear gas.”

“But… It's been-”

“You live to my age - you'll wonder, how could your body come back to normal so fast back when you were 20. Now please turn out that light.”

Nak does as she told and comes back to sit before Olga. She doesn't care if by doing so she'll provoke her executive to get angry at her.

“I'm not leaving you here, commander. Let's get you to the medbay.” She takes Zhars hand and tries to pull her, but Olga doesn't move.

“I am fine. Just need to sit here for a bit, let my eyes rest.” Zhar stretches her back and reaches out into the void before her, blindlessly searching for Nak. “Stay with me for a bit, ok?”

“I don't understand.” Phayvanh moves closer and catches Olgas hand, letting her know, shes not leaving. “What are you doing here? You have your office.”

“And you have your room, soldier.” Smile never leaves Zhars face. “Yet here we are.”

They sit next to each other in silence for some time. Naks eyes get used to a dim emergency exit light that barely illuminates a small part of the locker room. And then Olga speaks again, as if there was no pause.

“I come here for them.” She points at an old dusty mirror, taken from the wall long before Nak joined the Chimera. One can barely recognize their reflection in the mirror - it is too dirty. “If you find just the right angle and look long enough - you will see your legs, your chest and arms, but not your face. When you sit right - yours hidden in the shadow. I like to imagine - I'm seeing everything, that's wrong with me in these moments. Everybody, who wronged me. And then we talk.”

Nak tries to catch a glimpse of any reflection in the mirror, but barely sees anything. So she leans closer and cranes his neck.

“See a familiar face?” Zhars hand rests on Phayvanhs back. Usually Nak would avoid any informal physical contact, but this time it feels right, to let Olga know, she isn't alone.

“...nope, I see nobody, ma`am.”

“Nobody punished you for aiming anywhere but the ideal?” Now that's a sucker punch. A deserved one, as Naks confusion was painfully obvious to her commander today. But it still hits hard. So she nods.

“I'll do better next-”

“No. After what they have done to you - this is what you're telling them?”

“Commander, I'm telling that you.”

“Fuck me, Phay. I'm a hired soldier, just like you. One word from Nikolai and I won’t be here tomorrow. Krueger will throw a tantrum, but…” Zhar chuckles. “Talk to them. This isn't about me.”

Naks looks in the darkening void of the mirror and sighs. She doesnt even know, where to start, to not sound immature and lose her job right away.

“Let me put the other way: think of what the would tell you right now.”

That Nak knows for sure. Even if Naga is nowhere around - she always knows what exactly would he say.

“Hed ask me if im going to cry.”

“We can cry, Phay. Ive been doing it for past few hours. Well, because of dry eyes, but that still counts.”

“Oh, I won't cry. Not for him. Never.” Nak can't take her eyes of the mirror. The view is somehow mesmerizing: she sees her body, but her face remains in the shadow.

For a split second she thinks, if she should speak in Lao. Nobody in Chimera talks it. She is safe to say whatever, she wants. But then she thinks, that this is exactly what Naga would want: her keeping her pain all to herself. So that his serpent tongue can torture her soul unbothered.

She takes a deep breath and begins to speak.

“Well maybe I should be thanking you. You prepared me for all this shit at a young age. Comrades selling me lies, people betraying me, friends seeing me as just a kid. The next time id pour some love out - ill never get back a single drop of it. You prepared me for that. And for always being not enough. You did it out of the best intentions, I know. You prepared me for the worst in my life. By being it.”

The silence, that falls on her after that, is deafening. But for some reason, Nak feels better for the first time since she came back to senses on the battlefield.

Then she feels hands, someones hands hugging her shoulders. There are no words left for this room or this mirror today. But this wordlessness is a happy thing.

*phai bo non maew, si kad kaem. - (Lao phonetic) If you don't sleep, ghost cats will bite your cheeks.

*phai bo aem, kai noi tod taa - (Lao phonetic) If you don't shut your eyes, tiny chicks will peck them.

*Komandir? Ya seichas… Ya. Ya s nim razberus`! - (Russian phonetic) Commander? I'm going to… I. I'm going to deal with him!

*Potushi svet, ya tebya umolyaiu. - (Russian phonetic) turn off the light, I beg you.

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kastlequill · 8 months

Text

wrath of the lamb

pairing: sebastian krueger x f!reader word count: 6.9k synopsis: your first time hunting with dr. krueger tags: hannibal au, haunted hoedown, dark, serial killers, a couple that kills together stays together, enemies and lovers, unreliable narrator, unholy mentions of god, religious imagery, no y/n warnings: violence/death, blood/gore, mutilation, body horror, cannibalism, voyeurism (except the voyeur is dead), killing as foreplay, smut (blood + murder kink, hair-pulling, biting) ao3: read here ← prev

“I am the shape you made me. Filth teaches filth.”

