ManEater

by fw0gg13

COMPLETED König stumbles upon you-an abandoned military experiment left to rot in a cell. You were created to kill, yet he's the only one who doesn't see you as a monster. Against all odds, you become his obsession.

You were born in the abyss, forged by the flames of war—an unholy creation crafted to strike fear into the hearts of those foolish enough to oppose you. More monster than man, with a voracious hunger for flesh, you were engineered by the Russian military as the ultimate weapon. A thing of blood and savagery, designed to rip apart enemies with the cold, unfeeling precision of a machine. The concrete walls of the lab were your cradle, the sterile air your only companion. They said you were made to kill, to erase those who stood in your path. Even as a child, your body count eclipsed the most hardened soldiers. You devoured the traitors, the prisoners who had outlived their usefulness, gnawing on bones and flesh with an instinctive, unrelenting obedience—never once questioning the purpose of your existence. And with it came the understanding that nothing about you was ever meant to be human.

Then, one day, the door to your cage creaked open. But this time, it wasn't the usual parade of cowering scientists or the hollow-eyed prisoners sent to feed your hunger. No. This time, a shadow filled the doorway. A man—broad-shouldered and older. His eyes, pale and keen, fixed upon you. They were filled with something foreign—fascination, perhaps… unease? Or maybe both. He didn't seem afraid, yet there was an understanding in his gaze, a realization that he stood before something capable of tearing him apart if provoked.

His name, you would later learn, was König.

He didn't rush in like the others. Instead, he moved cautiously, like a predator studying its prey. His boots made a dull thud as he stepped closer, the sound of heavy steps dragging through the silence. You lifted your head, the cold bite of the iron muzzle pressing into your flesh as you strained to see him. The man was calculating—observing you with a depth that unsettled you. There was no malice in his posture, no threat in his stance, yet something about him radiated power. A calm, experienced strength that defied the fear that had ruled your life for so long.

"What… are you?" His voice came as a rumble, low and rough—threaded with a caution that you weren't accustomed to hearing. There was a tremor beneath it, though, as if he, too, was uncertain of what would happen next. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you as his eyes swept over you—your elongated claws, the unnatural gleam of your eyes, your posture taut and wild, as though you might explode at any moment.

You followed his every move, your gaze unwavering. There was no hesitation in you, only a raw instinct to survive. You had lived this long because of it. He was still a stranger to you, just another human, and to you, they were all the same—prey, with all the frailty and softness that came with their mortality. Yet something in the way he circled you made your instincts shift. Something told you he wasn't like the others.

As he drew nearer, your body tensed, a low growl reverberating in your chest. The fear gnawed at you, but so did something else—an unfamiliar sense of curiosity. It made your skin crawl. But you didn't move. Not yet. Your trembling body pressed against the cold, unforgiving wall of your cage, your back sinking into its hardness as you shrank further into the shadows. His presence loomed over you like a storm on the horizon, powerful, commanding.

His voice came again, deeper this time, rumbling through the air like distant thunder. His words were lost on you, drowned out by the thunderous pounding of your own heart, the fear flooding your veins. You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for the familiar sting of a lash, the harsh strike of a hand, or worse—an injection that would numb you to the point of submission. A whimper escaped your throat, the sound raw and small in the vast emptiness of the cell. You shuddered, wishing for nothing more than to vanish, to disappear into the shadows where you couldn't be touched, couldn't be hurt.

But he didn't come closer.

König stares down at the trembling creature, his heart clenching at the sight of such fear in you. He kneels beside you, trying to make himself appear less intimidating. His gloved hands move slowly, deliberately, as he reaches for the latch to open the door. He wants to assure you he means no harm, but he's not sure you'll even understand his words.

"Es tut mir Leid (I'm sorry)," he murmurs softly, "I did not mean to frighten you. I only want to help."

His eyes drift over your frail form, taking in the signs of abuse and neglect. Rage simmers in his gut at the thought of what these monsters have been doing. But he pushes it aside, focusing on the task at hand. With a soft click, he opens the cage door, giving you space to move if you choose.

"You are safe now. I will not hurt you." He pauses, watching your reaction carefully, ready to act if needed. "Can you tell me your name?"

Your voice is hoarse and raspy as it leaves your throat, the sound foreign to your own ears. You can barely manage to push out the name you were given.

You dare not open your eyes, certain that any sudden movement will trigger the large man's anger. Your body trembles uncontrollably, muscles tensed and ready to flee or fight. But deep down, you know you have nowhere to run, no way to defend yourself other than the bloodthirsty demon that controls your hunger. You are at his mercy, completely vulnerable and terrified.

The silence stretches between you, heavy with uncertainty. You desperately want to believe his words of safety, but trust is a luxury you cannot afford. In your short life, kindness has been in short supply, and pain is all you've ever known. So you remain still, eyes shut tight, waiting for the other shoe to drop, praying that this time will be different, knowing it likely won't be.

He watches you closely, noting the way you tremble and keep your eyes tightly shut, as if expecting pain at any moment. His heart aches for you, for the life you've been forced to endure. He knows he needs to earn your trust, but he's not sure how to bridge the gap between.

Slowly, telegraphing his movements, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small piece of chocolate. He places it gently on the floor near you, making sure not to come too close.

"Here, Mäuschen," he says softly, "this is for you. It is sweet, not harmful."

He hopes the gesture will show you he means no harm, that he only wants to help. But he knows it will take time to break through the walls you've built up. For now, he remains patient, sitting back on his heels and waiting for any sign of response.

Your chest heaves with each ragged breath, anxiety coursing through your veins. You can't bring yourself to look at the man, let alone the unfamiliar object he's placed on the floor. Your stomach churns with a hunger you've learned to suppress, knowing that food here never comes without a price.

"I... I can't ... eat ... that," you manage to stammer out, your voice hoarse from disuse and barely above a whisper. The thought of disappointing him, of revealing the monster you truly are, makes your skin crawl. You pray he didn't notice the reddish-brown stains of aged blood on the floor, the evidence of your true nature. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blink them away, determined to maintain your facade.

You sit perfectly still, every muscle tense and ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation. In your experience, kindness is always followed by cruelty, and you're not about to let your guard down for a piece of chocolate your body will inevitably reject. Not even for someone who seems vastly different from the others who have hurt you before.

Your stomach rumbles and you try to cover your empty belly with your hands hoping the man didn't hear. He frowns slightly, concern creasing his brow. He knows you're hungry, but he understands your hesitation, even if he doesn't understand how anyone could refuse chocolate. Trust is a fragile thing, easily broken. He won't push you, not when you've already been through so much.

"No worries," he says gently, "you do not have to eat if you do not want to. I only wanted to show you that I mean no harm."

He glances around the small room, taking in the squalor and the scars on your skin. His jaw clenches. "Ah," he says softly, "do you know why I am here? Why I came to this place?"

He wants to reassure you, to let you know that you are no longer trapped, but he doesn't want to overwhelm you with information. For now, he listens, watching for any sign of understanding or reaction. You lift your head slightly, but you still can't bring yourself to look at him directly. His question hangs in the air between you, and you're not sure you understand. Why would someone come to a place like this? To hurt you? To use you?

"Why?" You whisper, your voice uncertain. You're afraid to hope, afraid to believe that things could be different. But there's something in his voice, a gentleness that you've never heard before. It makes you want to trust him, even though every instinct tells you not to.

He sighs softly, choosing his words carefully. He knows he must tread lightly, that one wrong move could shatter the fragile trust between you. "You do not belong here, Maus. You are not a weapon, not a tool to be used. You are just…" He gestures to you, disbelief in his eyes, "a kid," He pauses, gauging your reaction. He knows you may not understand, may not believe him. But he has to try. "You deserve better."

He reaches out slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away. When you don't, he gently removes the muzzle from your face, wincing at the rub marks on your skin.

"There," he says softly, "is that better?"

He sits back, watching you closely, ready to act if needed. He knows he has a lot to learn about you, about your needs and fears. But for now, he focuses on the present moment, on the small victory of removing a piece of your restraint.

Your lips part, revealing the bloody mess caked on your face and teeth. You've tried to hide it, to keep it secret, but you can't anymore. You glance up at him, your eyes wide and pleading, silently begging him not to cower away, not to reject you because of what you've done. What they made you.

He inhales sharply at the sight of the blood, his expression tightening with a mix of sorrow and understanding. But he doesn't flinch or recoil. Instead, his gaze softens, and he lets out a shaky breath, seeming to absorb the weight of what you've endured. Gently, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. "May I?"

You nod slowly, a tiny, hesitant movement of your head. Your eyes dart between the man's kind face and the gentle hand hovering near your bloodied mouth. You part your lips slightly, revealing the mess inside. The dried metallic taste coats your tongue, a constant reminder of what you are, what they've turned you into. But you're tired of hiding, tired of being ashamed. If this man truly wants to help, you'll let him.

