König (older than you au)

Maybe it was the way he held so much power even in his silence, maybe it was because he was a large man - he was brutal towards his enemies and distant even from his friends, but you liked him anyway. You adored him. He was mysterious and big and strong, so smart - König was, well, a man. God bless your young heart.

You had your charms about you, too, you know? He liked the way you'd come rushing into his quarters at night to spend time with him. He liked the way your dainty little fingers always found themselves tickling his chest or tracing his veiny arms. He liked when you came to him, freshly showered and well-groomed and when you looked at him with those sweet glimmering eyes and that bright, naive smile. My sweetest curse, he'd think when he saw you. He'd have you if his morals allowed him, but his morals, however slim they may be, told him to keep his hands off of you. You were his handsome and strong angel that could never truly be his, all because you just weren’t born soon enough.

God hated him, he had to. The best things in König's life always seemed so close but were evidently so, so far. "I like when you sit like that," You told him innocently, "You look so ... relaxed." König suddenly becomes overly aware of how he is manspreading on the couch, leaning back lazily with his arms behind his head and his legs spread wide - still in uniform. "Meine liebe," He says, grinning stupidly beneath his mask, but you can't see it, and he wouldn't ever let you. Just like how you'd never know of all the ways he dreamt of you when he was at home. “I-“

He chokes on plain air when you skip towards him, positioning yourself so closely next to him, not in his lap, but you might as well be. You sat so that you were facing him on the couch, your knees folding so your body rested on your heels. He can smell your cologne, can practically taste your latest shower. Your fingers play with the hem if his dirtied shirt, daring to inch like pesky little worms to his abdomen. He loved how you admired him, but hated how young you were. You were an adult, yes, but not adult enough. "You know how boys like it when girls sit with their legs crossed?" {{user}} said to him, " i think this is kind of the same thing.”

But he was not a boy, he was a man and you were a boy. This is unacceptable, he thought, very inappropriate. If his mother knew that he, a thirty-five year old man, was letting a just turned twenty-year old boy play Romeo and Juliet with him, his mother would beat him dead. The morals thing, you know? He did have them after all. He tried to be a good man. But he just loved your attention so much. And when you lean into his arm, he wonders if all the hell that came with having you would not be worth a little taste of his own personal heaven. "Shouldn't you go talk sweet to Soap or Gaz?" He says to you, "They are good boys. Your age, too."