— Sophocles

Bait; that had been your role. The lure, the dangling bit of appetizer to ensnare prey on behalf of another. This particular catch of the day had believed you to be the fish to his fisherman, but you nonetheless had been bait, he the fish, and Dr. Krueger—

The fisherman.

Soon, you would be a fisherman yourself, capable of priming, reeling in, and fatally securing a wide array of aquatic life all on your own. Before that, however, there was much to learn about the sport and the art of choosing one’s hunting spot, of casting one’s net. Naturally, Dr. Krueger had been ever so enthusiastic to help bridge the gaps in your knowledge.

Currently, the fish was tied up in the foyer, bound by his wrists and ankles to a wooden chair, the same in which you’d sat years ago as Dr. Krueger’s temporary patient. At the insistence of Agent Blaustein and your undiagnosed encephalitis, you had given therapy a shot. These visits had eventually increased in frequency, more so for the psychiatrist’s company than his pseudo sessions.

Some attributed the progression of your relations with Dr. Krueger to be a product of fate and circumstance, but you knew better than that. Over the past several months, a deliberate and intentional hand had guided you to this very moment, everything meticulously planned and orchestrated by someone with a vested interest in your ascent.

In your. . . becoming.

What started as a chance meeting snowballed into a partnership between professionals, identifying and apprehending serial killers across the state together. Thereafter, a friendship did blossom, though this too evolved since your pure empathy made you highly susceptible to internalizing others; him. The line that separated your psyche from his thus gradually became muddied and blurred as you vacated your mind and beckoned in this monster among men.

You would be hard-pressed to forget just how fervently he had appraised the order and disorder of your headspace. How worshipingly he had looked upon the ever-encroaching darkness that you kept shamefully hidden within the crevices of your bones, stowed away for fear of the day your worser nature might rise to the surface. How eagerly he had called forth that wickedness, that sin, happy to watch you partake and take.

How easily he had metamorphosed you into the person you’d unwittingly been pursuing throughout all your years of existence.

“The throat is a double-edged sword. It makes life possible, housing the airways, overseeing the safe passage of air into the lungs. But so too does it make death readily accessible, boasting the jugular vein, exacting a swift end if cut at just the right angle, the right depth,” an accented voice sounded from behind.

Hopelessly obedient to the pull that locked your soul and his in perpetual orbit of one another, you cast a glance over your shoulder then looked down at the knife in his hand. It was an ordinary carving knife, blade sharpened and thrumming with excitement at the prospective union of steel and meat. More importantly, it was an offering.

A gift.

Dr. Krueger quite enjoyed showering you with lavish presents, and he preferred the intimacy of being the craftsman in addition to the sender. To court you, he’d sawed off the tongue of the reporter who’d mocked your condition in her crude tabloids, coated the severed organ in poison, and shoved it down her throat until she choked on its toxicity. To express the extent of his devotion, he'd torn out the vocal cords of a suitor who’d made lewd comments about you at the opera house, fashioned them into a noose, and left him dangling from the ceiling to be discovered in the morning by a screeching primadonna.

And to apologize for spilling your blood on his kitchen floor, he’d Frankensteined together a beating heart, openly baring his affections despite the penetrative gaze of all who sought to imprison the Cut-throat Killer. The sculpture, composed of a decapitated corpse’s inverted musculature instead of typical granite stone, had told a tale of repentance and of yearning.

My heart is yours. Broken and maimed though it might be, you have managed to assuage its ache and mend its pieces. This foreign object no longer fits properly in the cavity of my being, so do what you will with it. Even if you decide to break it once again, the resulting shards are still all for you only, just as it was.

The twisted love letter had resulted from months of deceptive intentions, divided loyalties, and belated sacrifices. Your inevitable betrayal had struck dead the fantasy of a shared future. In his mourning, Dr. Krueger had gutted you to bestow a matching wound, yours a physical representation of his own intangible pain. However, contrary to previous prey, watching your face lose its vibrancy and a red puddle form around your twitching body had inspired not satisfaction, but fear.

A certain desperation had seized him then. Losing you, a kindred spirit who had known and seen him, would have damned the man to a lifetime of loneliness. For someone incapable of thriving in total solitude, that was a terrifying notion.

So though the urge to slit your throat and cook you into a feast might occasionally possess him, though he might periodically contemplate cracking your skull open to reveal the beautiful brain that tormented him day and night, such calls-to-action would go unanswered.

During periods of separation, he could easily convince himself that his feelings for you were an unnecessary suffering. A fruitless agony; a beacon of masochism. Ready to put an end to this mounting misery, a murderous plot would begin to take shape until your mere return resolutely derailed any plans of excising you from his destiny.