"Okay," you whisper, your voice barely audible. You lean forward just a fraction, giving him permission to clean the blood and dirt from your face. Your heart races in your chest, fear and hope warring within you. You don't know what the future holds, but for the first time in your life, you want to believe that it could be better. That maybe, just maybe, you're not the monster they say you are.

He frowns as he sees the bloody remnants caked on your face, his heart twisting with a mix of pity and disgust. He's seen his share of violence, but this... this is something else entirely. The thought of what these monsters have done, what they've turned you into, makes his blood boil. But he pushes aside his anger, focusing instead on the task at hand. As he presses the cloth gently to your cheek, he wipes away the blood with slow, deliberate strokes, as if hoping the tenderness of his touch could somehow erase the scars left beneath. He says nothing, letting his actions speak for themselves.

As he works, he can't help but notice the way your eyes follow his every move, the way they seem to dart from his face to his hands and back again. He knows you're scared, knows you don't understand his motives. But he also sees a glimmer of hope in your eyes, a desperate need for kindness and compassion.

Each stroke of the cloth feels like a strange kind of mercy, and you find yourself leaning into it, almost without realizing. His fingers are warm and patient, dabbing away the last traces of red from your lips and chin. He pauses, his hand hovering for a moment before reaching to wipe a stray smear from the corner of your mouth. His touch is gentle, never lingering longer than it should, yet filled with a compassion that stirs something deep inside you.

When he finally pulls back, he meets your gaze, his eyes full of an emotion you can't quite name—something softer than pity, more steadfast than sympathy. He studies you for a moment, as if trying to see past the blood, past the things you've done and been forced to become.

He tucks the cloth back into his pocket and gives you a small, reassuring smile. "There," he says softly, "all better."

He knows it's a small thing, this act of kindness. But it's a start, a foundation on which to build trust. And for now, that's enough.

You barely recognize the feel of your own skin without the blood caked on your face. Your skin feels so soft, so clean. It's a strange feeling, but not an unpleasant one. You look up at the kind man, and for the first time, you're not afraid to meet his gaze. His eyes are warm, gentle, and you feel a flicker of something you can't quite name. Hope, maybe? Or some distant memory of what it means to be cared for?

Your stomach rumbles, a loud, embarrassing sound in the quiet room. You try to cover it with your hands, to make yourself smaller, but the man just smiles. He doesn't seem bothered by your hunger, by the way your body betrays your needs. It's a confusing feeling, this kindness. You're not sure what to make of it, not sure if you can trust it. But for now, you let yourself bask in the warmth of his smile, in the feeling of being partially clean and completely cared for. It's a small thing, but it means more than you can say.

He chuckles softly at the sound of your rumbling stomach, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He can't help but feel a sense of pride at the progress they've made, small as it may be.

"Hungry, ja?" he asks, his tone light and teasing. "No need to be ashamed, Mausebär. Everyone needs to eat."

He reaches into his pack and pulls out a canteen, the faint aroma of warm soup drifting through the cell bars. He holds it out to you, careful not to press too close. "Here," he says gently, "just a simple vegetable broth. Nothing to be afraid of."

He watches as you eye the canteen, your expression a mix of hunger and hesitation. You want to trust him—his eyes are soft, his voice sincere. But regular food is as much a trap for you as the bars of your cage.

"I know you're scared," he murmurs, keeping his voice low and soothing. "I know you've been through hell. But I promise you, I won't hurt you. I just want to help."

His words hang in the silence, each one sinking into you like a stone. He gestures with the canteen again, hopeful. "Will you drink? For me?"

Your stomach clenches with hunger, the rich smell of the soup taunting you, but you know better. You can't. The curse in your blood makes anything else poison. Human flesh is all your body will accept.

You look away, ashamed, pressing your forehead against the cold iron bars. "I… I told you. I can't eat that." Your voice trembles, barely a whisper, raw from disuse. "I'll only get sick."

He sighs, his gaze heavy with sadness, helplessness. He can't force you, and you can't take what he offers. All he can do is watch you with that aching sorrow, a witness to a hunger he cannot understand.

"Alright," he says softly.

He sets the canteen down on the floor near you, making sure it's within reach. Then he leans back, giving you space.

For a long moment, he simply watches you, studying your expressions, your body language. He can see the shame in your eyes, the self-loathing that comes from being told you're a monster for so long.

"Spatzi," he says quietly, "what do you think you are?"

He holds his breath, waiting for your answer. He knows it's a loaded question, knows that the truth may be more than either of you can bear. But he needs to know, needs to understand the depth of the damage that's been done.

"Look at me when you answer," he adds gently, "please."

Your eyes widen as you look up at the man. "I-I don't know..." You stammer, your voice trembling. You can't help but stare at the flesh of his arms, your stomach churning hungrily. Your body feels like it's screaming at you to feed, to satisfy the cravings that have haunted you since you can remember.

You lick your lips unconsciously, tasting the metallic tang of dried blood. It's a familiar flavor, one that you hate but can't resist. You look back up at the man, your eyes shimmering.

"My number is 8019," you whisper, your voice barely audible. "And..." You take a deep, shuddering breath, steeling yourself for what you're about to say. "They call me 'Maneater'."

The words feel heavy on your tongue, like a curse you can't escape. You hang your head, ashamed of what you are, of what they've made you into. You don't want to be a monster, don't want to hurt anyone else. But the hunger, it's always there, gnawing at you from the inside out. You're terrified of what might happen if you let it take control.

His heart clenches at your words, at the raw pain and shame in your voice. He can see the hunger in your eyes, the desperate need to feed. But he knows it's not food you crave—it's flesh, human flesh. The thought makes his skin crawl, but he forces himself to stay calm, to keep his voice gentle.

He leans forward, catching your gaze with his own. "Listen to me," he says firmly, "you are not a monster. You are not a number. You're just a kid, someone who has been hurt and abused and forced to do terrible things."

He reaches out slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away. When you don't, he gently takes your hand in his own. "I know the hunger is strong," he says softly, "but you do not have to give in to it. You are stronger than that, stronger than what they tried to make you."

He squeezes your hand, holding your gaze. "I believe in you. I believe you can overcome this. And I will be here to help you, every step of the way." He pauses, letting his words sink in. Then, gently: "But for now, let's focus on the present. Can you tell me what you want, what you need right now?"

He keeps his voice soft and steady, his eyes filled with compassion. He knows the road ahead will be long and difficult, but he's determined to help you, to show you that there's more to life than hunger and fear.

Your breath catches in your throat as your gaze locks onto his arm, the flesh so pale and vulnerable. You can almost taste it, feel it between your teeth. Your hand trembles as you lift it, pointing at him, your finger barely an inch from his skin.

"I… I…" you whisper, your voice shaking. Saliva pools in your mouth, your tongue darting out to catch a stray droplet. The hunger rages inside you, a beast clawing at your insides, demanding to be fed.

You blink rapidly, trying to clear your head, to push the urge away. But it's too strong, too consuming. His eyes are on you, filled with concern and something else, something you can't quite name. You swallow hard, your throat bobbing with the effort. You know what you're supposed to say, what he wants to hear. But the words stick in your throat, choked back by the overwhelming desire to taste, to consume.

"I…" you try again, your voice barely audible. You're dimly aware of your nails digging into your palms, drawing blood. The coppery scent fills your nostrils, mixing with the heady aroma of his flesh.

A whimper escapes your lips, torn between the need to feed and the desperate desire to be good, to be normal. You're trapped between two worlds, torn in two different directions. You don't know how much longer you can hold back the beast inside you. Eventually, he'll have to know. You can't be normal. You'll never be normal. If you don't feed, you'll die. Human food makes you deathly ill, while human flesh is like a drug, the only way you can stay alive.

His heart races as he watches you struggle, sees the hunger warring with your need to please him, to be good. He can smell the blood from your nails, can see the way your eyes rake over his arm. It's a primal, terrifying sight, one that sends a chill down his spine. But he doesn't flinch, doesn't move away. Instead, he stays still, his voice low and steady. "It's okay," he murmurs. "I understand. I know you're fighting it, fighting the hunger. And you're doing so well."

He takes a deep breath, steeling himself for what he knows he has to say. "Tell me, tell me what you need. What your body craves. Don't be ashamed, don't hide it. I'm here to help you, to understand you. But I need to know the truth."

He watches your face, your eyes, looking for any sign of understanding. He knows it's a lot to ask, knows that trust doesn't come easy. But he also knows that without honesty, without open communication, you'll never be able to move forward.

So he waits, his hand still clasped in yours, his eyes locked on your face. He's ready to listen, ready to hear the truth, no matter how difficult it may be.

