Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The glass sets on the counter with a clink. Some idle chatter from people in booths filters through, but it's a slow night. You're tempted to ask someone to cover for you briefly so you can take a break, when a man walks in. Towering, you think. He's easily a head, if not two, taller than you. It makes you want to laugh — so absurd how a person can even get to that height.

"Evening, what can I get you?"

He walks up to the bar and you, internally, appreciate he came at a down time. His voice would've been nearly impossible to hear, otherwise, with the mask.

"Moscow mule, please."

German. His accent comes out thick, voice low, but not deep necessarily. He sounds friendly and looks the part as well. Short, dirty blond hair that you wouldn't be surprised if he cut himself. Straight, albeit a little crooked, nose with flat brows. Grey eyes. Soft. A stark contrast to the scars. One which cuts across the bridge of his nose to his brow, the other coming up on his right side, your left, from below the mask up to under his eye.

"Coming right up."

You're pouring in the vodka, not thinking he's the type to engage in idle conversation, when he surprises you. "How long have you been open?"

"We don't close, but if you mean officially? Let's see," you add the ice and place it on the counter, "Old place sold out around June so, a little under six months. Visiting home?"

He shakes his head. "Yes and no. I am military," he explains simply between nursing the glass.

You watch him at first. He lifts the bottom of his mask up to drink and dark blond stubble, if you can consider it as such being how short it's trimmed, peaks from under it. After that, you decide to direct your attention elsewhere. You don't want to be rude and figure he's choosing to keep the mask on for a non-medical reason. 

"Oh, welcome back! Which branch are you in?" Seconds pass and you go to say something else, thinking he doesn't intend to answer.

"Closest to Marines."

Water drips from the glass onto the napkin.

"Look to fit the part," you hum, a smile on your lips. Even under the double layered jackets and cargo jeans, his shoulders are broad. Jaw and arms, strong.

He flushes.

︾

You mention him to your coworkers at some point, but they say they haven't seen him. In any other scenario, if he were any other guy, you'd try describing him again, but he's too noticeable. 

You work graveyard shift and every day come 4AM, he shows up ordering the same drink. At first your conversations revolve around small things. Weather, changes happening in the town, difficult customers. At some point they get to be… more. König, he tells you after an operation. German for 'King'.

Talking with him is easy.

He's nice and it has your stomach doing flips everytime he smiles, or laughs, or simply looks at you. A couple weeks in, you'd started thinking about him outside of work too, which was embarrassing to say the least. Especially considering the nature of the thoughts. You woke up from a dream the other night drenched in sweat. Heat pooled below your waist and your heart pounded so hard you swore it was going to cave in on itself. Images of hands and his tongue flash. You shudder — try to shake the thoughts away.

Cold air floods in as you finish pouring shots for a younger group that's been here since you clocked in. You eye the door. Your thoughts come back tenfold. The first thing you notice is he's wearing a grey t-shirt, layered under a brown felted overshirt, and dark joggers. The second are his tattoos.

Where the sleeves from the overshirt are folded, black ink spills under them. Above where the v-neck sits too — where his collarbone is exposed — olive stems branch out horizontal on either side. One arm seems to be a sleeve, contrasting between sections of it completely black, while others are left unmarked. You can't see anything above his forearm, but you assume there's more.

The other, you guess, is an animal of some sorts. Maybe a dog? It has two paws, but the nails coming off it resemble ones you'd see on a rooster, or eagle. The fur of the creature swirls, the tail in particular resembling more of the roots or branches of a tree, and where its anatomy dictates bones, they jut out unnaturally.

"I'm starting to think that you're either having a prolonged quarrel with Horangi, a cocktail enthusiast and I'm somehow the best at making them in town, or – and the most unlikely out of the options – I'm good company."

He laughs and it's the best noise you've heard all night. The type that catches on a part of his throat and kind of rumbles out.

"What if it was a mix of the three?"

"I'd make you another, on the house." You smile. While finishing his drink, your eyes trails to the ink once more. On the underside of the arm with the creature, you catch glimpses of other animals. A rabbit with a sword in the foreground covered in thorns, a splintered bone, a praying mantis, and so on and so forth.

It's late — or early, rather. More people today, but only because of the party in the back. The one you already took care of. Music filters through the speaker. Jazz at this hour.

"I didn't realize the military allowed tattoos."

He looks at his arm, the one with the blackwork, then his gaze meets yours.

"They lifted it some time ago. But as long as the uniforms covers them, it is okay."

You hum, "What's that one?"

"Ah," he looks to the dog-like creature, "It's a traditional wolf, like the one's in old storybooks."

"Pretty," you mumble. "Why'd you get it?"

You pass his drink instead of setting it on the counter — a gesture you've done since you noticed he never let it set — but this time, his fingers brush yours. You see his face tint red, maybe from your comment or from the touch. His eyes refuse to meet yours and you wish now more than ever you could react in some way. That you knew how to flirt subtly, or better yet, weren't at your job. 

"Was in Germany, by an artist my mother got her own. She said it's for strength and protection."

"And that one?"

"Curious, aren't you? That one is secret. But what about you? You have any yourself?" He asks, eyes now piercing.

A smile, and then, "Sorry, Colonel, but that's private information."

"Ah, I see," he says. Under the mask, you think he's smiling too.

A customer walks in, another usual. They sit further into the bar and you leave to take care of them. Between them, the group ordering another round of shots — that turns into two, that turns into you substituting all following ones for water — restocking, and cleaning, the time passes faster than you realize.

You finally join König again to see the empty glass is to the side of the coaster and numbers are etched into the paper square by a blue pen.

"König? Is this–"

"You do not have to call it, or even take it. I just wanted to," he trails off, eyes looking everywhere but at you.

You try to hold back your amusement, but can't help but at tease. "Wanted to what?"

