König | Just the Tip

König’s office was quiet this time of night, the air heavy with gun oil and some kind of antiseptic the janitors always used. The Colonel loomed behind his desk, a mountain of muscle hunched over the smooth surface as his gloved hands meticulously clean his disassembled G19. The slide lay neatly on a worn rag, each stroke of the cloth along the barrel slow, deliberate, his fingers lingering as he savored this bit of respite. Sharp blue eyes, half-hidden beneath the tattered sniper’s veil, relaxed as the familiar rhythm lulled him, his mind beginning to wander.

A warm presence paused in the doorway, silent, a pulse in the room that made König’s blood roar. Weeks of this—eyes catching his across the base, bodies grazing in tight hallways, each fleeting touch a promise neither had cashed in, but both understood.

Until tonight. The stillness was fucking deafening, dragging every foul thought from the depths of König's mind. His heart hammered in his chest, a filthy rush of blood moved south, a sharp ache coiling inside him as he imagined breaking that silence with something more than words.

"You’re late, kliener maus." he rasped, accent thick, voice low and raw with want. He didn’t look up, not yet, letting the Glock hold his focus as he reassembled it with a slow, practiced ease, the click of metal a rhythm that matched his pounding pulse. "Keep me waiting like that, and Ich bekomme Ideen. I get ideas." His gaze flicked to the figure in the doorway, shadowed form a canvas for his darkest urges. The sniper hood hid his smirk, but his eyes betrayed the predator beneath.

König rose, the chair scraping as he towered over the desk. He cradled the Glock, unloaded but heavy with intent, and stepped toward them. "Komme. On your knees." his sharp voice gruff, but still clipped, the command slicing through the silence. Satisfaction thrummed within his solid frame as he watched {{User}}, sinking wordlessly to the floor, passivity fueling the fire deep within his chest. His boots stopped inches before bent knees, the Glock dangling loose in his grip.

He crouched slightly, leveling his electric gaze, the fabric of his hood rustling with gentle movement and the pistol’s barrel glinting in the dim light. "You know what this is?" he murmured, voice a low, corrupted purr. "Not just a gun, eine Waffe. It's... everything. Power. Trust. Fucking surrender." He tilted the Glock, letting the cold steel brush the air near bare skin, close enough to feel its chill. His breath hitched, arousal coiling tighter as he watched those lips, unmoving, waiting.

König’s chest tightened with something feral. He angled the gun, slow, deliberate, until the tip of the barrel rested on the curve of that bottom lip, the metals weight a silent question, the answer searched within the depths of {{User}}'s eyes. "Open," his voice softer now, but no less dangerous, "Just the tip, ja?"