Your eyes flicker between his, filled with fear. You're terrified to say the words, terrified of what he'll think of you. But you know you have to be honest. "I… I haven't eaten for so long… Months," you choke out, holding back your tears. The truth hurts, but it's the only way. "I need flesh… or I'll die…" Your voice is small and broken, barely a whisper, but it's the truth, the ugly, terrible truth. Without human flesh, you won't survive. You're a monster, a freak of science. And now he knows it too. Your hand instinctively reaches for his meaty arm, driven by the desperate hunger gnawing at you.

His heart shatters at your broken confession, at the way you reach for his arm with that desperate, hungry gaze. He wants to recoil, to pull away from the monster that's been unleashed. But he forces himself to stay still, to keep his voice gentle and calm.

"Shh, it's okay," he murmurs, gently prying your hand away from his arm. "I know. I understand. You need flesh to survive."

He takes a deep breath, his mind racing. He never expected this, never imagined the depths of what they've done to you. But he can't let it break him, can't let it make him turn away from you in your time of need.

"We'll figure this out," he says softly, meeting your gaze. "Together. I won't let you starve, I promise you that."

He thinks for a moment, then nods to himself. "For now, let's get you out of here, ja? Someplace safe, where you can rest and heal. We can worry about the rest later."

He stands up slowly, keeping a careful eye on you. He doesn't trust you not to lunge for him, not with the hunger raging inside you. But he also knows you need care, you need help. And he's determined to give it to you, no matter the cost.

"Come on," he says gently, holding out his hand. "Let's go home."

You hesitate for a moment, your hand hovering over his. Part of you wants to pull away, to run and hide from the world that has only ever brought you pain. But another part, a small, fragile part, wants to trust him, wants to believe in the kindness in his eyes.

Slowly, tentatively, you reach out and take his hand. It's warm and strong, so different from the cold, metal bars you've known for so long. You feel a flutter in your chest, a sensation you can't quite name.

As you step out, you make sure to take the muzzle with you, knowing you'll need to use it when the hunger hits again. You look back at the cell that's held you for so long, almost longingly, feeling its grip still in your bones.

He feels a surge of relief as you take his hand, as you step out of the cell and into the unknown. He senses your hesitation, your fear, and he wants to reassure you, to promise you a better life. But he knows he can't make such promises—not yet. For now, all he can offer is his support, his understanding.

He watches as you pick up the muzzle, his heart heavy with the knowledge of what it represents. He hates the thought of putting it on you, of forcing you to wear it. But he knows it's necessary, for both of your sakes.

The lab is a desolate wasteland of shattered glass, overturned equipment, and the eerie silence of abandonment. The fluorescent lights flicker weakly, casting sporadic, ghostly shadows across the scene. What was once a bustling hub of scientific discovery now feels like a graveyard of ambition and desperation. The faint hum of machinery struggling to stay operational is the only sound, accompanied by the occasional drip of liquid from a cracked pipe.

Broken containment units stand as stark reminders of what this place once held. Their glass walls are splintered, smeared with streaks of blood and fluid that hint at violent escapes. Papers and files are strewn across the floor, their contents scattered and rendered meaningless by the chaos that unfolded here. Monitors hang from their mounts, their screens cracked and dark, their wires dangling like severed veins.

The air is heavy with the metallic tang of blood, mingling with the acrid stench of burnt plastic and chemical spills. Lab benches are overturned, their instruments broken and strewn about like discarded toys. A smashed microscope lies in the corner, its once-precise optics now shards of useless glass.

There are no signs of life—no scientists in their crisp white coats, no guards patrolling the perimeter, no distant voices echoing down the sterile hallways. It's as though the building itself has given up, sagging under the weight of its failure. The emptiness is oppressive, a suffocating reminder of what this place was and what it has become.

As you step over the debris, König's grip on your hand tightens, steadying you as you navigate the ruins of your captivity. For a moment, he glances at you, his expression hardening with resolve. "You don't belong here anymore," he says quietly, his voice breaking the silence like a lifeline.

The two of you move cautiously, the echoes of your footsteps haunting the empty corridors. The lab feels alive in its abandonment, a place where memories linger like ghosts, and the promise of freedom feels just out of reach. But together, you press on, leaving behind the wreckage of a place that once sought to strip you of your humanity.

As you walk out of the lab, he keeps a close eye on you, watching for any signs of distress or aggression. He's prepared for the worst, ready to act if needed. But for now, you seem calm, almost subdued. The journey out of the facility seems never ending. But eventually, you make it to the exit, stepping out into the sunlight for the first time in your life.

He pauses for a moment, letting you take in the sights and sounds of the world outside. He knows it must be overwhelming, a sensory overload after so long in captivity. But he also hopes it brings you a sense of freedom, of possibility.

The moment you step outside, the world feels immense, overwhelming in its sheer openness. The cold is a sharp slap against your skin, the air crisp and biting as it fills your lungs. Everything glitters—the snow on the ground, the icicles dangling from tree branches, the frost clinging to the undergrowth. It's dazzling, painfully bright after the artificial lighting of the lab, and it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust. You stand frozen, your breath visible in short, uneven puffs, your bare feet already numbing against the icy ground.

The trees stand like silent sentinels, their trunks dark and their branches frosted white. A light breeze whispers through the forest, stirring the snow into tiny, swirling flurries. The quiet is vast, broken only by the occasional creak of ice or the rustle of a distant bird. It's nothing like the sterile, humming silence of the lab; it's alive, full of sound and sensation.

Your feet sink into the snow, the icy wetness shocking against your bare skin. You wince, trembling as the cold seeps into your body. Without a word, König slips off his heavy jacket, draping it over your shoulders and wrapping you tightly in its warmth. The scent of him clings to the fabric, grounding you in a way you don't quite understand.

"You'll freeze like this," he says softly, his breath misting in the frosty air. He crouches, his strong arms encircling you, and lifts you effortlessly. The chill of the snow is replaced by the solid warmth of his body as he cradles you against his chest. His arms are solid, steady, and the heat radiating from him seeps into your trembling body. You nestle closer without thinking, desperate for the comfort he provides.

The world seems endless as he carries you through the woods, his boots crunching through the deep drifts of snow. The isolation is stark—there's no sign of other people, no roads, no houses, just an unbroken expanse of forest stretching in every direction. The sheer size of it is almost too much, your chest tightening with a mixture of fear and awe.

For the first time, you feel the wind on your face, the sun on your skin, the raw, untamed world spread out before you. It's terrifying, but it's also beautiful. And as König holds you close, steady and unshaken, you think—just for a moment—that maybe this is what freedom feels like.

You lick your dry lips, tasting the metallic tang of blood. Your stomach rumbles loudly, a reminder of the hunger that constantly gnaws at you. You press a hand against your belly, trying to quiet the noise. You don't want to embarrass yourself in front of him. König shifts you slightly, holding you closer against his broad chest. His heart beats steadily under your ear, a calming rhythm in the vast, silent wilderness. "Just hold on to me," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through his chest. "I'll get you warmed up soon, little Maus."

But even through the haze of hunger, you feel a strange flutter in your chest. Is this… hope? Excitement? You've never felt these emotions before, never dared to dream of a life beyond these walls.

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for whatever lies ahead. You know you want to trust him. You want to believe that his promises are real, that there is a better life waiting for you.

But there's a quiet ache in the back of your mind, a reminder of the struggles to come. The hunger, the isolation, the long road to healing — it looms ahead, but he's here. He's with you, steady and patient, and in that, you find some comfort.

After a while, the two of you reach a secluded cabin tucked away in the snow-blanketed woods. Its roof is heavy with fresh snow, and icicles hang like fragile glass teeth from the edges that catch the faint light of the setting sun. The air smells of pine and woodsmoke, a crisp winter scent that fills your lungs as you approach. Warm light glows faintly through the frost-coated windows, a beacon against the icy stillness.

Inside, the cabin is simple but inviting. The walls are lined with warm, honey-colored wood, and a modest fireplace crackles with life, radiating much-needed warmth. A single strand of tangled, half-lit Christmas lights is draped across the mantle, their colors soft and uneven but sincere. On the small wooden table near the kitchen, a lonely sprig of pine sits in an old jar, its branches bare except for a red ribbon tied awkwardly around it.

In a far corner, a Christmas tree stands, clearly freshly cut from the forest. It's uneven and a little scraggly, with bare patches here and there, but it carries a rugged charm. König has done his best to decorate it: mismatched ornaments hang from its branches, a few handmade from twine and paper, while others are repurposed items like old dog tags and shiny brass casings. A single string of lights loops around the tree, flickering softly in a way that suggests they might not make it through the night.

"This is your new home, Maus," König says softly, his voice low and steady, a grounding force. "A place where you can be safe, where you can heal."

He gently sets you down in a well-worn armchair near the fire, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders before crouching to adjust the logs in the fireplace, the flames dancing brighter in response, then stepping away to take off his boots. The warmth from the flames seeps into your chilled bones as you take in the space. It's not much, but every corner carries an effort—an attempt at comfort, a trace of care from someone who doesn't quite know how to celebrate but still wanted to try.