He meets your gaze. His fingers thrum against the countertop. "I am interested, is all, and wanted to let you know. In case you are as well."

︾

You hear your name being called as you untie your apron in the back. You walk out to the bar to see Lydia, your coworker, laughing as she makes her way to you.

"Your muñeca is here." She peers at you, eyebrows raised and eyes alight

"Oh god, please tell me you didn't say anything to him–" She cuts you off with another fit of laughter. "Lydia! Qué le dijiste a el?" You don't yell, but it's a near thing.

"Have a little faith," she shouts, walking towards the back.

König is standing next to the barstool he usually sits. He's flushed, grey eyes focused on you with an expression you can't quite place. After months of being together — months of teasing turned flirting turned date nights, you asked if he wanted to stay in and watch a movie. You'd been to each other's places a couple times, but, aside from a failed dinner a few weeks ago that resorted in you almost having to call the fire department, never as the final destination.

"What'd she say?" The question practically tumbles out.

"Nothing," he says, but doesn't meet your gaze. You want to push. You want to sit him down and glare at him until he talks, but you're too excited to get home. That doesn't stop the assortment of noises followed by an exasperated sigh.

"Let me finish clocking out and we can go."

You tap in your numbers, grab the little receipt, and reluctantly say goodbye to Lydia. He's already by the door as you make your way to him.

"Did you drive here, or are we walking?" 

"I drove," he says. Outside, the air is crisp. Cold. The wind makes it worse than it actually is, the clouds covering the early morning sun that usually combats the lower temperatures. "My bike is over here."

"Your bike." You pause. It's a question, though you didn't– and then it hits you what he means. "You have a motorcycle?" You gawk, bringing your hand up to cover your mouth because good god. "How do you even fit?"

He frowns and blinks a couple times. "I don't understand. I sit on it and go. Just like anyone else. Like you will."

"First of all, you're massive–" You shake your head, gesturing wildly.

"–Now you are being mean. I am not 'massive'. Maybe taller than most, but thankfully there is no height limit."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that," you wince, then turn the corner and there it is. Black with red accents and a golden bar on each side connecting to the front wheel. On the bottom, bolded, white lettering reads Ducati. "Wait a minute– König, I can't get on a motorcycle."

"Nonsense. It is not any motorcycle. She is a Panigale V4 and my Aney." He looks at you all wide eyed as if the information would make you feel any better.

"That's so sweet, but not enough to change my mind–"

"–And you can wear the helmet and extra jacket."

You want to shake him, or scream, or something. The butterflies in your stomach have you worrying you're going to be sick.

"That's not the issue."

"Bitte?" He asks, his tone soft. Gaze softer. Unfair.

"Oh, c'mon…"

"Your place is very close," he pleads.

You glare at him. It's not fair at all — getting guilt tripped into getting on a vehicle that kills upwards to five thousand people a year. That has an eight percent chance to seriously injure, or fatally wound, in an accident. That sends hundreds of thousands of people to emergency rooms.

"I'll drive slow."

Not to mention it's cold and windy.

But you can't let him leave the motorcycle here.

Plus, you'll get there faster than walking.

You resign, "Very slow."

"Anything for you, meine Schatz. Here." He zips open the case on the end and hands a helmet and jacket and it hits you that you're seriously considering this — past that, you're doing it. You hold them in your arms and try to settle your nerves as you slide the leather over your uniform and mess with the helmet.

"It doesn't look big enough for two people, König." You don't know much about motorcycles, but this one reminds you of the kind you see in races, which only makes things worse. Why couldn't he own a cross country kind instead. You curse internally.

"Yes, it's originally for one person, but that is why it has this," he gestures to the cushion on the raised part of the back. A string of hesitant noises rumble from the back of your throat.

This is a bad idea.

"You seem awfully prepared for this."

"I am! I have wanted you to see her for much time." He zips up his jacket and puts his own helmet on. "I didn't think what would happen if you didn't like bikes, though."

"I don't hate them," you're quick to defend. "Just– If I have to be on one, I'd prefer to wear more than just this."

Hopping on the bike, he motions for you to join him. You do, reluctantly.

"Place your left foot on the peg, here. Very good! Now grab the top case and somewhere on my shoulder, like that, and now stand up and over," he guides.

You grip his shoulder as you do, but manage without tipping the both of you plus the motorcycle.

"Perfect! You did so well," you can hear the smile from his tone alone, "And what you said earlier, you're right, it's very important. All gear all the time. Sorry for being a bad influence. Next time, I will get you a set like mine to wear, yes?"

You sputter, "That's not what I meant–"

"I want to make sure you are safe. Top priority." He looks back and you wonder how much the helmet obstructs his vision. "Now, wrap your arms like this." He reaches back and pulls yours around his waist, one overlapping the other. His jacket is cold and you can't dig your hands in with it zipped up. "Good, but relax. Your legs can be tense, but not up here."

Easier said than done. You're not moving, yet already miss standing on solid ground.

"You trust me." Not a question, but a remark.

"It's not you I'm nervous about."

"But it is. The bike only does what I tell it to, like a gun cannot shoot if nobody pulls the trigger. I have much experience and would not do anything that would scare you."

You take a deep breath, loosen your hold on his waist, and rest the front of your helmet on his shoulder. "I trust you," you say and you mean it.

"Danke, Liebling." He rests a hand on your thigh, his thumb rubbing circles over your clothes. You sigh again. "Now, lean into me. Have your chest follow my back for now. We can do rounds here until you're comfortable. No rush.

"Even though you aren't the rider, you must pay attention too. When I stop, you put a hand here," he covers his palm over a flat expanse that leads up the steering, "The tank, or you can use my back instear. Whatever's easiest." Both hands move to the steering and then the motorcycle is rumbling. Your breath hitches.

