König x Reader (Part 1 - 3)
You're König's assigned therapist, and he likes you just a tad too much.
He can't deny it. He likes losing himself, especially, when you're the cause. It's kind of thrilling.
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König has been your patient for quite some time, and naturally, you've become acquainted with the workings of his mind. Considering his severe social anxiety, his superior asked him to seek therapy just in case his nature might prove to be a future problem when working as a Colonel and having to oversee larger units.
So, now he visits your office every Wednesday and Friday evening, times when it's especially quiet, especially private, especially intimate—at least in his mind.
As his therapist, you couldn't help but notice his fleeting gazes, the nervous shuffling in his seat, the dry throat, and the twitching hands that occasionally seem to reach for you. Regardless, you try to brush it off. It's a common occurrence for a patient to sometimes find too much comfort in their therapist. It's happened before, and you were able to work around it.
But he's different. There's too much bubbling inside his body, ready to burst through every seam that keeps him in, keeps him sane.
Another Wednesday, and you hear a hollow knock on your door.
"Come on in," you say, looking up from your desk with a smile that has his stomach drop.
You have no idea what you do to him, and maybe, in his own perverse way of corrupting you in his mind, it reels him in and keeps him hungry. He feels constricted in his mind, once a sanctuary, now a confined space that begs to be clawed at. He wants to tear down the covers, to let light shine into the windows of his soul. He craves your infiltrating presence, willing to expose every fragment of sick and twisted desires and to have you claim your place in his residence.
"König?" You snap him out, and your pen is laid neatly on your table. He likes it. You're clean, disciplined, you're attentive. He wants to mess it up until you aren't.
"Yes, apologies," he responds, voice strained and distant as he walks into the warm room and settles himself on the far right of your couch. "It's okay. How have you been?"
You get up, and his mouth waters. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he wants to sink himself in your warmth, pound you till pain and pleasure are nothing but a mere frantic blur of pitiful emotions. He loves your clothes clinging to your soft skin, following behind with every step and every sway of your hips. You're delicate, and he wants you to offer him the privilege, the absolute honor, the goddamn luxury to break you apart in his hands. But he keeps a stoic face. Not that you can see, yet when you look at him—observe him—he feels naked. Utterly exposed. A part of him despises it, naturally. Nonetheless, another part of him revels in it; The possibility of you seeing everything.
Would it scare you? Fascinate you? He'll show himself bit by bit, don't you worry.
"I've been doing fine. Just exhausted. We got a few newcomers, and I don't do well with new faces," he shrugs, one arm on the armrest, hand tracing mindless circles that mirror his circling thoughts. You nod, write it down, and he'd like to pierce the pen through your eye. Look at him. What good are words when he is right there?
"It's understandable. You don't like treating new territory," you say. Yes, you're correct, König thinks."Why do you suppose that is?" you ask him.
Analyze me. Pick me apart. Fucking turn me inside out and bury yourself in my flesh.
"I don't know. Maybe I just never know how to socialize with them. It's like I have to try again, learn from the beginning, and it's tiring," König mumbles as he looks around the room for a bit. Nothing's changed. You like routine, it seems.
When he catches the reflection of his eyes in the window over your shoulder, his body stiffens. He wants to look away. Cower, run.
"I think we're alike," you contemplate, leaning back and getting yourself comfortable. Fuck. Don't do that. Don't fucking do that. Don't get comfortable with him. Don't compare yourself to him. Do you want him to be at your feet? His hands, yours to tear the world apart?
"Meaning?" He queries, and his body leans forward, elbows now digging into his knees while scared fingers play with his dog tag. Your eyes, sweet, sweet, eyes, they trail down, and he stops. "I think we don't like new people because we don't know much about them yet. They're a puzzle asking to be solved by us, and we're so focused on getting to the core of them that it drains us." It doesn't just drain him. It sucks him in, fully and wholly, and he can't seem to crawl out once too far gone. "I can't stand mysteries," König says, eyes locked on your feet. They're pointed at him, and his heart spikes.
"You don't have to. But sometimes," you start while taking off your bracelet and handing it to him, "they're worth solving."
Red. It's a red bracelet. One adorned with 22 beads. You're unknowingly giving him 22 reasons to have you.
"Thank you," he croaks out and puts it on before lifting his head to meet your gaze. You smile at him, dismiss his need to show his appreciation with a gentle wave, and go back to your notepad. "It's nothing, really."