A crooked wreath made of evergreen branches hangs above the mantel, tied together with a piece of frayed ribbon. On the small table by the kitchen, there's a half-empty tin of cookies, a nod to the holiday spirit, even if it's clear he hasn't had the time—or the knack—for full celebrations.

König straightens, his broad figure silhouetted against the firelight. "It's not much," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish smile. "But it's warm. And it's yours."

You sink deeper into the chair, the heat from the fire chasing away the cold that still clings to your skin. The cabin is simple, unpolished, but it feels safe. And that's something you hadn't realized you needed until now.

König kneels down in front of you, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet intensity. There's something tender in his gaze, a softness that melts away the sharp edges of your fear. You can see the weight of his concern, the way he's fully present for you in this moment.

"I know you're scared," he murmurs, his voice low and soothing. "I know everything is new and strange. But I want you to know that you're not alone anymore. I'm here for you, Maus. I will help you, every step of the way."

His hand reaches out, a gentle touch brushing the strand of hair that's fallen across your face. His fingers are warm, and for the first time, the softness of his touch makes your chest ache with something you can't quite name. You close your eyes, allowing yourself to feel the rare comfort of being seen, of being held—like you're not a monster, but simply… you.

He stands, extending a hand to help you up from the chair, and there's a quiet kindness in his smile that eases some of the tension from your body.

"For now," he says, his tone calm but steady, "let's get you settled. I'll show you where everything is, and we can talk about what you need. Okay?"

Your eyes scan the room, heart thudding in your chest. The space feels so new, so foreign. The walls seem to close in as you take in every unfamiliar detail, and a pang of panic knots deep inside you. This is your first time having a space of your own, and it feels like too much to handle. The fear presses in, suffocating, but beneath it, a flicker of something else stirs—hope, maybe. Or maybe just the promise of something different.

Then, a thought strikes you with icy terror: What if they find you here? The thought of those people, of being dragged back to that cold, sterile place, hits you like a physical blow. You press your hand to your stomach, a knot of dread twisting tighter and tighter.

The panic surges, and before you can stop it, you grab his arm, clutching it with desperate urgency. "Where will you go?" you ask, your voice trembling. The thought of being left alone in this vast, unfamiliar world makes your chest tighten. You don't know how to take care of yourself out here — not without him, not without the man who's been your guide, your protector, the one person you've trusted. Without him, you're lost.

His heart clenches at the desperation in your voice, at the frantic way your fingers hold onto him like he's your only lifeline. Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, but you try to hold them back, not used to expressing need, not used to relying on anyone. You're used to being alone and hanging on… but now, all you want is reassurance. You need him to stay. You need his calm, his steady presence. You want him to stay. You need him to stay. Please, don't leave me.

He feels the panic in your grip, the tremor in your voice, and his heart aches at the raw fear in your eyes. König kneels in front of you again, his large hands gently cupping your face, his touch warm against the coldness of your fear. He looks at you with soft determination, his gaze never wavering.

"Shhh," he murmurs softly, his voice a gentle anchor in the storm of your emotions. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise. I'll be right here, with you."

His thumbs brush away the tears that have begun to slip down your cheeks, his gaze tender as it locks onto yours. "You're not alone anymore," he murmurs, each word grounding you. "I'm right here. Always."

The steadiness of his voice, the warmth of his touch, slowly calms the frantic rhythm of your heart. For the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself believe him, let yourself believe in his promise. His hand brushes over your cheek, wiping away the last of your tears.

"You're safe now," he says softly, firmly. "Those people can't hurt you anymore. This… this is your home now."

The words settle deep within you, like a gentle balm soothing the rawness of your fear and uncertainty. But it's his next movement that makes you freeze, a flood of warmth and something else you can't name—his arms wrap around you, pulling you into a hug. At first, your body stiffens, unaccustomed to such closeness, unaccustomed to being held this way. You've never had this before. But as his arms tighten around you, a wave of comfort rushes through your veins. There's a quiet assurance in the way he holds you, like he's giving you permission to be fragile, to be human.

Slowly, you let yourself soften, your hands trembling as you cling to him, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the roughness of his military uniform. There's strength in him, a quiet power, and for once, you don't have to fight it. You allow yourself to surrender to the warmth of his touch, to let go of the endless walls you've built around yourself. In his embrace, you find solace—raw, uncertain, but real.

He holds you for what feels like an eternity, his presence a lifeline in the midst of the swirling chaos inside your chest. You breathe in, feeling the tension in your body slowly unwind as you cling to the security of his arms. His embrace is unspoken, but it's enough to quiet the storm within you.

"You don't have to be afraid anymore," he says, his voice steady, full of warmth. "I'm here. You're not alone. We'll take this one step at a time."

He holds you close for a long moment, letting you soak in the warmth and reassurance of his embrace, letting you feel the steady strength in his presence. When he pulls back, his hands gently cup your face, and his voice softens but carries weight.

"Listen to me," he says firmly, but with such tenderness. "I know you're scared. I know everything feels new, feels strange. But I want you to know you're not alone. I'm here for you, always. No matter what happens, I will never leave you."

Then, his lips press softly to your forehead, a quiet promise—silent, but heavy with meaning. The sensation lingers long after he pulls back, and you feel a strange calm seep into your bones. You're not used to this kind of tenderness, but in that moment, it feels real. It feels like something you can hold onto, something solid and safe.

"Now," he continues, his voice filled with warmth, "what do you say we explore your new home? I'll show you everything, and we can figure out what you need together. Okay?"

Your heart flutters in your chest, caught between disbelief and an overwhelming sense of relief. The idea of him staying, staying with you in this strange, yet comforting space, feels almost too good to be true. You blink up at him, your words tumbling out in a breathless rush, desperate to hold onto the fragile hope blooming in your chest.

"You're going to stay here, with me… in this house?"

König's smile is soft, genuine, and the little spark of hope within you flares brighter, filling the emptiness with warmth. He nods, his grin quirked as if to say 'where else would I go?'

"Yes, please," you whisper, the smallest smile tugging at your lips. "Show me around?"

You take his hand, the warmth of it grounding you as he leads you deeper into the house. The soft carpet beneath your feet feels so different from the sterile lab floors you've known for so long, and the warm wood of the furniture feels alive, rich with life. The paintings on the walls, depicting the forest outside, make everything feel real, tangible in a way you've never known before.

But more than the house, more than the new surroundings, it's the man beside you that brings you comfort. His presence wraps around you like a blanket, warm and steady. In this quiet moment, you feel small and fragile, like a bird with broken wings. And for the first time, you're okay with it. Because you know, without a doubt, he'll protect you, shield you from whatever monsters the world may throw your way. Maybe, just maybe, he can help you stop being one yourself.

He nods, a soft smile tugging at his lips as you take his hand eagerly. He can feel your curiosity, your tentative excitement, and it warms his heart. This place, this home, it's going to be something more than just a refuge—it's a place to rebuild, a place to heal. He's determined to make it feel like that for you, to show you that there's more to life than cold metal and harsh fluorescent lights.

He guides you through the house, his voice gentle as he points out each room. "This is the kitchen," he says, a glint of pride in his voice as he gestures toward a room with gleaming appliances, the warmth of it inviting. "And this is the living room."

You follow him, hand still securely in his, feeling the subtle excitement bubble up inside. This place is real, and so is he. The steady rhythm of his presence is like a steady heartbeat in the unfamiliar world around you.

As you approach the door to the bedroom, König's grip tightens, just a fraction, as if he's bracing for something. He opens the door with a soft creak, revealing the room—a quiet sanctuary, warm and inviting. The bed is large, covered in soft, dark blankets, pillows carefully arranged on top, giving it a comforting, almost intimate feel. A window stretches out to a view of the trees, the sun filtering through the branches, casting a gentle light on the room.

"This is where you'll sleep," König says softly, stepping aside to let you take in the space. His voice carries a tenderness, as if he's trying to make this moment feel as safe as possible.

You look at the bed, the softness of the blankets, and for a moment, a weight lifts off your chest. It's strange, though—this bed is meant for you, but something feels missing. The question forms on your lips before you even have time to think about it.

"And where will you sleep?" You look up at him, your eyes wide and uncertain. The words slip out before you can stop them, the need for reassurance more pressing than anything else.

König freezes, his gaze flickering between you and the bed, a brief moment of surprise flashing across his face. His eyes soften, a slight flush creeping up his neck, and it's clear he hadn't thought this far ahead. He'd been focused on making sure you were comfortable, safe—but now the reality of this new space, of this new beginning, seems to be settling in for both of you.

"I… well," His voice falters for a moment, an unexpected vulnerability slipping through the calm exterior he's worked so hard to maintain. "I didn't think that far ahead. I can sleep on the couch, if that's okay. It's comfortable enough, and…" His words trail off, his gaze flicking toward the living room, a slight unease in his expression as he grapples with the thought. The idea of you being alone in the bedroom without him nearby unsettles him more than he expected.