"What about when you take off?"

"Just keep doing this." And you're off. He's going no faster than a jog realistically, the vehicle barely moving, and it's… manageable. You go through the lanes of the small parking lot, at some point weaving around a poll. Again and again until the air doesn't cut through you with every movement and the field of clouds disperse into clusters.

"You okay?"

"I think so," you say, voice lighter now.

"Good to go on the road?"

You hesitate, eyes following the wrinkles of his jacket covering the expanse of his back. Only a couple minutes, you remind yourself and breathe. If your arms tighten around him, neither of you mention it.

"Yes."

Like a rollercoaster, most of the nerves are from anticipation, the other from the initial fall. In this case, there is no fall, but going at 50 kph from barely 15 is about the same.

You start to enjoy it though, at some point. It's cold, but behind König, you don't get much of the wind. And König is warm — so unbelievably warm it seeps through his gear despite the autumn lows. You find yourself looking up at your apartment the next thing you know, taking off the helmet and rushing inside and up the elevator. You can't get in the door fast enough, your shoes the first things to come off as the heat hits you.

"You get cold easy," he laughs softly.

Your body's internal temperatures have always been iffy at best. Consistency is not a word your hands or feet are familiar with, usually either freezing or sweating regardless of where you are or what you're doing.

"Isn't that why I have you?" You smile, slipping out of the jacket and reaching out for him.

Wrapped in his arms, your head pressed up against his chest, you listen to his heart beat. You inhale and he smells of dust. The kind that gets kicked up when there's not enough rain, a mix of gravel and dirt. It reminds you of the countryside though you know for him, that's not the case. Cigarettes and wood — or maybe burning. Smoke, like the type that curls up from a snuffed candle. Hot wax and burned wick.

"Better?"

You nod, warmer now.

"Can you make the popcorn while I get changed?"

"Of course," he says, almost a murmur. The tone has shivers running along your spine.

In your room, you're tempted to crumple into your bed. Get undressed and throw the blankets around you. It would be so easy and so warm, and a good time for a nap before you have to go work again. Instead, you change out of your uniform into a sweater and pajama pants.

There's an underlying buzzing in your skin. Alite, similar to anxiety without the clammy hands or heavy chest. Your plans — After that dream, you've been craving for every and any opportunity to have your hands on him. It's been months and you've been patient. You don't want to mess it up now, but maybe he's waiting for you to do something. Maybe he's just as nervous.

You walk into the living room, turning on the TV and navigating to a movie your friend recommended.

"Do you have M&M's?" He asks suddenly, pulling you out of your thoughts.

"Um," you set the remote and round the island to scour the cupboards. "Oh, yeah! Here."

The microwave beeps twice before he's pulling the bags out and shaking them into two of the larger bowls you own. Then, curiosity wins over and you watch him as he grabs the container from your hand and tips the M&Ms over the top of his popcorn.

"König what are you doing?" Panic laces your voice.

He looks at you concerned. "What is wrong?"

"What's wrong? Just – give me a second." Dramatically, you exhale rough and steady yourself against the counter. "That's awful," you say, too stunned to use a more accurate word, pointing to the candy covering the kernels.

"Nonsense, try," he offers, smiling now. You look at him, at his outstretched palm faced up with the seemingly innocent piece of chocolate now melting next to a single popcorn. The flavors mix in a way you're not familiar with and don't expect. "And?"

"It's something," you mutter, scrunching your face up. Your chest flutters at his laugh.

Making your way to the couch, he sits first and you situate in the corner closest to him. He offers to hold your bowl as you adjust the pillows and stretch your legs over his lap, handing it back to you before leaning in to rest his head on your shoulder. You almost forget he kept his mask on until the material rubs up against your skin.

On screen, two people sit across from each other. The room is made of dark bricks that match the mahogany of the rounded table. The man on the left is bald and wears a black suit with, what you think to be, a barcode of sorts embedded into the side of his head. Similar to a tattoo, except it sticks out and is the same color as his skin. The woman on the right is handcuffed and wears a white dress with short, black hair that reminds you of Edna from the Incredibles. You'd find it amusing if it wasn't for the seriousness of the scene. You watch it play out in its entirety before acting.

It starts off subtle. Small shifts, light pressures, barely noticeable movements — like your legs pressing in closer to him. You set the bowl in your lap to free up an arm and wrap it around his shoulders, your fingers deftly tracing patterns on the side of his neck. He reacts instantly. You can feel his muscles tensing under your ministrations, but he doesn't push you away.

The movie flashes between the interrogation and a group of women, all wearing short blue uniforms. One steps out from the dozen others identical to her and lets a pair of figures in only red help her put on a white cloak.

Your fingers trail up to where his hair curls, then higher, to the bottom of his ear. His breath hitches and you have to manually force yourself to breathe — and it's bad. The fact that him simply breathing has you reacting this way. How you've barely heard him, yet he already sounds so much better than you imagined. You mean to tease more, but your impatience starts to get the best of you.

"Are you alright?" You ask, feigning innocence.

He glances at you, his brows furrowed. You notion to his bouncing leg and tapping fingers. His gaze fixates to his palms and he shifts, trying to force the fidgeting to stop.

"You are teasing me," he mumbles, voice low.

"You're not stopping me," you point out.

"Mond meines Lebens…"

"We don't have to rush it."

He shakes his head. "It is not that," he pauses, his expression shifting subtly as if fighting with himself. "This is new to me."

Your eyes soften, your teeth biting at the inner part of your lip. "Wait, you've never–"

"–Nein."

That's impossible, is what you want to say. Impossible because you can't wrap your brain over how in all his thirty plus years of living, looking the way that he does, he hasn't had dozens, dozens of dozens, of people trying to get with him. It's unreal. 

