Archive of Our Own ^beta

He’s larger than life.

Perhaps part of that is something you’ve built up in your head; it’s easy to look at him and immediately create a narrative in your mind, make assumptions about his personality and character, assume you know him, based on the surface. KorTac isn’t for the faint of heart — it’s contracted work for anyone willing to foot the bill. Taking down human traffickers, arms dealers, terrorists; ops that have him shooting hostiles clean through the head, breaking bodies over his knee like cracking a glow stick, crushing skulls beneath his boots like squishing grapes in a vineyard. You’ve heard talk; while you don’t put much stock in gossip, prefer to get the story straight from the source, you can see it – see the duality of man, the machine locked away in the proverbial cabinet. They say he laughs over the comms after a particularly crafty shot. That when he’s got a target in his sights, he’ll claim them, like one might go after the fly ball at a baseball game. That while his life’s aspiration was to become a sniper, he’s just as comfortable with the hand-to-hand combat, surprisingly agile for his hefty 6’10” frame. That nobody will spar with him because he’s got the unfair advantage of his sheer size, the solid bulk of his muscles. He’s hearty, immovable, like the oldest, tallest, sturdiest tree in the forest.

He’s certainly the biggest person you’ve ever seen.

He has to duck under most doorways, angle his broad shoulders and hips to navigate spaces. And those minute gestures are a glimpse into the real König – an accommodation, amenable, pliant, polite. He’s so damn polite, almost apologetic, like he’s inconveniencing you by his mere existence, by the injuries you’re being paid to treat. You recall the way he flushed right to the tips of his ears the first time you made him remove his crude art project of a sniper’s hood to make sure the knife wound to his neck wasn’t fatal, the muttered, “Verzeihung,” spoken in an accented purr when his blood stained the gray sleeve of your scrubs; he’d wiped it away himself with the tee shirt, the cut-outs for his eyes catching on the polyester blend, smudging the bright red into the black cotton of the hood. Sorry, he’s told you, like he’s inconvenienced you somehow by spilling blood from his open wound. 

You’re likely one of the only members of KorTac to ever see his bare face, a privilege you don’t take for granted. But you’d spotted it then in his tired blue eyes, the patchy stubble on his chin, the scar running through his large, bent nose (likely broken a few times over the course of his life): the exhaustion, the weariness, the anxiety. He always slouches, neck bent at an angle that looks so unbearably painful it makes your own ache to look at, shrinking himself for the comfort of others. It’s the same every time you examine him, mask on or not; he hunches his shoulders up towards his ears, head ducked. Curling in on himself, tense. A defense mechanism. The man inside the machine, powered down.

You poke the sleeping bear one day, unable to help yourself; you’ve finished wrapping the laceration to his forearm, gauze secured with medical tape to protect the stitches for the next day. König is notorious for popping stitches – you’ve given him stern lectures over it many times. He’s removed the ever-present helmet, and his sandy hair pokes out the top of the mask. He’s divested of his tactical vest and jacket, as well. You give his shoulder a pat, and then your hand lingers; it’s a light, barely-there gesture, smoothing your fingers over the trapezius muscle, where the sniper’s hood meets the smooth cotton of his long sleeve tee, and it draws his attention sharply. There’s an intake of breath beneath the mask, a quick gasp you might not have heard if you weren’t so close. And you are, in fact. Close, that is. Your eyes flick up to meet his, peeking up at him through your lashes, to find his intense azure gaze staring back. You’re caught up in his eyes for a moment, studying the fascinating flecks of gold interspersed in the blue, when you remember yourself; you blink rapidly a few times, swallowing, and look down at your white canvas shoes. Your hand slips from his shoulder, fingers warm as though burned.

“You’re tense,” you say after a pause, when you trust your voice; it trembles, slightly, like a leaf in the breeze. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t even move. Your heart hammers in your chest. “Your shoulder’s like a brick,” you add after a beat, finally trusting yourself to look back at him, and he hasn’t moved a centimeter, still watching you with trepidation, a wild animal that’s crossed paths with a predator. “‘Course, that might just be muscle,” you say, trying to joke to lighten the undercurrent of tension in the room; it falls flat, though, and you press your lips together, hands retreating to the pockets of your scrub top, clasping together inside the kangaroo-like pouch at your belly.

“They get sore,” he admits softly, and a moment later gives a gentle roll of his shoulders, back and out, straightening his neck slightly.

“It’s posture,” you say then, slipping into a clinical, medical voice. “Slouching, stress. Do you have a supportive pillow?”

“Nein,” he mutters. “I cannot get comfortable… that is, when I can sleep.”

“It’s a vicious circle,” you reply ruefully, nodding in understanding. Sleeplessness is not uncommon among the operatives, especially where back pain is involved. You think of him on the field, sprawled on the ground on his stomach, one leg hiked up, staring through a scope, down the barrel of a rifle. The physicality of his fighting. “You’d probably benefit from chiropractic care, but. Well.” You bite your lip. “We’re not due for Dr. Arnaud to visit for another month, and none of us have what I’d call extensive training in that area. I could always try to give you an adjustment,” you add almost reluctantly, “but I’m out of practice. I wouldn’t want to do any further damage.”