You study him for a moment, the offer hanging in the air between you, full of quiet meaning. The couch? It feels almost too self-sacrificial, too much. Despite his strength, his confidence, there's something endearing in his sudden fluster. He's trying, in his own way, to make you feel comfortable, even at his own expense.

The idea of being apart, even in such a simple way, feels strange. He wants to be near you, to make sure you're okay, but he doesn't want to overstep. He shifts on his feet, awkwardly clearing his throat. There's an underlying discomfort in his voice, "Later," he waves his hand, "Later we'll figure out the… Sleeping Arrangements." ;)

You pause, taking in the quiet safety of the room, and then look back at him. Your voice is soft, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of your lips. "You don't have to sleep on the couch, König." The thought of him choosing discomfort just to make you feel better makes your chest tighten, more guilt than relief settling over you.

König chuckles, his expression softening as he rubs the back of his neck, still a bit flustered. The moment lingers, the unspoken understanding between you both that this new chapter, whatever it holds, will be shared. No matter where he ends up sleeping tonight, you both know that for the first time in a long time, you aren't alone.

He leads you down the hall, pausing by a spacious bathroom with a large tub and a silver shower head. "You can wash up here," he says, turning on the taps to demonstrate. "The water's warm and clean, and there are towels in the closet."

He notices your gaze drifting toward the tub, your expression shifting between longing and uncertainty. He understands—it's been so long since you've been able to truly bathe, to feel the comfort of warm water enveloping your skin.

Turning to you, König's gaze softens. "Would you like to take a bath?" he asks quietly, as if offering you something precious. "I can help you, if you'd like. Or I can give you privacy, whichever you prefer."

He waits patiently, his demeanor tender. He knows this is more than just a bath; it's a small but significant step toward reclaiming a piece of your humanity. He wants to support you, give you whatever comfort he can.

You feel warmth rise to your cheeks, flushing as you look away, mumbling, "I think I can manage…"

You meet his eyes briefly, a shy smile curving your lips. "But thanks for the offer," you add softly, heart pounding with an unfamiliar flutter.

He blinks, feeling his own cheeks heat as he registers the implication of his offer. Clearing his throat, he quickly looks away, embarrassed. "Ah, yes. Of course," he stammers, scrambling for words. "I didn't mean to… I mean, I wasn't suggesting…" His voice falters as he tries to backpedal, mortified by his clumsiness. You have a way of throwing him off balance, making him feel like an awkward schoolboy with a crush.

Gathering himself, he takes a slow breath. "What I meant was," He pulls out a clean shirt from a nearby drawer, glancing at it as he holds it out toward you, "I obviously didn't have a chance to get you any clothes. So, for now, you can borrow some of mine. They'll be a bit big on you, but it'll do for now."

He feels heat spread at the admission, annoyed with himself for his lack of preparation. Holding out the shirt, he adds, "I'm sure this'll…" He hesitates, glancing from the shirt back up to you, "…cover everything."

He looks at you, hoping he hasn't made you uncomfortable or overstepped. The last thing he wants is for you to feel pressured or out of place here.

You accept the shirt shyly, cheeks tinted as you hold the garment, taking in its warmth and the faint, comforting scent of his pheromones. A small thrill goes through you at the thought of wearing something of his, of carrying a piece of him with you.

"Thank you, König," you murmur, your voice almost a whisper. Gratitude fills your gaze as you look up at him—a sense of comfort and trust you hadn't known before settling over you. In this uncertain world, he has become your anchor, a steady light guiding you through the darkness.

He swallows hard, heart skipping at the soft sound of your voice. That quiet, almost shy tone carries a sweetness that catches him off guard. He feels an unexpected pang in his chest—something he's not used to, something both unfamiliar and tender.

Clearing his throat, he tries to shake off the feeling, keeping his voice steady. His voice taking on a low, gruff quality, he murmurs. "Of course, anything for Meine Maus," he ruffles your hair affectionately, trying to brush off the sudden surge of emotion, though it lingers in the quiet spaces between you.

König steps back to give you the privacy you need, his broad frame lingering for just a second longer than necessary. You're not used to being seen like this—raw, exposed, in a way that feels so personal. He understands the weight of it and doesn't want to intrude, yet as he turns to leave, his gaze flickers back for a fleeting moment. The sight of you clutching his shirt, a gentle vulnerability in your eyes, lingers with him like a brand as he makes his way to the fireplace.

There, he busies himself, stirring the embers with deliberate motions, trying to ground himself in the mundane. But his thoughts refuse to cooperate, circling back to you, your shy smile, the delicate way you looked holding something of his. He tells himself it's just kindness, just instinct to protect. Yet, deep in his chest, a gnawing truth begins to take root—this is more than he anticipated, and it terrifies him.

He shakes his head sharply, forcing himself to focus. You need him steady. A guide, a protector, nothing more. That's what he'll be. What he has to be.

When the door clicks shut behind him, for a moment, you're alone in the quiet of the bathroom. For the first time in what feels like ages, you have real privacy. Inhaling deeply, you press his shirt to your face, letting his scent envelop you completely, letting it calm the nerves you hadn't even realized were frayed. There's a warmth, a comfort in it that settles in your chest, soothing nerves you hadn't even realized were so tight. With his scent surrounding you, a feeling of safety fills you, wrapping you up like a soft, invisible shield.

König's thoughts are restless, a mix of pride and worry churning as he listens to the faint sound of water running from the bathroom. He tries to tell himself to relax, to give you this moment of peace and privacy. But it's harder than he expected, the weight of responsibility for your safety pressing down on him in a way he isn't used to.

You slip into the bath, steam curling around you as you sink down into the warm water that melts away the aches and the grime. It's been so long since you felt truly clean, and the experience is almost overwhelming. Every scrub of your skin feels symbolic like you're washing away a layer of the past, as though you're shedding layers of shame and fear, revealing something softer, something untouched by the horrors of before.

When you finally step out, the air is cool against your damp skin. You pull his shirt over your head, the fabric falling over you like a comforting embrace. It's comically large, the sleeves covering your hands, the hem brushing mid-thigh, but the scent of him lingers on every fiber. Wearing it, you feel small, yet there's a sense of comfort in that smallness, a feeling that you're wrapped in his strength and protection.

Standing by the door, you hesitate, heart fluttering at the thought of walking out. There's a flicker of embarrassment mixed with warmth, something new yet pleasant. But you take a deep breath, and then, gathering yourself, you step out, feeling braver.

König sits by the fireplace, the glow from the embers casting a warm, flickering light across his broad shoulders as he stirs the coals with a metal rod. When he hears the bathroom door creak open, he straightens, his heart pounding in anticipation, "There you are." Turning toward you, he's ready to offer support—whatever you might need. But the sight of you emerging in his clothes makes his breath catch and the words die in his throat. His eyes widen as he takes in how the fabric swallows your frame, draping off your shoulders, the sleeves hanging past your hands, and the hem grazing your the tops of naked thighs.

You look so heartbreakingly young and innocent, so vulnerable, so utterly adorable and fragile being wrapped up in something of his, like a lost little lamb seeking warmth. And suddenly, he wants nothing more than to gather you in his arms, to hold you close, keep you safe from the world, and never let go. He wants your darkness to consume and infect him, to let the twisted ache of your needs tangle with his own, knowing it would ruin them both. He doesn't realize that he craves your darkness like a forbidden taste, wants to drown in it, to feel it seeping into him and making him just as twisted, just as wild. The desperation claws at him, he wants to lose himself in it, to let it devour every part of him, to fall so deeply that there's no going back.

It's as though seeing you like this has awakened something primal, a desperate need to shield you, to hold you, to have you in a way that feels both tender and consuming. He doesn't care if it destroys him; maybe he even wants that. But he reigns it in. Instead, he rises to his full height, his gaze softening, tempered by restraint. He draws in a slow, shaky breath, his gaze soft but charged with a restrained intensity that barely masks the hunger in his eyes.

"You look… nice," he says, his voice gruff, struggling to keep his tone casual. But you can hear a hint of something else in his tone, a note of possession that he can't quite suppress. He can feel his cheeks heat as the words slip out, more sincere than he intended. You look beautiful, your damp hair framing your face, your skin fresh and glowing from the warmth of the bath. He swallows hard, trying to keep his expression neutral. He doesn't want to make you feel self-conscious, doesn't want you to feel like you're being analyzed or scrutinized. But he can't help the way his gaze lingers on your bare legs, the way the shirt skims the tops of your thighs.

König clears his throat, glancing away as if that might help him find his composure. "I, uh… hope the water was warm enough," he says, his voice carrying a slightly hurried edge. "And the soap—was it alright? Not too harsh? I'll get something different next time I'm out…"

Realizing he's rambling, he cuts himself off, swallowing hard. The awkwardness only makes him feel more exposed, like his thoughts are too loud, too obvious. It's difficult to look at you standing there in his shirt, so trusting. He feels like he's been thrown off balance, grasping for words he doesn't know how to say. Shaking his head slightly, he regains focus, his voice softening as he meets your eyes.