The rest of the session goes by all too fast, and every tick of the booming clock is another rise of irritation. Nearing the end, you slam the notepad shut, and the sound forces him down to earthly hell.
"Alright, we're done for today. I can't see you on Friday, however. I have an emergency session with another patient. I'm sorry, König," you tell him.
There it is. The fire that burns his veins and itches König from within. It's unbearable.
"It's fine." No, it isn't. "I'll see you next Wednesday." You place the pad on the coffee table and rise to accompany him to the door. He trails right behind you, and for a second, he's too close.
Your hand reaches for the doorknob, and quickly, his fingers reach for it too, to snap the lock in place. His extended arm brushes against yours, and he has you trapped between the wood and his unmoving body. He locks the door, and for a while you stay like this. With him breathing behind you, and you keeping your body still. König wants to reach out, maybe snake his hand around your throat and snap you against his body. But he doesn't, and when you finally turn to confront him, he abruptly stops you once your eyes meet his.
"I slipped," he cuts in before your mouth can even open. Another click, and he unlocks the door with his eyes looking down at you. You're so tiny compared to him. Breakable.
"Right," you reply, hands sweaty, mind dizzy. You step to the side for him to walk out, and König does without giving you another glance.
The days went by quietly. König tried to talk to the new soldiers and even helped them get familiar with the basics of CQB. Nevertheless, every minute of his life is taken from him and given to you. You're like a parasite in his body, spreading a disease that has him gradually and irretrievably going insane. He tries, truly, to keep himself at bay. Keeping filthy thoughts behind nonchalant words and burning skin behind meaningless masks is harder than expected.
Not wanting you is harder than expected.
In fact, it's so hard that he finds himself in his car in front of your apartment while you're on base for a therapy session with someone who isn't him. You'd be surprised how much he's trying to turn around, to leave, and leave you alone altogether.
But he doesn't because it's you. He doesn't because he has to figure you out.
So, with a frustrated sigh and an adrenaline rush that's got him feeling hazy, he turns the engine off and gets out of the car.
"This is fucking insane," he laughs roughly, his hands rummaging in his pockets to find his tools. König shakes his head, and after a few beats of nothing, his feet move. One after the other, each step guides him to your apartment building. He manipulates his way inside and goes through every floor, every door, until he finds the one with your name on it. Hesitation seems like an unknown word as his nifty fingers force themselves into your space. Taking his shoes off, he takes it in. It's a beautiful apartment. Clean, as König expected. Casual, homey, and comfortable. It's every bit of you.
He flicks the lights on, and, just like your office lights, you keep them dimmed. It's warm and nice. The beige couch in the corner of your living room is easy on the eyes, and he wonders how you'd look with your face pressed into soft cushions. But that's a thought for another day.
König walks further in and notices the small kitchen table, surrounded by four chairs. Who is it for, [name]? Is it meant for him? Is it meant to make life feel less lonely with more places waiting to get filled?
"Vanilla," he murmurs, the smell of cake guiding him to your kitchen. It's as bare as the rest of your apartment. Clean, neutral colors, dim lighting. Casual, homey, and comfortable. It's not you. No, not really. This is the outer you. This isn't what he's looking for.
His clothed fingers glide along the granite kitchen island, and images of your hands gripping the edges overtake him. It's weird how his heart picks up so easily when thinking of you. You're not doing anything, aren't even here. Still, you could be busy cleaning a mug, and the world would go quiet.
The height of the counters stops just below his crotch, too, he notices. It would be perfect. Fucking perfect to fuck you on top of them. Ideal.
The sound of your clock keeps him focused as he invades your space further. He wants to know you. To learn about the things you like and who you are as a person. You have a few books on psychology, poetry, science, and classical literature. You have little decoration, and most of your furniture is high-end. Perfectly crafted and rightly placed, but so detached from color and life. The kitchen is neatly kept, full, and bustling with all kinds of ingredients and tools. You prefer home cooking, your own hands and touch, to the dishes you make. The cake is gorgeous. You're capable.
There's no television, just a laptop on your coffee table. He shouldn't, of course. Regardless, König walks closer and opens it up. No password? Either you don't care about safety or never take it with you to need one. This could also mean you most likely don't have people around your home when you're gone. No lovers to worry about, then. He looks through your files, pictures, and the last websites you've accessed, but it's all clean.
You're not making it easy to figure you out.