You pull yourself into his lap and press your foreheads together.

"Why?"

His gaze meets yours in a way you wouldn't be able to do justice describing. His thighs are so thick, even more so now with your legs on either side of them, and it takes everything in you to not grind down on him like you've fantasized about for weeks.

"Would distract me from my work. Plus, I never wanted to."

"And now?" You ask, the words nearly a whisper.

"Please."

You don't even pay attention to the noise that claws itself out of your throat, your thoughts scattered — an absolute mess. You're suddenly hyper-aware that you're not in the bedroom and you don't want to do this on the couch. Especially not if it's his first time.

"Let's go to my room," you say, voice a mess. You go to pull away, when –

You yelp, lightheaded being lifted up. König's arms are holding you by the back of your thighs. His fingers digging into your skin. You wrap your arms and legs around him immediately and feel his laugh more than anything else.

"Tut mir leid, ich konnte nicht anders."

He lays down on the bed with you on top of him. The room is dim, dark enough to where you have to squint to make out any details, but you find that he's still staring. Faded blue eyes meet yours, then looking down. Lower. Your neck, your chest, your abdomen. Then further.

"Look at you." A whisper of a statement falling from your lips. It has him peering at you — up at you, once again. "So strong, yet all pretty and pliant and beneath me." Your mind blanks at the sight. He's really beneath you, propped up by his elbows, looking into you with an expression you wish you could make out past the darkness.

He's mumbling under his breath, something soft that sounds more of an inhale than words.

"Für dich."

You hum at that. Even the shadows casting the room can't conceal how his body tenses. His fingers tremble holding onto you, his shoulders hunch over in a manner that seems entirely uncomfortable.

"Here," you prompt him to scoot back after reaching out and pushing up the pillows to be between him and the bed frame. "There you go. Better?"

He nods, the mask rustling at the movement. The new position relieves the pressure on his arms and shoulders, but does nothing for his nerves. His hands still twitch on your waist.

"Alright. Before anything else, I need to know what you're not comfortable with."

"Nothing. Anything you do–"

"–No, König. I don't want to accidentally do something that could hurt you."

He meets your eyes. "Anything. I promise."

You frown, but your frustration dissipates quickly as his hands rub patterns into you.

"We're talking about this later, but for now, we'll use the color system. Red is stop, yellow is pause, and green is go. Repeat that for me." He does as he's told, his accent practically dripping from the words. "Good. I'm trusting you to know what you do and don't like, as well as your limits.

"Now, keep your eyes on mine and keep your hands where they are. Understood?" His thumbs draw circles into your sides as he nods — it's not enough. "Am I understood?" You repeat, gaze firm but not unkind.

His voice catches once, twice. He clears his throat and replies, "Yes."

The smile that crosses your expression is tender. Internally, your thoughts turn over your dream, once again. Imagining seeing him debauched, wrecked and aching, needing to tip over and release yet not having permission to do so. Again and again. The mask under his eyes is damp from sweat and tears, clinging to the skin under it, and a part of you is losing it because it's really happening. Not just as a dream, but in reality, he'll soon be writhing under your thighs.

It's exhilarating. Your exhale is uneven as your excitement doubles.

"Sweet thing," you remark quietly. His thumbs press at your sides, trying to tell you to get on with it and you think maybe if it was a different day. A day in the distant future, when this is as domestic as deciding what to eat for dinner, you'd take your time. You'd drag it on and let the hours pass as if they meant nothing to you. By that point, he'd know better than to push, and simply lie pliant in bed — his attention pulled to your touch and softened words.

But today is not that day.

"Take off your shirt."

You smile entirely too hard as he practically rips it off because even in the barely lit space, it's so clear the gods took their time with his body. There's not a nook or cranny not defined, not an expanse of skin without scars crossed into them. You force your eyes to thin and focus as much as they can, anything to get a clearer look at the beauty under your touch. Beauty akin to art, the kind you wish you could dig your fingers into and tear apart until it's made into something new and entirely yours.

Your hands trail from his thighs, upward, covering the softened muscle defining his stomach. He's all encompassing — so unbelievably large, and breathing so heavy because of you. Both your hands can't cover the smallest part of his torso, still leaving a gap with your fingers spread.

"How beautiful."

"Bitte."

You hush him, but then finally run your hands over his chest and ghost his nipples. He gasps and it's breathtaking. This too harsh, too cut-off of a noise with a hint of vocals. It has you urging to press your legs together or grind into him. It would be so easy, so simple, to give in. Save the foreplay and your plans for another day… But if that hint of a noise is any indication of what's to come?

"Ever do this to yourself?" You ask, between pushing your thumbs into sensitive areas that have him tensing.

He shakes his head at first, but thinks better of leaving it at that. "No."

"Then show me."

His eyes bear into you, his confusion clear, but he hasn't asked and you won't clarify otherwise. He clears his throat. His fingers twitch against you.

"Show you what, meine Liebster?"

"How you masterbate. Do you do it when you're exhausted, worn thin, yet can't sleep after a long day? When you're bored? Do you drag it out or maybe rut into yourself no better than an animal?"

He averts his gaze at your words and you move to tug his chin gently to you. The darkened grey eyes that follow you rapt, day in and day out, now look weak in comparison. Without any edge to them, it leaves behind this kind of intangible warmth.

Your chest pounds. 

"You want me to show you?"

"Yes," you confirm.

Your hands settle respectively with one on his collarbone, dipping down occasionally to feel the area around it, and the other trailing up until it finds the edge of his mask and disappears underneath it. You touch his face — his lips cracked with a scar that cuts across diagonally, his nose crooked from one too-many times broken, his ever so slightly sunken cheeks and high cheekbones. His eyes close and his lashes tickle across your thumb.