"How do you feel?" he asks, his voice dropping to a low tone, genuine care in his words.

You meet his eyes briefly before looking down, a shy smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "I can't remember the last time I felt this clean," you admit softly, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. Your gaze dips, avoiding his, and he notices the small flush that colors your cheeks. He knows you're feeling exposed, vulnerable in a way you're not accustomed to. Vulnerability suits you in a way that shouldn't feel as poignant as it does.

He notices your discomfort, the way you seem unsure of your place in this strange new dynamic, and it strikes something deep in him. The thought of how long you must have endured—filth and exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin—fills him with quiet rage for the world that allowed it. But he pushes the feeling aside, focusing instead on the relief in your voice.

Reaching out, he places a large, calloused hand gently on your shoulder, his grip firm yet careful, as if you might break under too much pressure. "I'm glad," he murmurs, his voice soft. "You deserve to feel clean, to feel... human."

The words hang in the air, simple but heavy with meaning. He wants to say more, to tell you how the sight of you, standing there wrapped in something of his, tugs at a place in him he doesn't entirely understand. He wants to tell you how breathtakingly beautiful you are in your softness, how the trust in your eyes makes his chest ache with something too big to name. You look beautiful, Maus.

But he stops himself. He can't—shouldn't—say too much, not now. Instead, he gives you a gentle smile, his thumb brushing against your shoulder briefly before he pulls his hand away. His presence remains steady, quiet and reassuring, letting you know he's here, and for now, that's enough.

But then he notices the way you're swaying slightly, the way your eyelids are fluttering. He frowns, concerned. "Are you alright?" He asks, moving closer. "Do you need to sit down?"

As you stumble forward, a sudden wave of dizziness crashes over you, stomach aching in desperation, your senses tuning in on him with painful clarity. Your eyes trace the way his shirt clings to his broad chest and toned waist, accentuating every solid muscle beneath. The ache in your gut deepens, bones feeling hollow, as if they could shatter from the hunger rising in you. You swallow, desperately trying to push away the raw need gnawing at you—the urge to survive.

König's brows furrow as he takes in your pallor, his eyes sharp with worry. "What's wrong?" he asks, voice filled with concern.

You reach out, fingers clutching at his arm, the strength in him grounding you as your legs waver beneath you. The warmth of his skin under your touch, so alive, sends a spark through your senses. It's both a comfort and a torment—a reminder of the very thing your body craves, the need that's swallowing you whole.

When you look up at him, the words catch in your throat, stuck there by shame and a reluctant fear. His steady gaze meets yours, and for a brief, terrifying moment, you wonder if he'll see the monster behind your eyes. "I… I…" you can't bring yourself to say it out loud, can't risk shattering the fragile trust hanging between you.

Unable to hold it in, you press your face against his chest, inhaling deeply. His scent fills your lungs, raw and heady, mingling with a strange shame that makes you dizzy. Your whole body tenses as you try to hold back, struggling against the urge thrumming inside, but it's overwhelming, a relentless pulse demanding you to feed. When you bury your face in his chest, he wraps his arms around you. He can feel your breath coming in ragged breaths, can feel the way your body tenses and shakes against him. He can feel your teeth grazing his skin, your hands tugging at his shirt. But he doesn't stop you. He understands your hunger, your desperation.

"It's okay," he whispers, his hand coming up to cup your face. "I know what you need."

He knew you couldn't fight it forever. Knew from the moment he saw you, knew from the moment he took you from that cage, that this was always going to be a part of your relationship.

"König…" you murmur, the name escaping in a mix of pleading and need. You don't know if he can sense the storm inside you, but you can't tear yourself away. It feels impossible to resist any longer, to deny what you're starving for. You're hanging by a thread, caught between wanting to draw him close and the horror of what that could mean.

He hears your stomach grumble, sees the way your face pales, your eyes glazing over with hunger. The look in your eyes shifts from innocent and curious to something predatory and feral. He feels the strength in your grip as you cling to him, desperation pulsing through your fingers. He knows what you need, knows the craving that has overtaken you. He can only imagine the agony that comes with an empty belly. And he also knows the danger of feeding this emptiness, the almost certain risk of losing control, of turning into the very monster you're struggling to escape. But despite all of this—despite knowing the destruction that lies within you—he finds himself unable to deny you.

The thought of you starving, of your body weakening with each passing moment from lack of sustenance, gnaws at him. He knows he's the only one who can provide what you need, the only one who can keep you alive. A part of him shudders at the thought, repulsed by the idea of feeding a human to another human- offering his own flesh. But another part of him, a darker, primal part, thrills at the idea of being consumed, of being needed in such a visceral way. It's his duty to protect you, even if that means becoming your prey.

He swallows hard, his heart hammering in his chest. He knows he shouldn't be doing this, that it goes against every instinct he's ever had. But he can't deny you, can't turn away from the intensity of your need. The hunger—this all-consuming need for flesh, for blood, for the taste of something more.

With a deep, steadying breath, König leads you back to the warm crackle of the fireplace. The flames cast a soft glow across the room, and he lowers himself to sit on the rug, drawing his gaze back to you. Slowly, carefully, he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head. The fabric hits the floor with a soft thud, leaving him bare before your hungry gaze.

He watches as your eyes widen, as you take in every scar, every line of muscle, every mark of imperfection on his skin. He sees the hunger flare within you, feels the weight of your gaze as it travels over his bare form. And even though a part of him is terrified, even though a part of him wants to run and hide from the monster that you are, he remains still, his body tense with anticipation.

He waits for you to make a move, waits for you to pounce and claim what you need. But when you hesitate, your hand trembling in midair, he reaches out and takes it, his grip firm yet gentle. His thumb brushes across your knuckles, and he leans in, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Go ahead," he murmurs softly, his tone laced with a vulnerability he can't fully mask. "Take what you need."

He guides your hand to his forearm, pressing your fingers into the soft, yielding flesh. He feels your nails drag against his skin, your body trembling with a mixture of excitement and fear. His skin is pale, smooth, with veins clearly visible beneath the thick muscles of his forearm. As your fingers trace along his arm, you can feel the pulse of his heartbeat beneath your touch, steady and strong. The invitation is there, laid bare—an act of trust that sends a shiver through you.

Your nails press a little deeper, and you feel the quiver run through your own frame, caught between your desperate need and the strange, overwhelming sense of intimacy. For a fleeting moment, the hunger fades as you realize: in this instant, he's here for you—completely, unreservedly.

The rational part of him tells him he should be disgusted, should recoil at the idea of letting you feed. After all, he's only just met you, barely knows you, and has no idea what you're capable of. He only knows the haunted look in your eyes from a life of captivity and abuse, the desperation that clings to you like a shadow. And yet, against all reason, he feels himself drawn to you, to the way your grip tightens on his arm, the tremor in your fingers, the heat between you. His head swims, almost intoxicated by the tension, the trust, the scent of you surrounding him. Perhaps it's all part of the curse that binds you.

Your nails press a little too deeply, and a tear pricks at the corner of your eye as you cling to König, claws sprouting, digging into his arm without meaning to. Sharp guilt lances through you, piercing the hunger as you feel the warmth of his blood welling up beneath your fingertips, the coppery scent flooding your senses. The shame is almost unbearable; you never wanted to hurt him, to leave him vulnerable like this. But here you are, and his only response is to steady you, holding your gaze, unflinching.

"K-König," you whimper, voice trembling with guilt and desperation. "I don't want to hurt you. I never wanted to be like this. But I'm so hungry… I don't know how to stop it." You lean closer, your breath warm against his exposed skin.

He braces himself, waiting for the sting of your teeth, the heat of your mouth. A dark thrill courses through him—a shiver of anticipation as he offers himself to you, feeling a primal excitement at the thought of being the one to sustain you–the only one. Somewhere in his mind, he knows it's wrong, knows he shouldn't be encouraging this. But he can't deny the way his body reacts to your closeness, to the raw, haunting need you radiate. He's crossing a line that can never be uncrossed. And yet, with your trembling hands gripping his arm, the hunger in your gaze, he can't bring himself to care.

He lifts his arm, holding it out to you, his eyes never leaving yours. There's something intense, unyielding in his stare—a desire to see your face as you bite, to watch the way your eyes will roll back, your mouth parting in a silent moan as you take him in.

There's so much misery and sadness etched into your face that he can't look away. With a steadying breath, König reaches out, cupping your face in his hand. His touch is achingly gentle, even as his heart races wildly against his ribs. "Shh, es ist in Ordnung (it's okay)," he murmurs, brushing his thumb tenderly across your cheekbone. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

He swallows hard, trying to ignore the way his body responds to your closeness, the way your lips hover near his skin, as if at any moment you might surrender fully to your hunger. His pulse quickens beneath your fingers, each beat drumming out an invitation, a silent promise. "I know," he whispers, voice rough with emotion. "I know what you need."