There’s a hint of amusement in his voice when he says, “You cannot break me, Vögelchen.”

They’re all about nicknames around here, it seems; nobody calls you by your real name, or even “nurse”, just Bird. It started as a joke, because you liked to squawk at the operatives when they returned to you with careless injuries, unnecessary bloodshed trying to show off, overexert. It morphed to Birdy over time, softer, more affectionate. You were one of the more-requested medics, your frank, matter-of-fact speech mellowed by your affectionate bedside manner, because once you’d finished your lectures, you cared for them in an almost motherly way.

And now… now you have a new name, just for him to use. Little bird. Vögelchen.

His words echo in your ears. You cannot break me. A lilting challenge. The raspiness of his voice sends your pulse thrumming, and your eyes return to his; his gaze is softer now, pupils dilated just slightly, and you’ve almost convinced yourself you can see the corners of his eyes crinkled through the eye-black, squinted, as though he’s smiling warmly at you behind the sniper’s hood, before he speaks again. 

“Is this what you recommend? In your professional opinion?”

He’s too nice to be mocking you, but you’re not stupid enough to think he’s flirting; still, the idea appears in your mind, unbidden. He’s seeking your input.

“Adjustment, or massage,” you reply, voice soft, but to your ears it sounds too loud, almost deafening, ringing out like a gunshot in the sterile, clinical room of the medical ward.

There’s a pause before König bobs his head in a nod. “Das passt mir,” he concedes, and your lips part just slightly.

“Okay,” you breathe.

“Tonight?” he adds, sounding almost hopeful. “Perhaps… afford me a good night’s sleep, ja?”

“Okay,” you repeat, and clear your throat, feeling like an idiot. “I wrap up here at nineteen hundred.”

“I will find you,” he tells you, and it’s not up for debate. With that, he rises from the medical table – most people perch on the edge, dangling limbs, and have to hop down to reach the floor, but his long-ass legs keep his feet on the ground while seated, so all he has to do is shift and stand – and gives you a little nod. His eyes do the squinting thing again; he’s definitely trying to smile at you. “Danke schön, Vögelchen.” Then he makes himself scarce, ducking at the neck to fit through the doorway. And you watch him go, your back bumping into the exam table, all but sagging against it.

Your thoughts are racing, but a recurrent one that begins to play in a loop like a broken record is, what the fuck did I just agree to, because, well. Where on base are you going to go discreetly with König and what kind of excuse is giving him a massage, anyway?

Because you know exactly how it sounds.

And a desperate, depraved part of you is excited by it. 

That’s the troublesome thing about König: he’s an enigma. That he can return from combat, battered and needing wounds tended, and in the next breath bashfully ask you to rub the tension out of his shoulders so he can sleep better.

Vögelchen.

The inconsequential phrase, spoken so casually through his masked lips, sends a shiver down your spine.

The rest of your shift crawls by at a snail’s pace. There’s plenty to keep you occupied; another operative, Roze, had fallen through a window at the warehouse they’d raided today, you gathered, and you assist one of your medics, Blanche, at plucking all of the fine glass shards out of her palm and bandaging her up. She hangs around for a bit, reclined in the medical chair, chatting with Blanche as the two of you unpack and put away the new shipment of medical supplies that had been delivered earlier in the day. It’s methodical work, the kind you enjoy; sorting needles and syringes by size, separating different widths of medical tape and gauze pads, logging medications on the checklist tied to the handle of the cooler. Too soon, Shorty is arriving to relieve you both to take his overnight shift, and you dither in the doorway of the infirmary too long; Roze shoulder-checks you, muttering an apology, before casting you a side-long glance as you stand in the hallway awkwardly.

“You okay, Bird?” she asks slowly, dark brows arched in confusion.

“Yeah,” you reply, sounding anything but. The wind has gone out of your sails and trepidation is creeping in; Roze looks like she wants to question you further, but you’re saved from needing an explanation entirely. You watch Roze’s gaze flick to something over your shoulder, and then her head tilts up, up, up – mystery solved. You turn to find König approaching, coming to rest by your side, a step away, the third point of your uncomfortable scalene triangle. You glance at your watch. 1903. He’s punctual. You can appreciate that. Roze looks from you to König, brows flying even higher, up to her hairline.

König clasps his hands in front of him, seeming to be waiting patiently for someone else to speak. Words fail you; your face is hot, skin stinging like you’ve been sunburnt. A grin slowly spreads across Roze’s face.

“Interesting bedfellows,” she comments, then, and you will a hole to open up in the ground and swallow you.

A jolt runs through you then, powerful as an electric current, as something large and warm lands on your shoulder; it’s König’s hand clapping down in a gesture of comfort and defensiveness, his palm curling over to your upper arm, long fingers brushing the top of your breast. You focus your eyes on Roze’s boots and try not to hyperventilate as König, completely oblivious, retorts with some humor, “I wonder if Conor thinks the same, Kratzbürste.”

At the mention of the Irishman, Roze seems to startle; your gaze flicks from her boots to her face and you watch as her eyes narrow up at your companion. There’s no real heat to her gaze, but you can read her agitation at König’s remark clear as day. She’s huffed a sigh and turned on her heel before you have time to process, striding confidently in the other direction. You hear a deep sigh mirrored from beneath König’s balaclava, and watch his whole body sag slightly. He doesn’t meet your gaze, and it feels purposeful.