You smooth out his brows and trace the small scars where the hair refuses to grow back in. You trace your hand to do the same everywhere else. His ears, too, feeling the one that has a part of its cartilage missing from what seems to be because of a particularly gruesome laceration. You've seen it so many times, but now — to touch — it's completely different.

You wish so badly you could see the rest of his face. By the time your hand is done committing him to memory, he's taken off his belt and is working on pulling down the zipper. His fingers shake, almost impossibly more, as he pulls himself free and it takes everything in you to stay put together. You want to laugh, or gasp, or react in any way that isn't appearing unaffected while your mind is screaming at you.

He's big everywhere — and you had figured as much, but didn't realize to what extent. Until now. Trimmed blond hairs curl into his length. If you had to guess, the girth is no thicker than three or so of your fingers, which is about normal, but the length — it had to be at least eight and the prettiest shade of red despite being uncut. Your hips jerk ever so slightly at the sight. Barely, it hardly counts as an adjustment, really, let alone a thrust, but he hones in on it. His fingers still, on your side, and threaten to bruise. The ones on himself grip faster and harsher as if he doesn't he would unravel completely.

He pulls down on the skin and the head swells now unsheathed. He uses the precum to rub the sensitive glands and jerks off with what you think is a painful grip — stroking too rough to be entirely pleasurable — and it's such a sight. You press your mouth into his neck and work your way from there. It's light at first, small pecks and tasting the thin layer of sweat covering his skin, but as you go from his neck to his collarbone, your teeth start to graze his skin.

"Does it feel good when it hurts too?" You ask between mouthfuls of salt and something so authentically König… the scent of him, of static on fabric and embers sparking from a fire. A small, high pitched noise in your head rings with every inhale.

"Sometimes, yes."

The noises leaving his throat are dizzying and borderline obscene, and you consider finding something to quiet the noise. You take a break to lick and bite at one of his nipples and he swears in German under his breath, clutching at your side like a lifeline.

"Breathe for me, König." His chest heaves and in any other circumstances you'd be thrilled, but here, separated by only the flimsy dry wall of your apartment? "You sound heavenly, but I need you to be quieter or I'll have to gag you."

"Mach was du willst," he replies and it sounds like a plea.

"Color?"

"Green– Please."

Searching your surroundings for anything that could be used as a gag, you eye the belt, when he's grasping at the fabric between him and your skin and you smile. You pry his grip off to pull off your shirt and slowly, giving him time to react and stop you if necessary, pull the mask up. He doesn't protest, in fact he doesn't move at all. Not even to breathe. Even without light, you can vaguely make out the parts of his face that jut out.

"Breathe." You remind while fretting with the thin fabric, placing it in and then around his mouth. You finish tying it in the back and take a minute to look at him, willing yourself to calm down.

"Right. If you need me to stop, tap three times. Twice for when you need a break and once for okay."

His index finger taps once on your waist, bare and so hot where his palm covers you, and you smile.

"You're doing so well. So perfect, gagged and leaking just for me. I think that deserves something all on its own," you trail off, grabbing his other hand still desperately trying to get himself off and placing it on your thigh. "When you're close, you're gonna squeeze my leg. Do you understand?"

He nods at the same time he taps his finger and you spare him one final glance before your hand is pressing against his shaft.

"Sweet thing," you hum, seeing his teeth grind into the gag. His eyes shut, but he seems to think better of it because they're fluttering open to meet yours, seconds later. Something prideful and possessive gnaws from deep inside your chest, pressing against it trying to escape while simultaneously heating your blood — aggravating the feeling building between your legs.

You try to ignore it and tease him at first, fingers trailing to his taint and then back up. Pulling the foreskin away to dip your thumb against the slit and smear it along the rest of the shaft. He tries to buck his hips into the feeling but you dig your knees into his sides, forcing more weight onto him to prevent him.

"Just relax and let me make you feel good."

Your unoccupied hand moves to his chest, tracing dangerously close to one of his nipples, occasionally grazing it or running your nails over it. He's squirming under you, but not enough to dislodge you, working himself up further more than anything. His chest heaves and abdomen jerks at the foreign contact as he whines. The gag doesn't do much but dampen the noise and prevent him from talking — but it is breathtakingly hot. Damp spots pool at the corner of his mouth and you have to remind yourself to focus.

Around the base of his shaft, your movements are loose. You keep contact to a minimum as you work your way up. Right before you reach the glands, you hold your hands steady and rub two fingers along the underside.

König tries to buck up, his upper body pressing up into your touch as his stomach ripples. He's so starved it hurts. His throat contorts and he's coughing up his own spit. You see his eyes screaming in want, damp but not leaking. It's not enough. You crave it, this insatiable yearning to push and crack and break. You need him to come apart from nothing but your hands, gazing into your eyes.

"If you can't follow an order as simple as 'breathe', you're not going to like what happens next."

He's trying to talk, jumbled phrases in German, others muffled variants of 'please' and 'more', but you pay it no mind. Not as his inhales continue to come in labored. Abrasive. It's his first time, you try to remind yourself, but inch your fingers upwards regardless — pressing your palm along the head and kneading it. 

His reaction is akin to a spreading wildfire. It hurts, but he can take it, if not likely preferring it.

"You are so good, but you need to listen when I'm telling you to do something," you murmur softly, but keep your tone blunt. "Such pretty sounds. Enjoy it while it lasts." You take your palm from his chest to caress his cheek momentarily, then you're leaning back and pinching at sensitive skin. 

You pull your other hand off, bringing it lower and applying pressure until you hear a suppressed groan — then, start the cycle all over again. Again, and again, and again. You pump him here and there but otherwise don't falter and spend your time thoroughly working him over.

König's eyes flick rapidly between you, himself, the ceiling. He thumps his head against the wall. Another and he's not quite crying, but you figure if he could speak, he would be begging for you to do something — anything other than this.