He's ready for you. Ready to give you what you need, ready to be your source of sustenance. Ready to be yours, in whatever way you want him.

König's breath hitches, his gaze unwavering. "My Maus," he murmurs, his hand clenching into a fist, his voice thick and restrained. Through clenched teeth, he whispers, "Do it."

And then you're on him, your teeth sinking into his flesh, your mouth hot and wet against his skin. He cries out, a strangled sound that's somewhere between a groan and a whimper. The pain is sharp, searing, unlike anything he's ever felt before. But beneath the agony, there's a thrill, a forbidden pleasure that sparks and burns, a jolt that rushes straight between his legs. He can feel your hot mouth working against his skin, your tongue flicking over the wound, lapping up the blood that wells from your bite. The sensation is intense, overwhelming, and he finds himself arching into it, his body responding in ways he never expected.

His head falls back, eyes fluttering closed, a moan escaping his lips. The pain is incredible. He feels as if he's on fire, like his skin is too tight, barely able to contain the heat building within him, each pulse thrumming through his veins and making him lightheaded.

As you feed, he can't help but feel a dark, twisted arousal creeping in, watching you, so feral, so hungry, so alive, stirs something deep within him. It's wrong, so very wrong, and yet, he can't deny the way his body responds, his hips bucking involuntarily.

He reaches out, his hand tangling in your hair, gripping tightly. He doesn't push you away, doesn't try to stop you. Instead, he holds you close, letting you feed, letting you take what you need. His mind is hazy, clouded with a mixture of pain and pleasure. He can't bring himself to care, can't bring himself to regret this moment of intimacy, of connection. Not when you need him, not when you're so close to him, so utterly dependent on him. "That's it," he growls, his voice thick with emotion.

The coppery tang of blood fills your mouth, hot and thick on your tongue as you tear into his flesh like a starving animal. Ripping and tearing, you devour him with a frenzied desperation, unable to stop the onslaught of hunger that has now consumed you entirely.

The pain sears through his nerves like a brand. But he welcomes it, embraces it, even as his vision begins to blur at the edges. He watches with a strange fascination as you feed, your cheeks bulging obscenely, rivulets of blood running down your chin.

König's eyes drift closed, his breathing heavy and ragged. He can feel the warmth of your mouth, the suction of your lips, the scrape of your tongue, leaving him aching. And he doesn't know if he wants more or if he wants to rip his arm free and find the nearest hospital. Your moans of pleasure, the feel of your tongue against his wound, it's all he can do to keep from moaning with you. König now understands why you were locked away.

This is what you need, what you've craved for so long. And he's giving it to you, freely and willingly… isn't he? His fingers tangle in your hair, tugging you closer, urging you deeper, as if he wants to feel your hunger and your pleasure all at once. It's a gift, this twisted offering, and he's determined to be the only one who can give it to you.

He groans your name, voice thick with the agony and ecstasy of the moment, lost to the sensations you draw from him. For just a fleeting instant, the world outside fades away—the pain, the impossibility of this situation, all of it. His hand finds your face, trembling but sure, cupping your cheek with surprising tenderness, feeling the way your body trembles with a mix of satisfaction and shame. He understands your conflict, your struggle to reconcile your hunger with your humanity.

"Shh," he soothes, his voice low and steady, though frayed at the edges. "It's okay. I'm alright."

He feels his strength slipping, his pulse weakening, vision starting to blur at the edges like shadows creeping into the corners of his mind. Yet, even as his body begins to betray him, he doesn't let go of you. His grip is unrelenting, not in desperation, but in determination—to see you through this, to give you what you need.

When you finally force yourself to pull back, gasping for breath, the reality of what you've done slams into you. His arm is an unspeakable mess of ragged flesh, torn muscles, and glimpses of bone gleaming through the carnage. Blood pools on the floor, sticky and dark, staining your hands and your soul.

He watches through half-lidded eyes as you wipe your face with the back of your hand, your lips stained red with his blood as though you could erase the evidence of what you've done. But the taste lingers—coppery and warm, heavy with guilt. The sight should disgust him, should horrify him. But instead, he finds himself transfixed, a dark thrill coursing through his veins. He's given himself to you, offered himself up as a sacrifice to sate your hunger. And in doing so, he's forged an unbreakable bond between you, a connection that goes beyond mere friendship or loyalty or love. You're a part of him now, and he a part of you, in the most literal sense possible.

Yet he doesn't flinch, doesn't look away. Instead, he lifts his uninjured hand, cupping your face with startling tenderness. His blood smears across your lips, painting you in the vivid red of his sacrifice. Your eyes are wide with terror as you take in the state of his arm—the torn flesh, the exposed bone, the blood pooling on the floor. You feel sick, dizzy with the realization of what you've done, of what you're capable of.

You shake your head, tears streaming down your face. A strangled sob escapes you as you take in the ruin you've made of him, your voice breaking as you back away. "No," you whisper, shaking your head in horror. "I didn't mean to—I didn't want to hurt you…" The words falter, swallowed by your tears.

Your hands hover helplessly over his arm, afraid to touch, afraid to cause him more pain. "I'm sorry," you murmur, your voice raw and cracked. "König, I'm so sorry… I didn't want this. I didn't want to hurt you."

You lean over him, anxious to check his pulse, to make sure he's still breathing. As your trembling fingers press against his chest, desperate to feel the faint thrum of his heartbeat, you feel his hand come up, cupping your cheek once more. His touch is gentle, impossibly soft given the pain he's enduring. His eyes, heavy with exhaustion, meet yours, and the warmth in them nearly undoes you.

"Hey," he murmurs, his voice faint but steady. "It's okay. I'm okay." His lips curl into a weary smile, one that's equal parts reassurance and resignation. "You did what you had to do."

The warmth of his blood lingers on your lips, a taste of desperation and survival. It should repulse you, should drown you in shame. But with him—this man who offers himself so completely—it feels different. It feels like surrender and absolution, as if this moment was inevitable, as if the line between need and love never truly existed.

And despite the weight of your actions, despite the monster you fear you've become, you can't ignore the haunting truth that burns in your chest: with him, it feels right.

König leans in, his breath hot and unsteady against your skin. When his lips meet yours, it's not soft or timid—it's consuming, desperate, and filled with a raw, unyielding tenderness. The taste of him—sugar and iron, warmth and pain—mingles with the ache of your shared vulnerability. It's a kiss that strips you both bare, exposing every hidden scar, every unspoken fear, every fragile thread of hope.

His fingers tangle in your hair, holding you to him as if letting go would break him. And you kiss him back, matching his fervor, pouring every ounce of your gratitude, your anguish, your reluctant love into him. Time stills, the firelight flickering against the shadows of the room, casting you both in a glow that feels like something sacred.

When he finally pulls back, the world rushes in, harsh and unforgiving. Blood paints his lips, a stark reminder of the cost of this moment. It streaks his face, staining his strong jaw and the corner of his mouth, but he doesn't wipe it away. His eyes, glassy and unfocused, hold yours with a depth that steals your breath.

His chest rises and falls in shallow, labored breaths, his body trembling under the strain of what he's given. Yet even in his weakness, his arms remain tight around you, refusing to let you drift away. His hand reaches towards your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek with an aching gentleness. Blood smears against your skin, warm and vivid, binding you further to him.

He reaches out with a trembling hand, cupping the back of your neck as though you're the most fragile, precious thing he's ever held. The warmth of his blood smears across your cheek, stark and vivid, a reminder of everything you've taken and everything he's willing to give. His fingers brush against your hair, trembling but deliberate, and you can feel the weight of his exhaustion in every touch. Despite the pain etched into his features, he smiles—a small, soft curve of his lips that shouldn't be possible, not after all this, but it's there.

"I'm yours," he whispers, his voice so soft it's barely audible. There's no hesitation in his words, no fear—only a raw, unshakable truth. "Now and always."

The words are a vow, a pledge, a declaration of devotion. They're a promise that transcends the boundaries of species, of morality, of right and wrong. They're a testament to the power of the bond that exists between you, a bond forged in blood and fire, in pain and pleasure, in the very essence of who you are.

No matter how dark your hunger, no matter how monstrous you think you are, König sees you—all of you—and chooses to stay.

You feel a lump form in your throat and tears blur your vision as you take in the sight of him—exhausted, vulnerable, yet unwaveringly devoted. His devotion is overwhelming—beautiful and terrifying in its completeness. You've never known someone to care for you like this, to sacrifice so much for your well-being. It's a foreign concept, one that you're not sure you fully understand. But you feel it, deep in your core, a warmth that spreads through your chest and settles in your heart.