Cyclical, the way he grew hungry in your absence, champing at the bit, gnawing on bone, only to find his stomach brimming with contentment upon spending a single moment in your presence.

The rude were nothing more than livestock to a refined man like Dr. Sebastian Krueger. Just as the average non-vegetarian viewed chickens, cows, and pigs as rightful staples of their omnivorous diet, he believed disrespectful folk were no different to poultry, cattle, or swine. At least in death, these subhumans could transcend their lowly stations and reach new heights of beauty and value as his culinary masterpieces, as elaborate displays of mutilated art.

Like God, he played judge, jury, and executioner, wielding the power to decide the earthly ends and undead beginnings of those he deemed lesser.

Between equals, however, consumption was to him the pinnacle of humanity’s capacity for love. Diligently preparing a delicacy of the vessel that housed a loved one, transforming their anatomy into a gourmet meal, was the supreme method of honoring them. Further still, intaking a pound of their flesh meant immortalizing a beloved by becoming the very urn in which the remnants of their existence could always be found. Whether they should depart by nature or by circumstance, a piece of them would forever stay inside this biological graveyard.

The mixing of bloods, two pulses beating in synchrony, a dialogue between gullets. An irreversible breach of one’s external layer of protection that said, you are mine, and I am yours; the proof resides in the pits of our stomachs.

By his logic, if he were to eat you and satisfy his craving for fusion, then perhaps whatever hold you had over him would denature, eliminating the threat that this love posed to his livelihood. In actuality, a glimpse of you was plenty enough to sate his normally-raging appetite.

To daily feel a stab of hunger and then obtain nourishment at the slightest bit of eye contact. . . that was how viscerally he loved you.

Of course, Dr. Krueger hadn’t overtly verbalized these sentiments, but you nonetheless recognized and understood the unspoken truth. After all, pure empathy did not just expose you to the onslaught of his expert manipulation—it also unveiled his best-kept secrets.

“When hunting, one must always consider efficiency. Time is of the essence, as they say. It’s better spent on the artwork itself than on gathering your materials, wouldn’t you agree?”

Your eyes jerked up to meet his appraising stare. Not the type to waste air on rhetorical questions, he raised a single scarred brow, and it only lowered once your fingertips answered by brushing the palm of his hand. As you plucked the knife from his grasp, its heavy weight took you aback. The hefty task of reaping an unclaimed soul added at least a few extra pounds to the blade, but you adjusted your grip until wielding it became effortless.

At its core, killing was a fairly quick and simple endeavor. Humans often exited the world as fast as they had originally entered it, and, in a manner of speaking, your lives were just preparation for the inevitable return to that shadowy limbo from which you’d all been birthed.

The fish had yet to regain consciousness, and you were determined to ensure that his eyes would never again open to anything but a dark abyss.

You weren’t apologetic in the slightest for what was about to come. This bound asshat had been selected because he’d had trouble understanding the word no at a pub and spilled wine on an intervening Dr. Krueger’s prized coat. Such unprincipled behavior warranted an equally-indecent fate.

Out like a light, his head was tilted back to rest on the back of the chair, displaying a ripe throat, fresh for the taking. And take you did, aligning your blade at the corner of his jaw and dragging it across the jugular, slitting his trachea, causing it to collapse unto itself. Liquid beads of crimson bubbled to the surface along the laceration, and the macabre necklace enraptured you.

Your psychiatrist-turned-mentor had earned the moniker of Cut-throat Killer due to his apparent fixation on the neck and its surrounding regions. His kills were linked by this common denominator, whether a body was headless, or had a ripped-apart larynx, or had died by asphyxiation. Sometimes, Dr. Krueger liked to experiment with different finishing blows to keep the FBI on their toes, but his modus operandi never failed to involve the throat.

It made sense, then, why you too had developed a similar appreciation.

“Well done,” praised the doctor, now beside you, and the words set alight your bloodstream. His tone held no surprise; your profession had revealed your natural aptitude for the hunt and erased any reservations he might’ve had. From the very first day your paths crossed, he’d recognized what you were, what you could become. “Now, where do you wish to go from here?”

A loaded question, one that dictated how the rest of the night would unfold. If you stayed in the foyer, cleaning up the grime and gore out from between each plank of wood would be an absolutely dreadful ordeal. If you went to the main room, splatters and stains on his Persian rug and fine fabric drapes would undoubtedly irk the man, and you quite preferred staying on his good side for the time being.

That left his extravagant kitchen. It was the ideal location—the freezer was conveniently placed, and the tools for harvesting meat were at your disposal. Also, in the not-unlikely event of blood running off the table’s edge, you could simply scrub the tiles spotless.