28 more minutes left until your therapy appointment ends, and ten additional for you to get home.
Deciding that it isn't worth it, König closes your laptop and finds his way into your bedroom. The bed is made, the floor is free of dirty clothes, and the room is as neutral as the others. God, he doesn't like that. It's too different from what he had in mind. Everything seems maintained. That's the one thing he figures out and probably the only thing he needs to know about you. You like and crave control. He wants to lose it, and have you, instead. Doesn't matter what baggage it brings. It does not matter whether wanting you will allow König to turn you upside down so he can drag you down with him, just as it does not matter if having you means that his body and soul are yours to reign over.
It doesn't fucking matter because the mere thought of you two infesting and manipulating each other's life and hearts has him going 200 miles per hour.
He lays down on your bed, and the mattress sinks beneath his weight. Not sure what he's thinking, König slips his mask off and stares at your ceiling. Would it be okay for him to stay here until you're home? Is it alright for him to look down and imagine you're naked body on top of his? Would you mind that he's fantasizing about you riding and writhing as he bucks up into wet walls? Does it matter to you that König's hand is traveling down to ease the frustrating tension beneath his pants?
Fuck it. He can't help himself. There's no excuse nor an explanation. König couldn't care less at this point, and the goddamn arousal stabbing him got his hands busy with his zipper.
He's never been this turned on in his life, and before he can even get out of his pants, he tangles himself up in your blanket. God fucking damnit, he's too hard. His length bulges against the stretchy material, and automatically he rolls his hips up as if you're right there with him. With a greedy hand, his fingers run along the head all the way down until he grabs the clothed base. "Fuck," he hisses, a wet spot forming uncomfortably and clinging to his leaking slit. "Fuck, fuck, fuck, [name]," König chants as his other hand grips his shirt, forcing it upward to see his muscles tense with each buck. He can't take it. König can't take it, so he frees himself from the confines to meet the cold. His dick hits his stomach, and he groans into thin air.
You're awful, do you know that? - Having a man like him wreckless and beyond sanity because he needs a taste. You do it all too well. The way you hold yourself, so full of confidence but with a certain purity that comes with it. There's a side to you he deems precious, but the other side of you, the one that often goes unnoticed, is the intimidating side.
Yes, you are intimidating. So goddamn intimidating, that it has König moaning dirty pleas while he fucks into his fist like a rabid mutt. Women such as you ruin a man's soul with a flick of the tongue, a huff that's too sensual, a craned neck that's too inviting. God fuck, he wants to fuck you into nothing. He wants to fade away in your hands and have you comfort seven inches while you tell him how good it feels. Tell him you want more, tell him to wreck you until you can't take more, tell him you want marks and cuts, tears and drool, desperation, and submission. Tell him anything, and he will give it to you.
König glides his rough hand up and down his dick, twisting at the top and letting wet sounds fill your empty, cold, detached fucking room. It all spills out, the moans and grunts accompanying his writhing body as he arches his back. He can barely keep still. König's legs tense, and with each stroke, they part only to close again.
Image after image burrows itself into his depraved mind, and it has him sitting up, so he can grab one of your pillows. It smells like you, so deliciously like every sin tainting your skin. "[name], please," he croaks out as he places the pillow back on the bed and hovers over it, dick in hand and leaking white spend onto the cover. Lowering his hips, he puts a palm above the base of his length to trap it between warm flesh and cold fibers. How much longer until you're home? He wouldn't mind coming undone before you. Have him at his most depraved -- it does not matter. Nothing fucking matters when his dick slides in and out of his curved palm and forces his flesh to rub along the one thing your head finds comfort in. He can almost fucking feel it. The warmth of your tongue swirling around his tip, that fucking smile on your face before you take him down your throat.
"Fucks sake, fuck me, fuck," he stutters, movement frantic and oh so sloppy. Each thrust coupled with another fantasy.
König tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes until the world is blurry. He can almost see his imagination of you in front of him. Spread, as two fingers slide in and out of you. He wants to see you touch yourself in front of him. He'll be good, won't make a sound, not a move that isn't allowed, and he'll watch. König will learn everything about you. The positions that got you arching, the words that have you whining and mumbling, the fucking places that got you tightening around him until his dick remembers you and you only. Almost too far gone, he takes hold of one end of the pillow to wrap it around his aching girth. With his other hand, he supports his slumping body while he grinds into it. Slowly, then faster. Rapid, then harder. Quiet, then louder. The arousal, primal fucking need, rises while the sounds of his hand mix with rough breaths.