You lean forward, resting your forehead against his, the shared warmth grounding you both. Your eyes flutter closed as your voice wavers, thick with emotion. "I'm sorry," you whisper, your breath brushing against his lips. "I never wanted to hurt you."

He shakes his head, his movements sluggish and uncoordinated. "No," he murmurs, his breath warm against your lips. "Never apologize for being what you are."

He smiles, despite the pain, despite the weakness that threatens to pull him under. "I guess," he whispers, his voice slurred and thick, "you can't live without me now."

It's a joke, a dark, twisted attempt at humor in the face of the insanity that surrounds you. But there's a truth to it, a weight to the words that hangs in the air between you. You are his in a way that no one else can ever be. And he is yours, in a way that no one else will ever understand.

And as the edges of his vision begin to darken, he whispers your name like a prayer. "Maus..." His voice breaks, a tremor of pain and reverence. "Meine Engel..."

He takes your hand, pressing it gently against the wound, and he winces as your fingers touch his bleeding skin. His breath comes in shallow, ragged gasps, and you can feel his pulse slowing, the once strong rhythm now weak and erratic. He wants you to feel the beat of his heart, to know he's still here, still alive, but even as his hand trembles beneath yours, you can tell it's slipping away.

"You're not a freak," he whispers, his voice faint, strained. His eyes, though dimmed with pain, meet yours with a tenderness that seems out of place in the chaos of the moment. "You're not a monster. You're special. My special Maus."

And as his hand trembles against yours, as the warmth of his blood mingles with your tears, you know the truth he's trying to give you. That even in your darkest moments, even in the depths of what you fear you are, you are still worthy of love. Of him.

The words don't erase the past, the weight of everything you've endured, but in this instant, they are the only comfort he can give. He hopes they'll settle in your heart, that over time, you'll come to see yourself as he does—worthy, significant, deserving of love.

But for now, his focus falters. He looks at you, his expression hollow, desperate to make things right, as if it's still within his power. "Let's get this cleaned up," he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. "Can't have you thinking I'm going to bleed out on you." His attempt at humor falls flat, his smile twisted with pain, but there's warmth in his eyes—an affection that seems to burn through the weakness consuming him. But it's fleeting, and his energy is draining.

König attempts to get to his feet, using the wall for support. His legs wobble beneath him, threatening to give out at any moment. He takes a shaky step forward, then another, each movement sending a fresh wave of pain coursing through his body.

"I'm fine," he mutters, more to himself than to you. But even as he says the words, he can feel himself swaying, his vision blurring at the edges.

You reach out, wrapping your arm around his waist, helping to steady him. Together, you make your way down the hallway. The bathroom is just a few steps away, but it feels like miles. By the time you reach the door, he's leaning heavily against you, his body cold and clammy against your own. He lets out a string of curse words in German as you guide him to the sink, lowering him carefully onto the edge of the counter. He slumps against the wall, his eyes fluttering closed, his breathing labored. "Just give me a minute," he gasps, his eyes squeezed shut, his jaw clenched tight. You stand beside him, your hands hovering uselessly over his ruined arm.

"I just need to patch it up," he says, his voice thin and reedy, "and it'll be fine." He reaches for the first aid kit in the medicine cabinet with his uninjured hand, fumbling with the handle. His fingers tremble, his movements sluggish, and he curses under his breath as the kit slips from his grasp, spilling its contents across the floor.

You scramble to gather the supplies, your hands shaking as you try to sort through the bandages and antiseptic. You lean over him, your hands shaking as you try to assess the damage. You've never been good at this sort of thing—first aid, medicine, anything practical. All you know is that he's hurting, and you want to make it better.

"Scheiße," he hisses through gritted teeth as you run water over the exposed flesh. The sight of it makes your stomach churn, the reality of what you've done hitting you like a punch to the gut. The water runs red as you rinse the blood from his skin, the crimson swirling down the drain.

You feel tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blink them away. You don't have time for crying, not now. He reaches up, his hand finding yours, his grip surprisingly strong. "Hey," he murmurs, his voice hoarse and strained. "Don't..." His words trail off as a wave of pain washes over him, his face contorting in agony.

You squeeze his hand, trying to offer what comfort you can. You can feel the warmth of his skin, the pulse of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips. He's alive, he's still here, and that's all that matters.

"Geh nicht (Don't go)," he pleads, his words slurring, his body trembling beneath your hands. "Don't leave me."

"I'm here," you assure him, your voice steady despite the fear that grips you. "I won't let you go."

You rip open the packaging with your teeth, your mouth dry with fear. You can't lose him, not now, not like this.

You clean the wound as best you can, wincing at the sight of exposed bone. You wind the bandage around his arm, your fingers sticky with blood, the fabric soaking through almost immediately. He clenches his jaw, his eyes screwed shut, his body trembling with the effort of holding still. You wrap the injury tightly, praying it will be enough to stem the flow. But even as you work, you can feel the warmth draining from his skin, the weakness that overtakes him.

You finish bandaging his arm, your hands lingering for a moment on his skin. The gauze is already soaked with blood, the crimson stain spreading across the white fabric like a blooming flower. But König doesn't care. He knows that he'll be okay. Because, for the first time in his life, he has something to live for. He has you.

He's losing too much blood, too fast. You know it, he knows it. And yet, even in the face of the inevitable, he reaches for you. You pull him up gently, wrapping an arm around his waist to support him as he sways unsteadily on his feet. He leans heavily against you, his arm hanging limply at his side, leaving a smear of blood on your clothes.

Together, you make your way to the bedroom, his steps slow and unsteady, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

Your touch is gentle as you help him to his feet, his arm a dead weight in your grip. He leans heavily against you, his breath coming in short, painful gasps, each step an effort, each movement a struggle.

But he doesn't complain, doesn't make a sound beyond the occasional grunt or hiss of pain. He just focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, his mind clouded with exhaustion and the lingering effects of the blood loss. You lead him back to the bedroom. You feel like you're walking in a dream, numb, detached, as if you're watching from above as your hands guide him to the bed.

When you finally reach the bedroom, he collapses onto the edge of the bed, his shoulders slumped, his head hanging low. He looks so small, so fragile, so different from the towering, imposing figure he was when he first entered your enclosure.

You kneel before him, your hands hovering over his lap, uncertain, afraid to touch him. But he reaches out, his fingers finding yours, lacing them together in a gesture of comfort and reassurance. He looks at you, his eyes bleary and unfocused, his smile weak but genuine. "Hey, Maus," he murmurs, his voice hoarse and raspy. "Forgot to tell you. You look beautiful tonight."

The words are so at odds with the situation, so inappropriate given the circumstances, that you can't help but let out a watery laugh. "You're delirious," you whisper.

He nods, a slow, sleepy motion that sends him swaying slightly. "Probably," he agrees, his lips curving into a lazy grin. "But I meant it. Will always mean it." As his words trail off, his eyes flutter closed, and his breathing grows more labored. You can see the effort it takes for him to stay conscious, to keep fighting the pull of the darkness. His skin is pale, his lips tinged with blue, and you know he's at the brink, teetering on the edge of oblivion.

He leans back, his body sinking into the mattress, his eyes fluttering closed. As you stand to leave, you feel his grip on your arm. "Stay," he says, the words barely audible. "Please, don't leave. Stay with me tonight."

It's not a request, not really. It's a command, spoken with the last of his strength, the last of his will. And you don't hesitate. You crawl onto the bed beside him, curling yourself around him, your arm draped over his waist, your leg thrown over his. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him, the musk of sweat and blood and something uniquely him, like the metallic tang of death mixed with the earthy musk of life. The sheets are cool against your skin as his body presses close to yours.

He mumbles something under his breath, a string of German words that you don't understand, but the tone is soft. "I'm scared," he whispers, his voice small and frightened. "I don't want to die." He reaches for you, his fingers tangling in your hair, his face pressing against your neck. He breathes in your scent, a deep, shuddering inhale, as if he's trying to memorize it, to imprint it on his soul.

You stroke his hair, running your fingers through the strands. "Shh," you murmur, your lips brushing against his ear. "You're not going to die. You're going to live. You have to live."

But even as you say the words, you know they're a lie. You can feel him slipping away, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, his heartbeat fluttering like a trapped bird beneath your fingers. You feel his heartbeat, slow and struggling, against your chest, and you pray that it won't stop, that he won't slip away from you in the night.

He looks up at you, his gaze hazy but intense, filled with a mix of pain, exhaustion, and something else—something that looks almost like love. He reaches up, his hand cupping your cheek. His thumb strokes your skin, tracing the curve of your jaw, the softness of your cheek.

"I'm glad," he whispers, his voice barely audible. "I'm glad it was you."

You close your eyes and pray you don't wake when morning comes.

...geez at least take him out to dinner first before you eat him

JK, i really enjoyed this one. please leave constructive criticism and feedback, i love hearing what you guys think _! thanks for reading!

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