“The kitchen.” You diverted your focus from the dead man to the one who had mastered death itself. Although you were unsurprised to discover Dr. Krueger’s deep brown eyes already intent upon you, a chill cascaded down your spine nevertheless. He’d sooner gouge out the organs that granted him sight than stop his lingering stares, you knew. “Removing the skin from a fish this slimy is messy business. I wouldn’t want to ruin your nice hardwood floors. Black walnut?”

His wide smile told a tale of predation tempered with adoration. “Wenge.”

You softly shook your head in fond exasperation. Of course he who settled for nothing but the best would choose one of the most rare and expensive species of hardwood in the world.

The doctor held your gaze as he removed his outer layer, not wanting to sully a tailored, dry clean-only suit jacket. Once it was safely out of range, he cut loose the body from its restraints and dragged it to the kitchen with you trailing behind him.

After hauling the corpse onto the center of the marble island, Dr. Krueger rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt to his elbows and slipped on surgical gloves from his vest’s pocket, handing you a pair as well. He used scissors to reveal the man’s flesh beneath his clothes, took the murder weapon from your fingers, and made an incision that started at the collarbone and ended at the navel. Wrenching open the ribcage, snapping any resistant osseous matter, the doctor efficiently primed the carcass for harvesting before it could stiffen in rigor mortis.

His work done, he unsheathed a sizable butcher knife, handed it to you, then stepped out of reach, content to watch you pick up from where he’d left off. You imitated his previous motions, careful not to sink the blade too far in lest you ruptured any organs. The last thing you wanted to do was accidentally ruin the meat.

Meat.

You’d discovered a couple of months ago that the delicious protein scrambles shared with you by the kind Austrian man had actually contained bits of strangers. Initially, the revelation had repulsed and angered you in its violation of your right to informed consent. But now, while you didn’t see the appeal of human cuisine, you could admit there was something uniquely intimate about a shared hunt, about the subsequent communion, the breaking of bread and bone.

It was with this logic in mind that you proceeded to dissect the body according to the anatomical direction given by the doctor. First, you extracted the lungs, then the spleen and liver, next the stomach and gallbladder, the intestines and kidneys, and, lastly, the heart.

The turn of the hour quickly came and went. You moved to push back some hair that had fallen out of place, wishing you had worn a hairnet, when you caught a glimpse of your lover’s current state. He stood to the side of the counter a few feet away, hunger plain on his face, erection evident through the fabric of his slacks.

As ravenous for your fill of him as he was for a taste of you, you set the knife on the cutting board and started to walk over to—

“No.”

The lone, measured syllable echoed throughout the large kitchen, ringing in your ears, and you instantly halted mid-step. A trait that separated the doctor from so many other men of his stature was his refusal to resort to yelling. He’d done a lifetime’s worth of it in the Austrian Armed Forces, had been his explanation, and it was beneath him. It signaled that one lacked omnipotence and control, that they didn’t have an effortless dominance with respect to the masses over which they resided.

Dr. Krueger, however, had no shortage of charisma and no trouble garnering an obedient audience. The personification of sin beckoned you forward. “Crawl to me.”

Without hesitation, you slowly descended to the floor, gaze steady and stuck on his looming figure. Your clothed knees met tile first, then your palms followed suit as you navigated your way towards him through a pool of blood and innards. Something unnamed coiled tight in your stomach the nearer you drew to him who looked down at you, stoic and unfazed. From here, a passerby might think you a worshiper bowed in supplication to her god.

For what purpose did you plead?

If I should die, let it not be his blade that strikes the finishing blow.

To what end did you pray?

If he should rot in a cell, let it not be my testimony that sends him away.

When your fingers brushed against his shoes, imprinting red on the fancy leather, the doctor leaned forward to snake a hand around to the nape of your neck, lightly massaging your scalp. The soothing pressure made your eyes roll back, but the false sense of security it had given you evaporated at the following sharp tug on the roots of your hair.

His grip firm, Dr. Krueger pulled you up until you were on your feet once again. Before you could properly calibrate to the change in orientation, he spun you to face the kitchen island then sandwiched you in between his pelvis and the counter. Squirming against him, your instincts commanded you to escape, but you remained steadfastly in place. Trapped.

Ensnared.

Skillful hands made quick work of your attire, throwing your belt to the ground, shoving your jeans and panties to bunch at your ankles, unbuttoning the flannel he’d called hideous yet endearing, snapping free your cheap bra. Satisfied with your current state of undress, Dr. Krueger used his teeth to tear off his gloves so that he could begin exploring the treasures he had uncovered.

You never let him touch you with gloves. The sensation of latex on skin was too reminiscent of a butcher prepping slaughtered livestock to be further chopped up into refined cuts of meat. And you were not foolish enough to think you could ever be the butcher in this scenario.