You speak up to break the silence, but regret it almost instantly. “I didn’t know she and Conor were…” You trail off, unsure exactly what König meant to imply in the first place. A couple? Fuck buddies? Roze struck you as a woman modeled after a particularly venomous spider, the kind that bit off the male’s head when she was done with him. 

Is that what she assumed was happening here? König and you…? You bite your lip almost guiltily.

König shakes his head once before turning to face you fully, hand sliding almost sinfully slow down your arm, raising goosebumps in his wake, before it drops to his side. He seems oblivious to the effect he’s having on you; his blue eyes are bright, and he stares at you for a moment. You allow yourself to do the same to him, as you mourn the weight of his gigantic hand brushing over your skin… and maybe you’ll file that away for later. He’s divested of his armor, down to just a long-sleeved tee and tactical pants, molded to his muscular thighs. He’s swapped his sniper’s hood for a balaclava that displays his dark brows and hints at the bridge of his nose. It also betrays the purple marks beneath his eyes, almost like bruises, visible beneath the smudged eye-black he didn’t properly scrub away; he looks exhausted, you realize with a pang of regret. Here you’ve been objectifying him, letting your mind run with suggestive thoughts of having him alone, running your hands over him, and the man looks positively sleep-deprived.

“Nobody else does,” he finally answers your incomplete inquiry. “I caught them a few weeks ago, on the mats. ‘Sparring.’” At that, he lets out a small chuckle, corners of his eyes crinkling; something buoys up in your chest like a balloon at the sight. “Roze’s bark is worse than her bite, as they say. She prefers to keep herself to herself, and so she will return the favor, I think.”

You press your lips together then, nodding. Of course. Secrecy in exchange for secrecy.

He must note the way your face falls slightly, as he quickly adds, “I cannot have every operative scrambling for your attentions, or your schedule will be too full with massage to patch up my injuries.” You feel your eyes widen fractionally in surprise, and bite your lip against the smile threatening to split your face. You need to pull it together, so ridiculously eager for his praise as you are. He gestures, then, with one long arm down the hallway, and you let him lead you, a careful foot of space between the two of you.

“You may be speaking too soon,” you say after a moment, sparing him a sidelong glance. “I haven’t done anything yet. Suppose it’s awful. Suppose I make it worse.”

“Impossible, Vögelchen.” 

There it is again, that name. Your chest feels almost hollow, your heart racing, evacuating into your throat as though it’s going to make the journey upward and burst out through your mouth. You swallow around it, ducking your head almost bashfully.

“I am bringing you back to my room,” he tells you suddenly, and you pick up on the nerves in his voice right away, the hesitation in each syllable. “I would assume… my bed is bigger. And you will want me laying, ja?” When you glance up at him, his eyes are fixed on you, and your face heats again at his rapt attention. “I hope this is okay?” he adds, and you nod quickly, not trusting your voice.

The thing is, you’ve been alone with König before. The private room in the infirmary he always requests, to keep his face hidden. But this is different. Alone in König’s room, on his bed, is different.

He will be laying down, you remind yourself. Not you.

He stops, then, and your anxiety compresses down to one solid mass, weighing in your belly like a rock. He pushes the door open and gestures for you to enter before him, hand pressed against the wood by the hinges to hold it open wide. You nod in thanks and step past him over the threshold. No going back now.

You’re not sure exactly what you expected; you admittedly don’t know much about König beyond his involvement with KorTac. What he likes to do in his spare time. Hobbies, interests. His room is sparsely decorated enough that it still leaves you guessing.

The walls are the same eggshell color as the rest of the dorms, a lamp on his desk casting a yellow glow from behind the beige shade. The desk itself is messy; stacked books and papers litter it, as well as an assortment of pens. It’s more a writing table than anything; four legs, no drawers. His dresser has a few folded articles of clothing stacked on top, as well as a stick of deodorant and a small white jar of camouflage cream - the eye-black he wears religiously beneath his sniper’s hood. There’s a small bookshelf, half-filled with books of various sizes, interspersed with a couple of shoe boxes likely used for storage, the labels meticulously torn off. Then your eyes slide to the center of the room, where a large bed dominates the space; the duvet is a dark, forest green, and it’s made up with military precision, all creased edges, one lone pillow at the top.

“They ordered it for me special,” he says with a hint of pride, voice low, right in your ear; you jump, not expecting him to be at your back, and your hand flies to your chest in surprise. “Scheiße, I’m sorry,” he adds quickly, and you turn to face him, watch the way his shoulders begin to slouch in embarrassment.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you say quickly, reaching your hands up quickly to his chest, an attempt at a comforting gesture that falls short, literally; you mis-judge his height, and your hands are perched awkwardly at the underside of his pecs. You feel one of his nipples against your finger through the black shirt; the moisture-wicking material is thin and buttery smooth, and conforms almost obscenely to his shape. Your eyes flash to his face in alarm, and you fantasize freely about your death. “I –” you stutter out, before clamping your mouth shut entirely, not even sure how to apologize for that one, and afraid if you speak you’ll end up saying something you’ll regret.