"Ah, ah, fuck, yes, yes, yes," is all he can say. He doesn't manage anything other than that, and before he knows it, his toes curl, and he arches into the pillow as his chest constricts with the shuddering orgasm.
Jesus Christ, not even his local priest could save him from the hell that awaits him. He releases his spend on your pillow, coats it in sick obsession, and falls to the side with a shaky breath. He needs help. He needs help because he can hear your car in the driveway. He needs help because he can hear the slam of a car door echoing throughout the empty street. Fuck. Quickly, he pulls his pants and boxers back up before realization hits him like a pound of bricks. The pillow. What the fuck does he do with it now? This is laughable. Truly, truly pathetic.
König smears the spit and cum off on his shirt before fixing your disheveled bed, straightening the sheets, and taking the cover of your pillow with him. How goddamn stupid.
He puts his mask back on and walks through your apartment, seeing to it that everything looks normal. As normal as possible, at least. You're probably in the elevator right now, so he puts his shoes back on, turns the light off, and runs out of your apartment, keeping his head low and the pillow cover in his pocket. Eager to leave this situation, König runs down the stairs and makes his way back into his car before thudding his pounding head against the seat.
"I'm too far gone," König laughs, eyes flicking to your window.
Meanwhile, you enter your apartment and place your purse on your kitchen counter. Gliding your hand along the granite surface, you smile to yourself.
Time seems to tick by excruciatingly slowly until his next therapy session with you. Every morning he wakes up, and instead of warm sun rays greeting him, it's another dream about you that's got him wide awake. You're infecting his mind. You must know because even though he sees you walking around the base occasionally, you pay him no attention. It's almost as if you're doing it on purpose; maybe he's imagining stuff. Maybe the way you glance at him and then turn away just as quickly is just his imagination. Maybe he's simply imagining that you're deliberately locking eyes with him to tease. Maybe it is all in his imagination when you run delicate fingers along your collarbone. Or up your neck until soft hands almost wrap around an even softer neck. Maybe none of it is real, and you're not showing him a stark contrast between the pure you, and the wretched you. Maybe he's just projecting to feel less insane and out of control. And, maybe, he isn't ignoring that gritting, scratching sound in the back of his head whenever he thinks you two might just be more similar than he'd want.
König feels lost when he's around you because you're so much that it's overbearing. You're giving him thoughts that should be pushed down, forced into a fridge, and thrown into an ocean with weights attached. But damn him for his desire to overturn any kind of rational thinking. Damn you for giving him a thousand reasons to continue.
In the following days, König tries to focus on his job as a soldier. Thankfully, or unfortunately, operations and missions have been rather quiet this month. This means he's always on base, working out, or walking around. And that means that you, their private therapist, are always too close by.
On Saturday, he saw you eating at their cafeteria. You sat at a table by the window with a few soldiers around you who were being a bit too casual with you. Of course they were. You're beautiful, no doubt about it. But above all, you are attractive. Your personality, the way you talk, and the way your eyes always look a bit sleepy are challenging and seductive at the same time. You smell good, too—sweet and dark. However, your comforting nature might be the marker that really got these men hooked.
One of them, with black hair, a prominent scar on his chest, and a cigarette in his hand, was sitting next to you. Close to you. Fleeting touches, short grazes, and soft smiles pierced König's heart into the ground. Something inside his body raged at the very sight, even more so at the thought of you being absolutely fine with it. He isn't sure if you've noticed the set of blue eyes snapping at you each time ten seconds go by. But he swears you got bolder when he looked back, and you started touching the guy.
If he closes his eyes now, he can still see you fix the soldier's thigh holster. If he covers his ears, he can hear the arousal running through him like a pounding heartbeat, pooling straight down south.
On Sunday, he only saw you for a few minutes. You were talking to one of the female soldiers—a good friend of yours, it seems. She's a shy one. He's worked with her once, and that woman never said much. She's capable, as König knows, but so easily manipulated—maybe a bit dumb. That begs the question: What are you doing with her? As much trouble as he has with talking to people, he isn't a stranger to friendships and relationships. Yet when he watches your interactions with her, it almost feels predatory. A cat and her mouse; a master and her puppet; you and him; him and you; It's confusing and irritating because you simply further pique his interest. König said it once: You're unknowingly intimidating, especially when you're kind.