His hands journeyed up your front to your neck, rubbing at the splatter of blood there that had yet to be cleaned. Adamant on dirtying you further, he smeared it downward as he cupped the heft of your breasts and rolled your nipples between his fingers. You must’ve looked like a sacrificial offering to some deity, back bowed, though the only who would partake in the enjoyment of your flesh was him.

Once you were sufficiently marked, the man wiped any excess blood off his right hand and onto your stomach then continued his descent to the epicenter of your heat. When he finally reached your mound and dipped an explanatory finger inside, he found you wet and wanting.

“Filthy thing,” Dr. Krueger admonished with a click of his tongue. “I’ve barely touched you, and yet here you are, already dripping onto the floor. Tell me, how long have you been like this?”

“Since you—” The rest of that sentence died in your throat, cut short by the featherlight brush of his thumb against where you wanted him most. A sudden jolt traveled through your body, and you struggled to form a coherent thought, let alone string together a sensical series of words. “Since you rolled up those stupid fucking sleeves, you bastard.”

His answering smirk could be heard in the gravel of his voice, smug and self-assured. “I didn’t know my forearms had such an effect on you.”

Said forearms came into view as he encased you, both of his hands relocating to either side of yours, flat on the countertop. A knee replaced where his hand had been between your legs, and he ground it upward, pulling back whenever you tried to reciprocate, relief just out of reach.

“Like hell you didn’t,” you snapped, your frustration getting the better of you. “Don’t play dumb, Doctor. It’s not a good look.”

All traces of his humor evaporated at the snark. Announcing no warning, your lover sank two fingers into your weeping core, curling them to stimulate the spot within that never failed to make you see stars. He scissored you open and gathered enough slick to begin working in a third finger, intent on making you plead for forgiveness. Absolution.

Most nights, Dr. Krueger prided himself in his patience, in his ability to draw out one, two, three orgasms from you before his cock got anywhere near your cunt. But tonight, you knew, would be different. It would be hard and fast.

Carnal.

Upon deeming you ready to take him, you heard the unclasping of a belt buckle followed by the zipper of his pants coming undone. A soft caress along the notches of your spine, and then he aligned himself with your entrance and immediately surged to erase the distance between your bodies, filling you to the hilt.

The force of it caused you to double over, and your elbows buckled at the sudden shift in weight. With the side of your face now pressed against the counter’s cold surface, you couldn’t help the way your ass slightly elevated and protruded. This position felt explicit, dirty, and you gleaned from his sharp inhale that you looked as much from his perspective. Rather than allowing you to rise, Dr. Krueger dug a hand into your hair and pushed you further into the granite.

“Have I neglected you, mein Schatz?” Each thrust was punctuated by a tug on your hair, a scrape against the surface, the repeated motion jostling you forward, while you fucked back into him. “Have I left you wanting? Is that why you’re so needy tonight? So rude?”

When you didn’t answer, he retracted his hips until the tip was all that remained nestled in your warmth, leaving you empty and unfulfilled. Then, as though sensing you were on the verge of complaining, the doctor slammed home, yanking from you a pitiful mewl of agonized desire.

“Please.”

This particular word was a shapeshifter; it adopted a different meaning based on ite context. Here, it served as a Hail Mary, as a cry for mercy, but you weren’t sure whether you were imploring his punishing rhythm to abate or for him to give you more. Regardless of your intention, Dr. Krueger intensified his torturous movements, a dark chuckle tumbling from his lips.

Damn sadist.

“Begging will get you nowhere. Not tonight.” At your despairing whine, he laughed again. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, you’ll get your wish. Eventually.”

So attuned to the ins and outs of your body, was this man, so intimately aware of where to press, where to pinch to elicit sweet melodies and moans. And yet, he toyed with you, glossing over these erotic zones, waiting for you to confess something before he might grant you penance, a token for your suffering. The thread of your sanity was wearing thin.

“Stop teasing, or I swear to God.”

You’d expected him to ignore your pleas as he had done before, but instead, you felt him thicken inside you. “Do it, then. Swear to me.”

His ego almost earned him an eyeroll, but you couldn’t help giving into his demands. The relentless pace he’d set was very persuasive, and you were only human.

“Sebastian—”

It had the desired outcome. Hardly ever did you call him by his name, so if you did, that meant something. Due to said infrequency, using his name had a kind of Pavlovian effect on the man.

“Scheiße,” he groaned out the curse, hips stuttering forward and reaching a newfound depth that made you both gasp. “Yes, my heart, that’s right. You’ve made me your god, and I’ve made you. . .”

. . . mine.

Because that was the truth, wasn’t it? Dr. Krueger had plucked a rib from the cavity of his chest, sharpened it into a blade, and carved you into his vision of perfection. In turn, you had turned him into a conduit for your enlightenment, for your becoming. He was your tangible nirvana, and you were his sole gateway to heaven.