“How would you like me?” he asks faintly after a brief pause, the bit of his face you can see utterly impassive, and you let your hands slither back to your sides guiltily as you debate an appropriate response to that question.

“On the bed,” you say when you trust your voice to not tremble, breathing out carefully. “On your stomach.”

“Shirt off?”

You’re sure you look like a rabid animal, blinking once before you manage a tight, “Whatever you’re comfortable with, König.” He nods then, eyes locked with yours as he steps past you to the foot of his bed. “Boots too, if you’d like,” you add almost faintly, and you watch as he sits heavily on the end of the mattress. You appraise his long, spider-like fingers deftly unlacing the knots, feeling worse than a voyeur. He drops each boot to the floor with a dull thunk, before he reaches behind his head, pulling off his shirt in such an obnoxiously masculine way, tugging upward from the neckhole and dragging it almost obscenely off his torso. He reveals each inch of his abdomen agonizingly slow, like a strip tease, only you know he’s bashful about showing off his body, have surmised as much treating his injuries. Which makes you feel worse than dirty, the way your mouth goes dry at the sight of his bare chest as he pulls his arms from the sleeves and lifts the shirt over his head. The balaclava comes with it; you’re not sure if it’s intentional or not, but his face is flushed when it is revealed, and his shoulders are hunched to his ears again, trying to shrink in on himself.

You approach him slowly, taking careful steps, until the toes of your Keds are nearly touching his socked feet; he’s at your eye-level, even seated, due to his height, and you bite your lip as he rolls his shoulders once, letting out a light grunt, before his blue gaze meets yours again. It’s like back at the infirmary, the jolt of heat that runs through you at his proximity, the way his gaze almost seems to darken. Your breath feels thin as you stare back at him, fingers itching to reach for him; you’ve already told him you want him on his stomach, and a reminder is on the tip of your tongue, but there’s something heady about being so close to him, breathing his air, and you can’t form the words. He smells faintly of gunpowder, and you let his scent wash over you as you take in his bare face, never tiring of the treat of seeing him unmasked: he hasn’t shaved in a few days, by the look of it, a beard threatening to grow from the stubble decorating his jaw. There’s a new bruise blooming under the right side of his chin. You ache to stroke over it gently. You swallow over the lump in your throat, watching the way his gaze flicks just once down to your mouth and back. His pupils seem larger; his tongue darts out to wet his lips. You nearly groan out loud as your cunt clenches almost involuntarily. God, you’re obscene . Some kind of vagrant. It’s been so long since you’ve so much as kissed someone you’re reacting like a Victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time.

“You said on my stomach, ja?” König asks after what feels like an agonizing hour but in reality can’t have been more than a few seconds. You take some satisfaction out of the fact that his voice sounds almost strained, a bit more raspy than usual. You nod, watching in rapt fascination as he scoots around, laying back and rolling over; despite the bulk of his muscle, he’s all limbs, arms splayed wide, feet dangling off the end when he finally settles with his head on the pillow. You stifle a laugh.

A problem presents itself very quickly: how the fuck are you going to reach across the expanse of his back to properly massage his shoulders? You let out a soft hum of contemplation, and König turns his head, looking at you from over his shoulder. God, you hate this; he looks like the centerfold of a magazine, splayed out over the duvet for you, an endless expanse of bare skin rippling with muscle; his eyebrows are furrowed as he takes you in, and he must read the absolute agony all over your face.

“Vögelchen?” he says softly, and shifts halfway onto one hip. “Geht es dir gut?”

You dither by his ankle. “I… can’t reach your shoulders from here,” you say almost apologetically. To your surprise, König huffs out a laugh.

“Of course you cannot, tiny thing,” he replies, a playful scold, flashing you a crooked-toothed grin over his shoulder that has your knees shaking. “Perhaps, ah…” He leans an elbow on his pillow, resting his cheek in his hand, and it looks almost sinful, especially when paired with his next words: “Perhaps you sit on me?”

This feels like the set-up to a bad porn. 

Not that you watch those. Ever. 

The medical professional in you fucks off to parts unknown. Heat churns in your gut, a stirring of arousal. König – shy, polite König – asked you to sit on him, and your hindbrain has only one question: where? “Like…” You take a deep breath, gathering your thoughts lest you stumble over your words. “Like on your lower back?”

He gives a nod. “ Ja. If you like,” he says, and you watch the muscles in his shoulders flex and roll as he lowers himself back to his stomach. 

“Fucking hell,” you breathe, running a harried hand over your face. You shuffle to the side of the mattress, pressing a hand into the duvet to brace yourself. You need someone to slap you. Hard. Knock some sense into your skull. Because right now your hormones are using your cerebrum as a jump rope, and you’re not prepared, as you swing one leg over König’s hips like you’re mounting a horse, for the stretch in your hamstrings. You settle onto the dip in his lower back, and nearly keen out loud as you let your weight settle; you’ve sat directly on top of König’s belt loop, and the rough, raised fabric is an immediate source of friction through your panties and the thin cotton blend of your scrub pants. You take a shuddering breath, feeling the heat rise to your head; you’re at risk for passing out, if this keeps up. You’re doomed. Finished. If you so much as shift, the rough canvas of his tactical pants is going to stroke you through two thin layers and rub right over your clit. Maybe, you muse as you muffle a hiss, you should hand over your badge. Tear up your nursing license. You should be court-martialed. Barred from the base. König deserves a true medical professional, not a horny mess who can’t see a naked torso without nearly going into cardiac arrest. 