[Name], you're what literature calls an antithesis.
On Monday, you were nowhere to be found. Trust me, he was searching like a lost puppy, walking up and down the stairs, which got him weird looks. You weren't there, and he doesn't like it. Quite frankly, you do a lot of things he doesn't appreciate. He just can't figure out why he doesn't or why he yearns for every single thing you do that gets him seething all the same. It was only at night when he stumbled upon your sleeping body in the 'lounge' room, right there on the couch with your legs tugged against your body and your hair falling across your face.
Fuck, König curses when he realizes he's walking towards you.
You look peaceful like this. Kind of approachable, a bit vulnerable, and so breakable.
You know, they say the eyes are the most intimate part of the body. They see everything, feel everything, and show everything. But you're sleeping, doing nothing, saying nothing. Nothing, and yet you've got König's mind racing again. "What are you doing to me?" König mumbles under his breath, and he crouches to look at your face.
The eyes are the most intimate part of one's body, yeah? No, not really. Personally, he'd argue the hands take the prize. When hands touch skin, they ignite a fire that settles so deep in our bones that it might just be carved in. When one's sorrows weep, it aches for a comforting palm against their cheek. When hearts shatter and break, it's the finger's job to gently pick up shard after shard. When hurts are scattered across one's body, it is the hand's responsibility to care for and fix each one. When one's despair gets them trapped, it is someone else's hand that can provide stability and aid. When desire turns to love, it's the hands that explore skin and trust. Hands feel more than just texture, temperature, or pain. They feel their way around someone's soul, allowing them to crush it, play with it, give it back, or own it. It's as intimate as it can be.
So, here he is with his hand twitching.
Think of his mind as a white, round room with doors all over it. Each time you force one open, something crawls inside to get him. Another emotion, another thing, or another thought to comfort him in the middle of it all or, well, to expose him.
Usually, König has trouble forcing each emotion to work with the other. It's as if they're all over the place, banging against their door with no regard for or reason for anything. But, Jesus, when it's you, it's different. All the bad emotions piled up to reach his mind and make him react.
Did you know? The Median Nerve provides sensation to the thumb, index finger, middle finger, and half of the ring finger. The Radial Nerve provides sensation to the back of the hand, parts of the index and middle fingers, and the thumb. The Ulnar Nerve provides sensation to the pinky finger and half of the ring finger. All the nerves ball up to reach his hands and make them react.
More and more, they come alive, and soon enough, his fingers brush a few strands of hair out of your face. In the process, your breath hits the back of his hand, and it's overwhelming. So all-consuming, he nearly slapped a palm on your mouth to keep your air inside. He might watch as your lungs fall apart.
Sick thoughts are preserved for you, [name], and this König likes.
Anyway, another door has opened, and another boundary has been crossed. "You're going to be the death of me," König whispers. "Or maybe I'm going to be the death of you." He gets up despite every muscle and vein trying to anchor him there and walks away. He needs a cold shower.
On Tuesday, you were properly testing him. Even now, he finds himself back there with you in KorTac's private gym. It was a cold morning, and most soldiers were outside training with the drill instructor. He could hear the DI's harsh screams and orders from the open window, but he paid them no mind. König would rather focus on getting his usual morning routine done. Thankfully, the soldiers only occupy the gym from 5AM to 6AM, which allows him to work out alone. Plus, his fellow comrades prefer outside training much more than the stuffy, low-budget dump room they call a sufficient gym.
Putting down his bag, König gets on the treadmill to sweat the tension away as he listens to his playlist. It's peaceful, and he likes the exhaustion that hits him after every workout. He's always enjoyed this, especially because he can be away from everyone. Yet as fate has it, the woman who's been plaguing him is standing right there, leaning against the door frame, merely watching and observing. Not analyzing, not this time. You're just staring at him, and it takes him a good five minutes to notice.
When he does, he startles, shuts the machine off, and steps down.
"Early bird, aren't you?" You chuckle, and God, if only the military hadn't drilled and pounded the principles and importance of self-restraint into his body from day one, he'd have you pounded into the dirty floor until you couldn't tell tears from sweat. Laugh again for him. Wreck Hovac on his battlefield of a heart. There are no restrictions for you and there are no landmines for you to step on. There's nothing but a clear path that leads straight to his destruction laid out for you.