The two of you had found religion in each other, and there was little else more dangerous than that.

“Is this what you wanted? What you were so impatient for?” At your jerky nod, he seized your slackened jaw and tilted your chin up to direct your attention towards the kitchen island where the corpse still laid. “My, we haven’t even cleared the table yet. Can’t let the meat sit out, or else it’ll go sour.”

When your brain finally caught up to what—or to whom— he was referring, an epiphany struck you with startling clarity:

This dead man was evidence of what had transpired here tonight. Better yet, he was the first witness to this taboo consummation. Perhaps it was stupid to believe that gave your relationship any real legitimacy in the world’s eyes, beyond the perimeters of this manor. Nonetheless, the thought caused you to involuntarily tighten, and you prayed the correlation would go unnoticed.

Dr. Krueger froze, because of fucking course nothing ever got past him. “Oh, you like that, do you? You like that we have a guest for dinner, that another finally sees the truth of what we are. Hunters. Lovers.”

Oftentimes, being known was a riveting experience that bridged the gaping chasm of solitude. But there came moments when you wished to conceal the ugliness. You lowered your head, mortified that he might at last realize you were unworthy of his affection, his touch.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of when you’re here. This home is yours, Liebling,” he murmured, reverent as he resumed his torturous ministrations, regaining momentum. “I can think of no more beautiful a sight than you happy and honest in it. Never hide from me.”

A horrific prospect, baring one’s heart to someone so well equipped to tear it to shreds, but your walls were already beginning to crumble. Brick by brick, he dismantled you, intending to undo a lifetime of repression then reconstruct you in his image.

Sex with Dr. Krueger wasn’t just a physical release. It was near ritualistic in its conjoining of two souls. It was a collision between two supernovas, a calamity in progress.

It was an inevitability.

What a pair you made—serpent and Eve. Ravisher and ravished, entangled in a web of debauchery and death.

In spite of everything, you didn’t believe that he made you worse. He made you real.

Time after time, warnings that this should never happen again would echo throughout your mind, but time after time, you found yourself in this same position, wrapped up in him. Coaxed by his sweet nothings and consumed with the way he alone understood what you still refused to speak aloud, it was through this union of flesh and bone that you elevated each other to art.

And hell, if he made you worse, then you accepted that to be worse was to be honest. In this realm, you were closer to God than to the Devil.

And was it not so that every devout follower hoped to be in league with their god, to be rewarded for their unshaken faith? What better way to actualize that hope than to devour?

A well-angled thrust brought you back to the present. Man or monster, God or Devil, neither distinction mattered as he pummeled into you, a fusion of the ultimate caliber. In this room, he was not your enemy, just the equal who helped you ascend to great heights, who guided you until your eventual arrival to the precipice.

Lucifer before the fall.

“I—” The word broke off in an airy gasp. Second attempt. “Sebastian, I’m—”

That too went interrupted, for it was then that your lover decided to circle your swollen clit with his calloused fingers. Dazed and nonverbal, you felt him wrap your hair around his fist and use it as leverage to assist in his corruption of you, tugging your head to his chest, baring your throat, arching your back.

“I know, it’s alright,” he lovingly hushed your cries, lips nibbling on the rim of your ear. The wet roughness of his tongue licked away the tears that had begun to flow freely from your eyes, glossy and unfocused. “You can let go now. I’ll be here to catch you, yes? I’ll always catch you.”

It shouldn’t have been a comforting sentiment. This was a man who killed people for being rude, who had seriously told you it’s only cannibalism if we’re equals. And yet, hearing that he would be there to envelop you in his arms if and when you plunged into the deep end was what at last sent you over the edge.

Before him, no partner had successfully brought you to an orgasm. He loved to lull you into a state of la petite mort, compensating for his inability to actually kill you by inducing several little deaths whenever you laid together. But he had your brain short-circuiting as you came apart, your thighs trembling and jaw unhinged, your nails notched into the muscles that rippled across the expanse of his back, a bright light behind halfway-closed lids.

Thick fingers crawled across your left cheek to enter the black hole of your wet mouth, and you instinctively closed your lips around the intruding appendages. As you sucked and lathered them with spit, you pushed your ass further back into his pelvis, wordlessly encouraging him to use you to chase his own release. Several strokes later, his pace grew desperate, erratic, and he removed his fingers to cup your face, angled it just right, then bit down on the side of your neck, drawing blood. The brief flare of pain made your walls flutter and take his cock even deeper, your bodies reluctant to separate.

Harvest me, and don’t waste a single drop.

