𝘒ö𝘯𝘪𝘨 / 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘹 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

unlucky medic {König}

{mature}

The moment you stepped into the dimly lit room, you were met with a pair green piercing eyes. His gaze didn't waver as he looked you up and down.

"Hello."

You decided it was best to start with a simple greeting. After all, the man was literally bleeding.

He was alive.
For the moment.

You were the 'unlucky' one to get selected to bring him back to health.

How did you get so unlucky?

Sticks. You and your fellow medics drew sticks in order to see who would go.

And it so happened you picked the shorter one.

Lucky you, y/n.

Rumors already circulated around him; how he murdered men and women mercilessly on missions. How much blood he shed...

With just a snap of his wrist, he could kill you.
But of course, even the soldiers thought ahead of that, which is why he sat on his bed, his hands chained to either side of him.

He looked almost to be like a dog.

He didn't respond to your greeting with any words. Instead, he watched you as you walked towards the table near his bed. His eyes seemed to drink in the sight of you, as if examining every inch of your being.

His gaze swept over you; taking in the way your curves fit smoothly beneath your uniform. The way your jet black hair framed your delicate features.

The sound of your voice, almost a sultry whisper that pulled his attention back.

"I'm here to help tend to your wounds."

"I'm fully aware."

Though the words were simple, they were also laced with underlying bitterness. He didn't bother trying to hide the look of disdain he gave you at the same time.

He stayed still as you examined his wounds, but it was clear from his gaze and gritted teeth that he was fighting the urge to reach out and grab you.

You could hear the chains rattling under him with each small movement he made.

His skin was littered with cuts, punctures, and bruises. His arms were thick with hard muscle and calloused. His jaw sat locked in place and was covered with dried blood that cracked apart with every movement of his head. Even his lips were busted and bloodied.

The man was a literal killing machine.

After nearly an hour of tending to his wounds you realized that he had yet to say a single word to you.

At most points he had simply stared at you, his blank expression occasionally breaking into a sharp scowl.

"When you recover, you'll be taken in for questioning."

"I know."

His comment didn't exactly foster much conversation, and after another silent minute or two you couldn't help but try to break the tension and fill in for that silence.

"My name's y/n."

You couldn't tell if he noticed or cared about the statement, but for whatever reason he responded.

Finally.

"...König."

His curt response to you greeting told you all you needed to know about his willingness to converse.