Screwing your eyes shut, you lock your knees and shift your weight, lifting your hips slightly off or König’s back. You almost sigh out loud. Temporary relief so that you can reach his shoulders. You take a deep, clarifying breath and count to five in your head. 

“Tell me if anything I’m doing hurts,” you instruct him then in a tight voice, trying to slip back into the clinical mask, speak to him professionally. “I’ll start at your shoulders and work my way down.” That didn’t sound professional.

König merely grunts in reply, and so you bring your hands to his upper back, kneading at his trapezius muscles with your palms, fingers curling gently around his massive shoulders. You press at the center of his upper back, beneath the knobby bone at the top of his spine, and press in a circular pattern, working your hands gradually out from the middle towards his shoulder blades. His skin is so warm, his back littered with scars in various stages of freshness, some still pink and puckered, some faded to white lines that catch in the dim light as your fingertips stroke over his skin. König’s broad expanse of back is a minefield of tension, though it’s unclear whether it’s from stress or your proximity. There’s little sound as you work, and half of your concentration is devoted to measuring your breaths and keeping them even as your heart thunders in your chest. After a few minutes, König lets out a contented little moan that has your core clenching, and you bite your lip as your face heats. He gives another breathy sigh, and it takes a moment before you can speak, not trusting your voice.

“Doing okay?” you question as you drag your hands lower.

“Have you —” He grunts lightly. “Have you done this before?”

And that’s a loaded question if you’ve ever heard one. 

“I learned a little bit about the benefits of medical massage when I did clinicals,” you reply after a brief pause, digging the heel of your hand into a large knot midway down his back; it causes him to groan from deep in his chest, hips shifting dangerously beneath you, and the sound and movement stirs something warm low in your gut. You soldier on, voice tight, even as you’re forced to shift off your knees and back to sitting on his back; your cunt throbs. “But not… never here . And not for a while. Dr. Arnaud kind of took over this sort of… treatment, for KorTac.”

“I doubt he has such gentle hands,” König says then, and his compliment is so at odds with his voice, gruff as you work out the knot, that you can’t help but laugh despite your discomfort and distracting arousal.

“I’m sure he’s good at what he does,” you hedge diplomatically.

“Not as good as you, Vögelchen,” he insists, shifting his hips slightly another time; his whole body scoots, sending your stomach swooping as you rise and fall atop him, not unlike riding a mechanical bull. At the motion, you suck in a breath at the friction at your core, unable to stop the way your hips roll in response, and your face heats. You try to play it off, pretend nothing is amiss, fingers traveling lower; your hands are right in front of you now, parallel to where your legs are spread wide at the bottom of his back, fingers splaying towards his hips. He gives an almost helpless wiggle, though, jostling you again and letting out a pained little whine as your hands stroke outward from his spine. You pause, hoping your voice won’t waver when you speak.

“Are you okay, König? Am I hurting you?”

“No!” he answers almost too quickly. You’re puzzled for a moment… 

And then it hits you like a freight train. 

He gives another, almost imperceptible jerk of his hips, makes a wheezing grunt through his nose as he thrusts into the mattress. 

He’s got an erection. Your massage gave him an erection.

The realization sends a shiver of excitement through you, which is damning in and of itself. You’re not sure what motivates you to slide your hands outward to curve around his hips, seeking, but as your heart pounds, you realize you need to touch him immediately, propriety be damned. Your motion is impeded by where he’s pressed into the mattress, and you poke gently at his sides. “Lift up,” you whisper. 

“Vögelchen,” he says, almost warningly, voice like gravel, his hips giving a small drag. He turns his face into his pillow.

“Let me help,” you blurt, shameless, shifting your body and sliding down König’s left thigh — you gasp out a moan at the drag of the seam of your scrub pants where they press into your clit — and then you’re laying on your side on the small stretch of mattress next to König, the top of your head level with his chest. You give his rib cage a prod, then a small push. He doesn’t resist, rolling onto his hip to face you. You gasp. 

You were right, though it’s a conflicting victory. He’s hard — so hard. The bulge that strains against the confines of his tactical pants is… well, massive is the only word that covers it, really. Covers it about as well as his pants… Your eyes slide slowly up his torso, neck, and finally to his face; he’s gazing back at you, expression half-covered by one bashful hand. The skin you can see is bright red. 

“This is not why you came here,” he mumbles, sounding mortified. 

“Let me help,” you repeat after a moment, before adding, voice softer, “I want to.” You reach tentatively, running a hand carefully over the defined planes of his abs, swiping your fingertip through the dusting of ginger hair running down from his bellybutton, disappearing beneath the waistband of his tac pants. Your eyes dart back to his face; he’s watching you with rapt attention. “König,” you say slowly, fingertip lowering ever-so-slowly to his belt buckle. “Do you want me to touch you?” You have to ask – and if he says no, you’ll leave, no questions asked.