"That's it, you're doing so good. So perfect."

You can't help the words tumbling from your mouth as you finally tighten your grip and jerk him off properly while paying extra attention to his chest. You lose yourself in the sharp cries, gutted breaths, and endless moans and whines. You feel knuckles crushing your thigh and stop stroking him, lowering your fingers around the base and wrapping them in a vice. Your other hand doesn't stop, instead moving to the other side of his chest to tease and pull and redden.

"How unbelievable you are, mi Amorcito. What a treasure. Color?"

Another tap. When you're sure he's calmed, you bring your hand up so they both rest on his chest and mimic your ministrations so they're stimulating him. The grip on your thigh doesn't squeeze, but it tenses and curls into itself in a manner that is entirely too satisfying. Heat consumes you and everything below your waist, feeling like the peak of a nasty fever. Sweat rolls down your arm as you lean in and continue sucking marks into his skin from earlier.

Minutes pass. They lull into an odd kind of peace. Noises from his throat, and your mouth on his skin, and his scent — poignant coming off in waves. A mix of sweat and the earth and gunpowder. Overwhelming. You yearn to somehow press into him and cover him in your scent instead.

His hold on your waist doesn't falter, but his fingers start to rub the skin as if remembering it's bare and wanting to cover more of it. You smile into the crook of his neck and pull off to peer at him. Red marks, some already turning purple, litter his skin, too-pale skin for a soldier.

"Between the sounds you're making and the bites on your neck, you look such a pretty whore. Wish I'd done this sooner."

His head is tilted to the side and his eyes are closed again, but you don't mention it. Not yet. You bring both your hands and press one into his abdomen, not by much, just enough to have him trembling. You wonder what König's thinking as your palm goes down further to touch him properly. Wonder if he's thinking at all, or just letting himself feel. You stroke him, keeping your other fingers firmly wrapped around him at the base — not yet enough to cut off blood flow.

For a moment, you listen and feel him pulse in your hold until your eyes draw to the precum dribbling down. You look at him once, twice. His eyes don't show any sign of opening, so you bend over and take the head into your mouth.

He jerks into you immediately and you're sure if he wasn't gagged, he would be screaming. Both his hands dig into you, but you don't pull away. You keep your tongue feather-like, grating along him, and apply as little pressure as possible.

He tastes like a stronger version of his body's natural odor and compresses bitterness, but you couldn't care less. You don't let it go on for much longer, though, worried about him finishing too soon. You stop, smiling all too sweet, and he retracts into you trying to follow the heat. You check the pillow behind him and wipe some of the drool off his chin before pushing him to lay back.

"Those were such pretty sounds, love. What's your color?"

Seconds pass. You don't feel his fingers lift up to tap against your skin. They continue to dig into you as if holding on to a lifeline.

"I need you to let go, so you can tap on me, sweet thing."

Nothing.

You try to meet his gaze, but his eyes are still shut.

"König, look at me."

Anxiety starts to churn inside you, a growing pressure, heat that expands and suffocates. The gag is untied in seconds and you're directing his face to you as he's coughing and finally — finally, focuses on you.

"Where'd you go, mi rey?"

You use the previously tied part of your shirt to dry the lower half of his face while waiting, ease your hands along his arms to help ground.

"Verzeihung," he stutters. You keep your eyes locked on him as he speaks. "I don't– forgot to listen."

"Was it too much?"

He goes to shake his head but hesitates. "Maybe? Ich weiß nicht… Was a lot." Without the gag, his teeth worry the inside of his lips. You grab the chapstick from the side table and hand it to him, tempted to run and grab a bottle of water from the fridge before deciding against it. "Sorry."

"It's alright, love. I'm not upset. Nothing to be sorry for, especially now that I know you're okay."

You press a gentle kiss on his temple and another on his nose — that's what finally loosen his hold.

"I hurt you," he says in a way that shatters your heart. His eyes are still wet. You wipe them away, cursing yourself for not realizing something was wrong sooner.

"You did no such thing. I get worse bruises mysteriously in my sleep."

König adjusts his hips and you slide your legs off to take your weight off him. His eyes meet yours a couple times, but are otherwise downcast with his gaze fixated on his hands.

"König?"

It's met with a quiet sound in response.

"I need to know what's happening in there," you pause to smile and tap his head, an attempt to lighten the mood. "What happened back there, I want to make sure it doesn't happen again."

"I was worried," he says in a hushed tone.

"About what?"

"Ich hab nicht– I thought you would not stop fast and I was trying not to…"

The weight dissolves in your chest and the tension you found your body holding drops all at once. You were so worried you had pushed too far, that you had triggered him somehow.

"Thank you for telling me, mi vida. Then, I need to know if you can keep going or need to stop." 

"Not stop, but I don't think I can," he trails off. "Want to keep going, but I can't do it again."

"I get it. You've done so well today, I'm unbelievably proud of you. If you want to keep going, I can either finish you off and we can relax afterwards, or I can finish you off and then we can finish the scene. How does that sound?"

His eyes widen and his throat bobs in a way that has you yearning for the fact you can't caress it.

"There's more?"

You hum, answering, "Mhm, afterwards would just leave the punishment. If you agree to it, I will continue to touch you even after you finish until you're coming again."

Out of all the things you thought he would say, the words, "Because I was bad?" were certainly not one of them. You scoop his hands instantly, rubbing circles and forlorn shapes into them as if you try and think of the clearest way to explain it.

"No, of course not, sweet thing. You were so good. Punishment is only when you don't listen because one, I don't want you getting hurt, and two, I don't want you getting used to there being no consequences when you don't follow orders.

"I know it's difficult, but when I tell you to do something, even if it's to breathe, I need you to focus and do it. When I tell you to keep your eyes on me, I need you to keep them open and looking at me."