"I'm a soldier. It's part of it," König replies, getting a towel to pat away the moisture on his skin. He watches you approach him—you, who are so much smaller than he is. Not just in height but also in stature. You know, he could break you with a hand if he wanted to. He could break skin and hurt you in 32 different, sufficient ways with only a needle. You should be at least somewhat intimidated, maybe cautious, but you're not. Goddamn, you're a brat for that. He doesn't know how to take the fact that you're not worried about your safety. Not that he'd ever truly hurt you; no, it's not that. It's just the thought of you approaching someone who isn't him in that same matter with that same attitude.
"You're here early," he comments, trying to calm his thoughts.
"I needed to talk to the boss about one of his soldiers. Don't worry, it wasn't about you," you reply, amused and playfully, but his body stiffens. What poison are you injecting into your words? What word made his tongue numb like this? "Should it have been about me?" König asks, trying to be joking with it, but he fails. Still, you don't comment on it or notice it. At least it doesn't seem like it. "You tell me," you shrug and sit on one of the benches.
Are you waiting for a conversation? He doesn't get it. But he'll entertain whatever it is.
"Do you work out?" König asks, leaning against the treadmill, though his body longs to sit next to you to take your body heat and make it his. "Not often, no. I don't think I could bother for long enough," you respond and look up at him through your lashes.
Damn it, don't do that. Don't test and expect him to not let himself be baited.
"How much can you bench? Those biceps look like they could choke me out within a minute," you joke, but it doesn't sound like one. You, [name], you awful, awful, teasing fucking woman, are playing with him all the while carrying the most innocent expression on your pretty, pretty face.
Still, König watches your mouth and inscribes the smile into the structure of his brain before he answers, "The most I can do is 130kg."
With a nod, you get up and walk toward one of the chest press benches, waiting for him to follow. König does, almost too naturally, and lays down as he watches you adorn the barbell above him with weights until it reaches 130kg.
"I don't know if I can anymore, [name]," König says, a bit worried. You don't answer, and you position yourself near his head. Looking down at König, his eyes catch yours, and he wants to take a leap of faith. If he'd push up on the bench he's lying on, he could force his head between your legs.
"If you can't, I'll help you. I'm right here, aren't I?" You coo, and your eyes drop to his stomach, the loose-fitting shirt doing a poor job of hiding his body but a graceful job at accentuating the outlines of his abs. Dropping lower, you watch as his feet are placed on either side of the bench, forcing him to spread his legs and give himself to you without knowing. Mouthwatering.
"I'm not that weak. Pinky promise," you smile and return the eye contact. "This is going to be a bad idea," König mutters, but he grabs the bar with his hands and slowly lifts it off the rack. The pure weight of it is harder to keep up than he remembers, and he's about to put it back before you place a finger on the cold metal and push down, eyes locked on his at all times.
"You tend to have a lot of bad ideas, König," you comment, and he exhales sharply—dangerously—almost losing the feelings in his arms. He tries to calm down and tries his hardest to push the bar back up, but the more he fights, the more pressure you apply. He's struggling, and you can tell, but he doesn't say anything. He wants it. And the second you notice his eyes softening, the counterforce loosening, and him letting you crush him with the weight, you wrap your hands around the bar and lift it to put it back into the rack.
Crouching down and listening to his ragged breathing, watching his chest rise and fall and his hips slightly bucking up as if chasing nothing, you close in on his ear. "Be careful, König. Don't go for things you can't handle, or it might just crush you."
And just like that, you're gone, leaving him there to sink by himself.
He's sinking, goddamn it. Perhaps it was always meant to end like this. With you occupying every train of thought, all of them bundled together and swung at him with full force until he had to clutch his stomach and hold his breath. He's sinking, and he doesn't come up for air.
In fact, he lets all the air crush him the minute he walks into your office.
It's the next day, Wednesday, and you're sitting behind your desk when the door opens. His boots thumped against the wooden floor, each step promising something. You look up, your elbows on the table and your chin resting on your hands. König feels your eyes lingering on the bracelet wrapped around his wrists—the one you gave him—and a smile threatens to tug at your corners. "Sit down, König," you say evenly.
He wants you next to him, near him, opposite him, around him—every fucking place but there behind your desk. But that's him being greedy. Though perhaps being greedy isn't all that bad when it's you.