And then, possibly, drop dead of mortification later.

He looks almost tortured for a moment, hips giving a small cant into the air, deprived of friction now that he’s rolled onto his side. Then, ever so slowly, he nods.

It takes a moment of fiddling with his belt to get the buckle undone, propped up on your elbow as you are, but you grin triumphantly as it separates in your hands. You twist at the button of his pants, and then your fingers go to the zipper, knuckles brushing over the hard ridge of him beneath the fabric as the teeth separate. The bulge seems to swell, given more room to grow as it's freed from its confines, and there’s a wet patch in the front of his gray briefs. You can see the outline of his massive clock clearly where it juts toward his hip, straining against the cotton. Your mouth goes dry. His length looks longer than your face, peak of your hairline to the tip of your chin, and your cunt throbs in time with your heartbeat as that realization settles.

“Vögelchen,” König says again, softly, voice muffled behind his hand; it pulls you from your reverie, the way he sounds so utterly wrecked, and that he’s using his new nickname for you as he does. You want him to keep saying your name like that. You watch his length twitch beneath his briefs, and it sends an answering jolt through you, like a strike of lightning right to your clit. You let out a soft keening sound.

“Can I put my mouth on you?” you ask, cheeks warming at the eagerness in your voice, finally tearing your gaze away from the clothed bulge in his briefs to the endearing flaming red of his face behind one massive palm. “Please?” you add, because you’ve never seen such a grown behemoth of a man look so bashful about having a hard-on, and you can’t fight your baser urges; you want to make him come undone.

“Ja, gerne,” he mumbles after an extended moment, and you waste no time hooking your fingers in the elastic waistband of his briefs, tugging them carefully over the generous swell of his manhood.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

You’ve never had much reason to place stock or faith in a higher power, but your jaw slackens at the sight of his cock jumping slightly when you free the hard length from the confines of his gray cotton briefs, the length he’d carefully tucked against the vee of his hips jutting out and up towards his stomach. It's a shade darker and pinker than the creamy white of his skin, thick and girthy; the base disappears in a thatch of reddish, wiry hair, and it’s… well. 

It’s not that you expected him to be small – he’s so close to seven feet tall it’s almost a joke, and you’re not stupid , you know what they say about big feet and big hands, ha-ha – however… König has a crazy, hardcore pornographic, “I’ll rearrange your guts” kind of dick that makes sweat bead your brow at the mere sight. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips as you mull over logistics; you’re probably going to have to unhinge your jaw like the snakes you’d seen on an Animal Planet documentary to fit it in, and you give a shiver at the thought. The silence stretches out for a moment, and König rolls away from you and flops bonelessly onto his back almost self-consciously; the two of you fill the space of his mattress, and you throw an arm across his torso, gripping his side as the bed shifts beneath you at his movement, afraid of rolling off. Your fingers brush across the thick hair that covers his abdomen, interspersed with patches where scarring has impeded its growth; you stroke your fingertips over his ribs, then, and when he shivers, you mimic him unconsciously. An idea sparks in your mind, and you don’t let your indecision delay you, instead using the toe of one shoe against the heel of the other to quickly slip your Keds off, letting them hit the floor with a thump, before you clamber atop König again to straddle him facing the opposite direction as you were before. You throw a leg up and over his chest, which stretches your thighs even wider than his hips did, creating a delicious burn in your hamstrings as you settle your ass against his pecs. 

He makes a soft vocalization of surprise, breathing your name – your real name – as his hands settle against your hips, fingers grazing the clothed cleft of your ass and holding you in place. His hips shift, knees splaying wide on the mattress and cock bobbing at the motion as you lean over him. One of your hands settles at the juncture of his hip and thigh, the other wrapping around the base of his massive dick; you’ve read some hefty exaggerations about the size of some men’s cocks, but he’s so thick your fingers don’t meet your thumb as you hold him in your fist. You duck your chin and teasingly lap at the slit with the tip of your tongue, like one might catch a bed of perspiration from sliding down the side of a drink, and at König’s strangled, “Scheiße,” you give an experimental jerk of your hand from the base of his shaft to the head and back down, your thumb pressing gently on a prominent vein as you go and your eyes glued to the action in rapt fascination. Your cunt clenches in arousal at his responding gasp, and you stroke him one more time before leaning forward again, this time wrapping your lips around the head of his cock.

He wails, an honest-to-God cry from within his throat that seems to echo in the small space, his hands gripping your hips tightly as you close your lips around the glans and give a light suck. You lap your tongue over the sensitive head, unable to help the way your back arches with your arousal at his vocal response; you know he’s getting an eyeful of your scrubs-clad crotch as you fold in half atop him, but he doesn’t seem to mind, judging by the way his thumbs dig into the sensitive skin of your upper thighs as he grips you tightly just beneath your ass. Emboldened, you begin to bob your head, starting off with shallow strokes as you ease him into your mouth, tongue fluttering around the head as you work him with your mouth. Your pulse pounds in your ear, his sighs and grunts muffled by the roar in your ears as he hits the back of your throat. He’s barely a third of the way in, and the spit accumulating in the corners of your mouth coats your fingers as you stroke him with your hand in time with your mouth. He’s not complaining, but you press on, determined to get further. 