The moment of stillness that ensued when he at last emptied his seed in you was something holy, you decided. Ropes of cum seemingly endless, the pulsing of his member combined with his low groans brought you unparalleled bliss. While he descended from his lustful high, he lapped up the metallic trail along your throat, and the pressure of his tongue soothed the wound’s mild ache. Dr. Krueger, the man who had no qualms about eating within his species, was content to stop his consumption of you here, at a bite and a drop of ichor.

Is my taste as divine as you imagined?

His hips continued to jerk and lurch in the aftershocks, and the noise of skin ricocheting off skin was more audible now that your senses were starting to return. Some might consider it to be an obscene sound, blatant and crude, but its obviousness appealed to you. Anyone who heard these echoes of anatomical convergence would have no misgivings regarding the recreational activities in which you and the doctor participated.

I fear I would give you the most tender parts of myself, if only you were to ask.

One hand caressed the top of your head, smoothing back your sweat-slickened hair. The other used his pristine white shirt to wipe the sweat from your brow, the gore from your body. Its fabric was rough against your overstimulated skin, but his movements were gentle.

So please—

The doctor finished remedying the mess he had made of you and tossed the clothing aside, murmuring something about how he would have to explain to the lady at the dry cleaner’s that he’d spilled red wine again. Wrapping both arms around your waist to pull you impossibly closer to his chest, he then pressed a soft kiss to your nape.

Your eyes fell shut.

—do not ask.

The manor was silent save for heavy breathing, yours and his. A sudden foul stench of rot and decay reminded you of the gruesome company on the kitchen island across the counter. You forced yourself to meet the vacant stare of the fish whose death had started this spontaneous coupling session, passion fueled by elevated adrenaline and a godlike rush of power.

“I thought you didn’t get off to killing,” you murmured, energy half spent.

An affirming hum vibrated through your bones, and you felt him rub his forehead against your back, up then down, nodding. “You thought correctly. I do not.”

A snort escaped from your throat since very recent evidence pointed to the contrary. Still inside you, his cock twitched at the sound.

Perhaps he found the noise undignified and the response rude. The man had probably killed people for far pettier reasons; nonetheless, you continued to push the envelope because he continued to let you.

This risky game would someday reach its limit. Someday, you might cross a non-negotiable line, and then you’d be dead before you knew what hit you.

But today was not that day.

“There is no sexual gratification in my hunts,” he further clarified. “Such perversion indicates one who is subjugated to the whims of his more primitive nature, one who is being controlled rather than doing the controlling.

“Arousal at its most basic implies common ground. It drives us to seek a favorable mate with whom we can sire offspring to carry on our legacies. Should the hunter find this kind of pleasure in the hunted, it would mean a debasement of the self. Dethroned from the top of the food chain, he would forever live among his lessers. Since my prey are not and never will be my equal, killing is a strictly nonsensuous act.”

You are my equal, my mate, were the words you heard him omit.

“But I keep discovering how much you defy my logic. I did not expect to be so. . . moved by that insatiable look in your eyes, by your presence in my kitchen, holding my knife.” The sigh he exhaled contained genuine frustration, not at you, but at himself. At his lack of self-control, at his underestimation of your ability to undo him.

His right hand strayed from your midsection to ghost over the swell of your ass, vexation having seemingly passed. “And what a lovely painting you made of yourself. The only improvement is for you to coat your bodily canvas with my blood instead of that unworthy pig’s.”

Your brows furrowed at the thought of him gravely injured, stained red, and you grabbed his wrist, gave it what you hoped was a reassuring squeeze. “I don’t want to hurt you, Sebastian.”

The rare occurrence of you using his first name outside of sex had him nuzzling deeper into the crook of your neck and lightly nipping at the soft skin there. Although his teeth were eager to pierce flesh, his canines maintained a respectable distance. In the afterglow, he was always so, so careful not to cause undue damage. You were at your most vulnerable, and he was at his most untamed; a dangerous combination, like fire and gasoline.

Who was the struck match that would sacrifice wholeness to ignite the other, and who was the ignited that would disappear without a trace post-explosion?

Did it even matter?

“Very pretty lies, Liebling, though not quite as beautiful as you.”

Despite his sardonic delivery, the fondness with which he uttered the term of endearment betrayed his affections. Complicated relationship with the Cut-throat Killer aside, none could deny that there was genuine love between the two of you.

An unconventional, tempestuous love, true, but love nevertheless. It made the dichotomy between your loyalties all the more messy.

Because yes, you appreciated his craftsmanship and were awed by the artistry behind his kills. Yes, you had moments ago indulged in your first hunt alongside him and had enjoyed it.

Yes, you would probably do so again in the future.