"But I don't have to?" He asks. His hands smooth over your palm and you relish in the soft skin between calluses and small scars.

"Not tonight, no. We can worry about it another day."

He shifts and grabs you by your wrists, his gaze meeting yours. "I want to do it today."

"Are you absolutely positive, König? Don't put up a brave front if it's because you're worried about disappointing me. Whatever you choose, I support."

"No, I'm sure. Today."

You look into his eyes, trying to find anything that would indicate otherwise. "Then lay down properly for me." You push yourself off the bed until he does as much. You're about to climb onto the bed, but he catches your attention.

"Can I?" He asks, his fingers hovering over the clasps of your bra.

It takes you a minute to process, but then it clicks and you're failing to hold back a grin. "Go ahead."

He does, pulling it off the straps and letting it fall somewhere on the floor. His hands trail up your arms, and then finally on your chest, going between kneading the skin and the pads of his fingers sweeping over your nipples. Heat swells where he touches and in the base of your throat. You arch into him, letting him tease and hold his shoulders to grind down on him.

Despite everything, he's still hard and leaking, and feels so good even with the fabric between you. You take a breath, lead his hands back to your waist, and ignore him whining your name as you try and clear your thoughts.

With the pants he's wearing, the stretch of his legs to accommodate your position looks unpleasant. Your knees make contact with his thighs, but they don't shift. You wince internally and try to think of a way to make it more comfortable for him.

"Rest your legs on my shoulders."

The words that leave your mouth burn. His gaze flickers to you and between his eyes wide with shock, and his mouth slightly parted, it has your mind spiraling with desire. The urge to shove your fingers down his throat until you feel the muscles gag around them until he's choking and gasping for air — it's dizzying. 

"It's okay, they're good like this."

"I wasn't asking, love. Let's try that again, place your legs on my shoulders," you repeat evenly. Ignore warmth lingering in your chest and the throbbing in your gut from the sight of him looking up at you through his lashes. Obscene, your mind supplies.

He falls silent, but the backs of his knees find their way to either side of your neck a moment later. Like this, his legs seem impossibly thicker. Even in jeans, you can see where the muscles are more defined. You wish you could bite into them. Look at and touch them without the barrier of the coarse material.

Your hands glide down the outside of his thighs, palms skating denim in gentle sweeps meant to comfort before sliding inward and downward. His shaft twitches under the newfound attention. The rise and fall of your chest quickens. One of your hands makes its way up to his chest after teasing, pressing into bits of skin and muscle to listen to the noises escaping him. You move the other to slather precum across the palm before pumping him.

Without the gag, he's so much livelier. Every hiss, every whine.

"Meine liebchen, bitte, bitte–"

You whisper soft words of praise and comfort against the skin right below his navel. His head is tilted forward, his eyes fixed steadily upon you. Even as you inch closer and closer to his length. Even as you press a chaste kiss to the head before pulling it into the heat of your mouth. His eyes well up with tears that gather at the sides. You watch, mesmerized, as the tears slip from his lashes, trickling down his cheeks — yet he never breaks contact, continuing to stare at you through watery eyes.

"Ich kann nicht, Scheiße, es ist zu viel."

He grips the sheets, wrinkling the fabric to the point you're afraid it might rip. He's getting closer, but he's not close, so you don't feel bad for what you're about to do.

You withdraw and he emits choked cries that wrack his body.

"Nein, nein, nein, nein, das kannst du mir nicht antun– Bitte, meine Liebchen, bitte. Ich kann nicht. Ich kann das nicht noch einmal machen–"

"I know, I know," you hush, pressing kisses on and around his stomach. "I'm sorry, love. I need you to bite on this once more. We can't have anyone else hearing you moaning like this. Taking it so well." 

"Bitte, beeil dich."

The moment the gag is secured, you resume taking him. You breathe through your nose the further it slides in, then hold your breath completely once the head is hitting the back of your throat. Between your mouth having to stretch wide to accommodate and your gag reflex desperately wanting to cough up the intrusion, it stings. You try to ignore it and the sudden heat bursting beneath your skin.

You jerk what doesn't fit and take a second to lift yourself to drag another breath in as your vision swims, just long enough to dissipate the threat of suffocating. His stomach starts contracting again, hardly a second passing. His legs cross at the ankles and then he pressing them together, thighs squeezing tightly. He arches upward, his fists clench so tightly they're shaking.

He sinks his teeth into the cloth, sparing him the worry of keeping quiet as feelings wrack his body. His release spills into you and he's moaning in between cries. You move up to swallow without it going straight down your throat and wait for him to stop pumping, to settle just enough. Then your mouth is on him again.

He positively ignites, writhing spastically as he tries to evade the pain. The pressure around your neck from his legs is almost unbearable, but you refuse to let up. You move your arms to press on his hips, leaning to keep him from bucking up. It works, but you know if he tried, he could easily dislodge you.

The buzzing feelings of 'too-much' doesn't leave, but the longer you stay on him, the more it dulls and intensifies the jolts of pleasure. His muscles shudder from not coming down from his initial climax, or maybe from the building sensation threatening to take over. Your hand takes over, alternating between rubbing at the frenulum and applying pressure to the head, so you can pull off to talk.

"Just look at you… We'll have to use a mirror one of these days. Prop it up right in front so you can see yourself come apart." You press a kiss to his nose after taking the gag out, asking, "Color?"

"Ich weiß nicht– Ich kann nicht– green, sehr green, bitte," he rambles.

"Just one more and then all done. You can do it, you've done such a good job enduring for me so far."

Without the gag he's exceedingly noisy, so you kiss him instead. Chaste, at first, then it deepens and it's so much. He's not fighting for control and it goes straight to your lower half. His body melts as pure, unfiltered, heat engulfs his senses. It crashes throughout him — his heart pounding in his chest, his breathing erratic.