You relax your throat and inhale carefully through your nose before taking him dangerously deeper on your downstroke, delighting at the way his careful control slips; he’d been so still up until this point, but seems hopeless to stop his instinctual thrust into the back of your throat, and you feel a rush of satisfaction and arousal even as tears prick at your eyes.

“So good,” he gasps out, shifting one large palm to splay across the cheek of your ass, stroking over the curve in time with your mouth, and you whimper softly around him as his thumb dips dangerously close to your center. “You take my cock so well, Vögelchen,” he continues after a moment, and his voice is like gravel. The fleshy head of his dick nudges the back of your throat and the saliva and precome that drips past your lips coats his length, aiding in the smooth slide of your hand as you stroke him at the base. “Perhaps I will return the favor.” You’re not sure what’s made him vocal all of a sudden, but you let out a shuddery gasp around his cock as he takes advantage of the way you’re straddling his chest and runs his thumb over your folds, pressing your panties into the slick of arousal at your core. His thumb feels divine even through the layers of clothing, and your hips rock against his hand, eyes rolling back in your head as his thumb brushes your clit.

“König,” you whine, his name muffled around the head of his cock as it pops out from between your lips with an audible smack. Your hand continues moving, spreading your spit over his shaft as you jerk him off, panting for air.

“I feel how wet you are,” he informs you, still thumbing your clit, and you flush when you register that your arousal has seeped through your underwear and your scrub pants; you feel the chill of your slick-soaked panties as he strokes his finger over your center, and you’re helpless but to rock back against him. You make an embarrassing whine, and without preamble you return your mouth to his cock. He continues to work his fingers around you, but a moment later, the hand gripping your hip slides across your back and grabs a fistful of your hair.

“Do you trust me?” he asks, voice sounding strained as you hollow your cheeks and swallow around his length; he doesn’t wait for a verbal response, however, before the grip in your hair tightens, and he thrusts his hips, driving his cock further into your throat. You gag, and he moans brokenly at the sound, quickening his thumb where it swirls around your clit. You wonder what a picture the two of you make at this moment, almost wishing you could watch yourself laying across his chest, letting him fuck you in the mouth while he plays with your cunt through your clothes. Your hand drifts down to his sac, fingertips stroking over the downy hairs of the smooth skin, gently rolling one spongy testicle between your thumb and forefinger and crying out around his cock at the sharp tug at your scalp.

“You will be the death of me, Vögelchen,” he gasps out raggedly, fingers tightening almost painfully at the roots of your hair, and on the downstroke he presses on the back of your head, holding you flush at the base of his cock. You smile almost wickedly around it, your mouth stretched obscenely around his shaft, and you swallow with some effort, your throat contracting around him.

You startle an orgasm out of him, and his cry is deafening as he comes down the back of your throat.

You stroke your tongue over his length as best as you can, nostrils flaring as you struggle to breathe around his twitching cock as he ruts against your chin, his hips and thighs jerking beneath you as he empties deep in your mouth, his fingers momentarily leaving your center to grip at your waist until the aftershocks from his orgasm subside. Your jaw aches as you pull off him, and he’s still hard as his length bobs by your chin, jutting towards his stomach and glistening with your spit. Definitely bigger than your face. Your breaths are quick and shallow, lungs grateful for the reprieve, and you press your cheek against the vee of his hips, letting your eyes flutter shut.

There’s a long stretch of silence; you hear König taking his own deep breaths, and you bask in the gentle stroke of his thumbs over your thighs through your scrub pants. When he finally speaks, his voice is light and airy. 

“And you said to wait for Dr. Arnaud,” he teases, and you can’t help the grin that tugs at your lips; you bury your face in the juncture of his thigh. “I will sleep well tonight, just as you promised, Vögelchen.” You can hear his own smile in his voice, and your heart soars, even as your pussy throbs in time with your heartbeat. He smooths his large palm over the curve of your ass again; gone is the shyness from before, you muse.

“I didn’t… plan to do that,” you mumble against the fur of his thigh, your nose brushing where his tactical pants and briefs hung beneath his softening manhood. “But I… I’m glad.”

“Now I return the favor?” König asks, his fingertips drifting to the waistband of your scrub pants. His voice is like warm honey, sweet and almost eager – enough so that your head pops up in surprise, and you glance over your shoulder, eyeing him in your periphery as he relaxes back against his pillow, your ass obscuring the view of his bare face. Your cheeks tinge pink; sure, you’d just had his cock down your throat, but this whole thing was for him, blowjob notwithstanding, to help with tension and stress relief and… and back pain. At your hesitation, he strokes his fingertips over your sensitive skin, delving beneath the elastic of your pants and underwear and tickling at the downy hairs along the dimples of your lower back. “Please,” he adds softly. “My turn to make you feel good, Vögelchen.” The fingertips of his other hand hook around your waistband, and he gives your pants a tug, sliding them partially over the curve of your ass and baring your cheeks to the open air; you whimper at the chill against your hot, aching cunt. And then, the most devastating sentence you’ve ever heard out of König’s mouth: “I want to taste you.”