Yet somehow, the FBI profiler in you still felt obligated to confront the man, to put an end to his reign of terror. Why your lover would forever be visited by the need to eat and savor every inch of you, why you couldn’t ever entirely relax in the breadth of his embrace. . . it all tied back to this:

You couldn’t reconcile your ethical code with your want for him. The enormity of your desire approached suffocatingly-absurd levels, and the extent to which you ached for and craved this man was sickening.

No matter your personal feelings, the bitter reality of the situation remained unchanged. Before you could irreversibly walk the path of either love or duty, you needed to perceive your brain as something other than deformed, to conceive that the unnatural was a natural product of the universe in its own right. You needed to believe that the person who returned your stare in the mirror was not a disfigurement of humanity, nor a bastardization of goodness.

But what constituted good, and what qualified as evil, anyway? Who had the right to decide which was which? Was it Agent Blaustein, who had pushed you to the point of breaking, who saw your mind only as a tool, caring not if he damaged you beyond repair in the field?

Or was it Dr. Krueger, who had made you question your sanity, who wished for you to access and become indivisible from the rawest pieces of your marrow, even if it damned him in the process?

One thing was for certain: until you unabashedly accepted the darker elements of yourself—the same facets that he reflected back at you—this game of cat and mouse was cursed to resume and repeat, over and over. The roles seemed to reverse each time; you had first been the mouse to his cat, then you’d briefly turned the tables as the cat to his mouse.

Recently, neither of you could puzzle out who was who.

And the scariest part about all this was that you had never known yourself as well as you knew yourself when you were with him, a fucking serial killer. How frightening, that your ability to acknowledge and make sense of your own existence might hinge on whether or not he was in your life.

Even a fool could see how you had changed under the gravity of his influence. In the beginning, you’d shunned the ugly bits, the chunks of you that proved too abhorrent to swallow. Now, you were learning how to indulge, how to see the beauty in the so-called horror. During the day, outsiders reminded you of your malignancies, of the shame that accompanied the sin of authenticity. However, at night, with him, you at last shed these social shackles and basked in fantasies of what could be, for the mere weight of his stare had the power to propel you toward self-actualization.

Obviously, Dr. Krueger was well aware of this war between your moral duties and your innermost shadows. You expected as much, considering he had almost killed you for it.

In your quest to unmask the Cut-throat Killer and confirm your suspicions, you’d nurtured a budding friendship with the doctor. You had wormed your way into his good graces by telling him exactly what he wanted to hear, nevermind that it had been you at your most honest. When the scheme eventually fell apart, murdering you had surprisingly not been his immediate reaction. Instead, he had offered you the chance to come clean so as to leave all the secrecy in the past and move forward anew.

Together.

It made perfect sense for Dr. Krueger to try holding onto his one true companion in life after getting a taste of reprieve from loneliness. Except, oblivious of your blown cover, you had doubled down, giving him no choice but to clutch you to his chest and carve his heartbreak into your gut. As you drifted toward Death’s door, as regret and fear willed him to frantically press onto your wound, the man had realized just how much you’d changed him, too.

Although you were indeed the harbinger of his ruination, he’d concluded that imprisonment paled in comparison to the grief of losing you. He loathed to imagine spending the rest of his days in a jail cell, but he could not commit to killing you, his greatest weakness and threat. You sought to cleanse this town of him, but you too could not pull the trigger on this evildoer.

Two halves of a whole, locked in a stalemate.

Can’t live with him, can’t live without him. A grotesque and ghastly piece of work, this man you called lover. And yet, you wouldn't dream of leaving his side.

Because Sebastian Krueger was never going to get better without you. And you were never going to become better without him.

“Apologies, but I insist we skip our entrée tonight.”

That caught your attention—an absurd statement from someone who would probably make the time to properly dine even if the FBI was actively storming the gates of his manor. You twisted your spine to at last come face to face with him, and awaiting your curiosity was his hungry brown eyes, his dark blond hair freed from its gelled confines.

“I know you worked hard to provide us this meal, and the meat will not go to waste,” the doctor assured, expression neutral, the perfect picture of calm if not for the way his fingers dug further into the meat of your hips. “The problem is me. I simply cannot curb my craving for dessert anymore.”

You nearly scoffed. “Was this not dessert?”

“No, mein Schatz,” he chuckled, as if you had just told a funny joke. The low timbre of his laugh caused a wave of desire to pool in between your legs, and you pressed your thighs together to trap the renewed heat.

Ever intuitive, Dr. Krueger moved one arm away from your body to rest flat and steady on the countertop then dragged the other down to pinch your inner thigh, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake.

“That was only the appetizer.”

fin.

#sebastian krueger x reader #sebastian krueger #cod krueger #cod x reader #krueger x reader #cod #modern warfare #call of duty #my fic #hauntedhoedown #fic: wrath of the lamb #series: meat's back on the menu

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