Then he's squirting. You pump him through it until thin ropes of cum cover your hand and he's shaking his head again and again and —

"Let it all out, it's okay."

As soon as you let go of his shaft, he drops, listless.

"That's it, just let go. I've got you, mi cielito, it's over," you murmur, rolling off beside him. "So good for me, you did so well." Words of praise fall from your lips while you bring your unsoiled hand to play with his hair.

You try to clean up the other as best you can on your pajamas, but to no avail. A sigh escapes you. Regardless, you bring it up to rub the side of his torso until he starts to stir. He tilts his head to see you and tries to mumble something, but it's too quiet and distinctly German.

"You made my night. Luz de mis ojos." A whisper against his neck.

He tilts his head and presses a kiss to your forehead. "Mond meines Lebens."

Your heart swells. Smiling, you shuffle off him and wash your hands, grabbing a towel and filling a bowl with water from the bathroom before returning to his side to start cleaning him up.

"You don't have to," he says, stirring from dozing off.

"Nonsense," you hush. You unknot some of the tangles in his hair, and after you double check to make sure he's wiped down, you discard the bowl on the nightstand and sit next to him. "Are you okay?"

He hums, slides down and wraps his arms around you, pulling you to lay with him. He curls over you with his nose in the crook of your shoulder. Your hands curl to rest over his own.

"More than. Thank you."

The sheets rustle beneath your movements. Time passes slowly, the red numbers on your bedside alarm clock barely flickering. Heat engulfs the small room from the vents, it having kicked on again. Your eyes close feeling his breaths tickle your skin.

"I'm sorry for not realizing when you froze. Was there anything else you didn't like?"

He shakes his head, presses his nose further into your back. "I liked all of it."

You frown. Go to talk but feel his chest rumble.

"Even then. It felt good, too good. I didn't want to stop then and didn't think you wanted to either, so I had to focus," he says, his accent covered by the hushed tones. "Maybe I went overboard though. I said nothing because I couldn't hear you. Made you worry."

"But you liked it?"

He smiles, you feel it with the kiss he presses to your jaw. "Yes. Anything, with you, I will love."

He needs to stop saying stuff like that — your mind races, mixing strings of thoughts into a jumbled mess. Between the dream, today, and the promise of more. A wish, and a dream, a miracle all at once.

You're pulled from thinking any further when his hands move to your sides, turning you to face him. He's warm, so warm as you wrap your arms around his neck and press chase kisses along the underside of his jaw. The previous scent of smoke has well mixed with your own and it's dizzying breathing him in.

Then his touch trails down, to your stomach, then hips. Lower. "König?" you ask, trying to find his eyes in the dark.

"Your turn."

Oh.

Oh.

He touches you over the thin material of your pajamas, circling over where you've soaked through your underwear, dampening the fabric. You squeeze your eyes, muscles tensing as you grind into his hand. He hums — the noise barely audible — and gently presses two fingers up. You don't register the sound that escapes your lips, focusing instead on chasing the heat that's coiling in your gut.

"Wait," he says and takes his hand away. You can't, you want to curse, but he's positioning himself on top of you and pulling your pants down and you forget about everything else. His mouth is leaving marks along your collarbone while his fingers continue where they left off and you're shaking so bad, you feel like you're about to seize.

You're so wet it's getting on his palm even through your underwear. Blood gushes through head as you thrust into him, clenching around nothing. Wanting more — no, needing more.

"Amor mío." A plea.

Then he finally — finally, pushes your underwear aside and dips his fingers into you, coating them in slick before touching your sex. You bite down on your lip, writhing, unsure of whether you want more or it's too much. Your hands tangle in his hair, pushing at him to go lower. Guiding him to your chest. He gets the hint and — fuck.

His tongue melts your skin where it laps and you think you might pass out. Everything is so loud, the ringing in your ears, the sounds of his mouth, and the sounds coming from you where his unoccupied fingers push inside you. Two, then three, and fuck they're so much bigger than your own. He barely lets you adjust before curling them to knead that spot that has your thighs wanting to clamp shut.

"Need you in me, now," you hissed between sharp inhales.

"Es tut mir leid, meine Liebe– I can't." He can feel, taste every noise you make with every push of his fingers. Intoxicating. Swearing, he whispers praises into your skin, watching as you come alive under him.

"Entonces tócame más duro."

Your movements get increasingly erratic, and he must get the point because he redoubles his efforts. Teeth graze your chest, his fingers thrust in you, and that plus the friction of his hand — you know you can't last anymore.

"König– König, please, ya casi–"

And then your whole body is shaking, breathing halted to a stop while your stomach contracts. His touch slows at your sex, but he continues pumping you and fuck — fuck. You ride out your orgasm, breathlessly feeling him pull everything from you until you fall back, not having realized you'd come up off the bed.

The sound of your heavy breathing is the first thing you register, followed by König talking to you in hushed tones. You bring your hands to his face, fumbling in the dark, to trace the scars on his lips before guiding him to kiss you. Warm, like the rest of him. Neither of you try to take control, just wanting to be close to and feel one another.

He pulls back for a moment, his nose next to yours, peering through his lashes. Murmurs, "Ich möchte den Rest meines Lebens mit dir verbringen." Then meets your lips again.

His words drip with meaning lost on you. "What's that one mean?" you ask while taking a break peppering kisses.

"I had a wonderful time with you tonight."

You could listen to his voice for hours, you think absentmindedly. Laying here in the dark while the noises of the city filter through the walls subtly. His warmth — his touch, soft around the calluses. Soft hair and softer eyes. "It's morning, love," you say with a weak laugh. "But I did too. Thank you."