You nod against his hip, not trusting your voice, and he sets to work, manipulating your body to his liking with relative ease; he works your scrubs and panties down your hips, lifting and angling your legs one by one to free them from the confines of your clothing, until you’re bared to him from the waist down, save your socks. You don’t even have the mental capacity to be embarrassed, because without preamble, he gives your hips a sharp tug, settling your knees above his shoulders. You’re face to face with the gentle roll of his lower stomach and you press a heated cheek against it as he blows a cool breath over the glistening folds of your pussy, eliciting a full-body shiver. He’d worked you up enough through your clothes that the first swipe of his tongue through your folds has you biting back a cry, face screwing up as you arch back against his grinning mouth. He withdraws momentarily, teasing a fingertip around your entrance before plunging inside your cunt. He gives a few shallow thrusts with his finger before his tongue returns to your clit, and he flicks the tip over the bundle of nerves a few times. You sigh, hips rolling against him as he adds a second finger, finding little resistance as he glides into your slick heat. “You taste delicious,” he comments, mumbling his praise against your clit before closing his lips around it. You gasp against his stomach, your cry of pleasure muffled by his skin as he begins thrusting his fingers in earnest and suckling at your clit. You can hear how wet you are, the obscene squelch of your slick as he fucks you with his middle and index fingers, pliant to the rocking motion of your hips against his mouth as you ride his face.

“I’m close,” you gasp out, embarrassed at how easily he’s played you like an instrument, how your body sings from his careful touches. 

“Then come,” he instructs simply in reply, rolling your clit with his tongue before trapping it between his teeth and biting down – and then your walls clench up before your orgasm punches through you, fluttering around his fingers as you scream out your release, vision blacking out and ears rushing with white noise, like a tidal wave in the ocean. He continues thrusting his fingers into you, riding out your orgasm with you, and when the aftershocks begin to subside, he swipes the flat of his tongue back over your clit, which has you nearly coming off the bed.

“König,” you gasp out, jerking your hips away on instinct. “Too sensitive,” you manage in a breathy moan, and he lets out a wicked sort of chuckle, smoothing his palms over your thighs.

“Forgive me. I wanted another taste,” he says, though he doesn’t elaborate further, nor does he sound truly sorry, simply stroking gentle hands up and down your thighs as your pulse returns to its normal rate. He shifts carefully, then, and you let your boneless body roll to the side, conscious of your scrub top covering your upper half, while you remain bare from the waist down. König shifts around on the bed, flipping sides so his head is by yours and his bent knees rest atop his pillow, and he props himself on one elbow, facing you. He strokes a gentle hand over your cheek; you have to look a mess, you muse, the dried tear tracks on your cheeks making your face feel stiff, but Konig’s scarred, blushing, lovely face gazes at you like one might observe a fascinating piece of art. “So beautiful,” he murmurs after a moment, and you duck your head into your shoulder self-consciously. 

“You’re beautiful,” you find yourself countering, and he huffs out a laugh, nose scrunching at the action; maybe the scar running across it should repulse you, the crookedness of his teeth and his half-grimace of a smile should scare you off, but you drink in the sight of him, something warm seizing in your chest at the sight. Your crush on him notwithstanding, you can’t help but wonder… what now?

“And tired,” he says after a long stretch of silence, and his discerning blue gaze flits over your face. “Are you tired, Vögelchen?”

You debate fibbing, but the mere mention of the word ‘tired’ has you fighting a yawn, and you finally nod. Wordlessly, König shifts again, pressing you back into the mattress and straddling you. He hasn’t pulled his pants back up, and they gape open at his hips, his cock soft but still sizeable as it juts out from between his legs. He grips the hem of your scrub top and works it up your torso, helping you shrug your arms out of it and pulling it carefully over your head. Your sports bra is a little more complicated, tight as it molds to you, and he lets out an amused huff as you wrench it off yourself with some frustration. He dips his face to your chest, pressing a quick, impulsive kiss above the swell of your breasts; something warm seizes in your belly, but the moment is over in a flash when he clambers off you, belt clinking as he rises to his feet and disappears into his bathroom. You lay back on his sizable bed, yanking off your socks – the last stitch of clothing on you – and trying not to worry too much about the implications of crossing lines in your professional relationship with König. But then he’s returned, completely nude and with a warm washcloth, and as he gently and methodically wipes up the lingering slick clinging to your thighs, you’re so concerned with acting unaffected by his nakedness that find your mouth moving before your brain can catch up: “We should do this again.”

The blue of his eyes is piercing, even in the dim fluorescent lighting, and your heart hammers in your chest at the look of hopeful surprise etched across his facial features. He smiles, and it’s like the sun.

“Sleep first, Vögelchen ,” he chides good-naturedly, and the warm feeling in your chest expands. “Like you promised, ja?”

And so König the soldier, König the machine, tucks you into his bed with him, sprawled out on his back with you curled into his side. His bare skin is like a furnace, the planes of his muscles surprisingly pillowy in his relaxed state. He doesn’t fret over taking up space as you settle next to him; in fact, this may be the least self conscious you’ve ever seen him. You can’t help the nagging butterflies in your stomach as he shuts his eyes, relieved of the stress of his day, and falls asleep.