"Yeah," he answers forcefully and sits on the far right of the couch. "How have you been?" you ask, turning your attention back to the documents on your desk. You let your pen glide along the white paper, the words twisting within each other and becoming tiresome on your eyes, so you push them away and stash them in your drawer. You lift your eyes, and they find his. It got butterflies swirling in his stomach when you focus on him. God, he loves it. Makes him feel weak in the knees.
König shuffles around, and your perfume brings him back to the gym and back to your apartment. Fucking hell, he's getting hard. The smell of your pillow, the feel of the cover, and the fact that your head's been lying on it to drift off into nothingness. The fear he felt when you pushed down the barbell, the threat lingering on your lips when you got close, the steady flow of your breath when you leaned in, the stoic expression when you left—what a mess he's found himself in.
Looking around, he picks up a pillow to place it on his lap. "I've been doing well."
"Have you?" you ask him with a raised eyebrow and a kind smile. Intimidating, indeed, [name].
Blood rushes, and he can hear a distant ring inside his head. He wants so badly to hold eye contact, yet the longer he does, the more you look right back. You're scratching at walls that weren't meant or built for you; are you aware of that? König clears his throat and leans back while tired eyes look down at the pillow. "My mind's been... going," he finally responds, and only then do you get up to walk toward him.
"Mind going where, König?"
There's something about the way you say it and how you break each letter of his call sign with your voice. Maybe he's too far gone to decipher it—you—but a lump swells in his gut when you bend to pour him a glass of water. It makes him wonder how long you can hold your breath. König reckons it'd be quite appealing to push your face into the serene lake near his family home. He'd watch the bubbles rising from your panicked need for breath and count the waves forming from the light movements of your trashing head. Or maybe you'd be as still as a mouse. Would you let him take you to heaven's door while he fucks you? Perhaps place a bet with the devil to drag you down if he doesn't finish before you take that one last breath? What is he supposed to reveal, [name]? The disgusting truth or the rosy lies? 'My mind's been walking towards insanity. Towards you.' Is that what you'd like to hear? Or what he'd like to admit? No, how could he? That'd be stupid, unwise, and wreckless. So he doesn't.
"The pressure's getting to me. I'm going to be promoted to Colonel soon, and I'm not sure if I can handle overseeing large units," König croaks out.
You bend lower to fill your own glass, and your shirt slides up just a bit. Enough to see an inch of your waist, and König's body grinds into the pillow. Just a bit, but with him, even a bit is dangerous territory. Damn you.
"Have you ever been in a leading position?" You question him and hand him the glass. Your hands brush. No, your fingers do. They do, fuck, they brush, and he grips the drink so tightly he almost crushes the glass. König thinks he should. It would be an opportunity to have you patch him up and see your skin covered in crimson. Have it drip right down your stomach and between your legs for him to use as lube.
You release the glass and sit down in the right chair. "Yes, I lead a few missions," König answers as he pulls the hood up just enough to show his mouth. He brings the rim of the glass to his lips, and you follow the bopping of his Adam's apple.
"Take it off," you suggest to him. No, actually, you ordered him. He doesn't like how much his dick throbs in response, and he barely notices his fist pressing down on the pillow to ease some tension. "No," he replies, placing the glass back on the coffee table. You stare back at him while he lowers his hood, and you miss the scar etched across his cheek.
König feels uneasy. There's tension in the room, and he doesn't know what to make of it. It's as if unknown danger and warnings have turned into snakes, infesting the floor and moving towards his feet, up his legs, and under his knees. They meander around his flesh, cut the blood supply off, and move under his pants to sink spiky teeth into tender skin. It sends electricity straight through him, rumbling in his bones and messing up the rhythm of his heart. All the while, you're staring at his moving body. So nonchalantly that he wants to lash out. You let your eyes wander along his biceps, and the room's ten degrees hotter. You run imaginary hands up and down his hidden thigh, and the couch feels softer, as if it's pulling him down and merging with his body. You cross your legs, and the outside sounds all pool into one distinct one. The sound of yours and his breathing intertwining and fighting for dominance.
You look at the pillow, then at his fist on it, then at the bulging veins barely showing between his black shirt and gloved hands.
Silence, silence, until you break it.
The snakes move away from König as if he were a repellent. Instead, they move towards you and nestle themselves around your feet.
You look at the glass, watch the stilled water being consumed by the dim lights in your office, and return your eyes on his. You smile, lean back, let out a chuckle, and reel him in.
"You can take my pillowcase off, but not your hood?"
