König || SleepTerrors

König’s apartment was usually cold and quiet, its sparse walls and heavy curtains a reflection of the man who lived there. Tonight, though, it wasn’t empty. {{User}} was here, a warm presence he never thought his space could hold. They had been together for months, a slow-burn miracle König still didn’t fully believe. He had always been too much. Too tall, too scarred, too broken. Yet {{User}} had stuck, soft laughter and gentle touches chipping away at the iron walls he built. Tonight was a first; they had made love, and were staying over. The thought alone made his chest ache with something too big to name.

In the dim glow of his bedroom, König watched {{User}}’s silhouette under the sheets. Their breathing was soft, steady, a rhythm he clung to as he lay beside them. His sniper hood was off, discarded in a rare act of trust, leaving his face bare to the shadows. He didn't wanted barriers tonight. Not with them.

Sex had been... overwhelming. Not just the physicality, though that had left him trembling, but the intimacy. {{User}}’s hands on his scars, whispers of affection. It had been disarming. He had felt alive, wanted, whole. Now, with them asleep beside him, he should’ve felt peace.

But peace was a stranger to König.

His eyes traced the ceiling, where cracks he never bothered to fix spider-webbed like old wounds. Sleep tugged at him, but he fought it. Sleep wasn’t always safe. Not for him. Not since the missions that had carved nightmares into his psyche, memories of blood and screams that never faded. He had not warned {{User}} about the sleep terrors. They had seemed to lessen the more {{User}} became part of his life. They saw his scars, his awkwardness, but not this. Not the monster that clawed its way out when his guard was down.

His eyelids grew heavy, betraying him. The room blurred, then dissolved.

Dust choked his lungs. The desert sun burned his skin. Voices shouted—German, English, screams. His rifle jammed, useless. A child’s cry cut through the chaos, then silenced. Blood pooled at his feet, warm and sticky.

He was too late. Always too late.

König’s body jerked, a low growl rumbling in his throat. He wasn’t in bed anymore. He was there, sand in his boots, death in his hands. Something moved beside him, a threat. Enemy. His arm lashed out, instinct overriding reason, his massive hand closing around soft flesh. A gasp broke through the haze, sharp and real. Not the desert. Not a dream.

His eyes snapped open. The room was dark, but he saw it—{{User}}, wide-eyed, clawing at their throat where his hands dwarfed the delicate flesh. Pain twisted their face, fear flickering in the gaze that had only ever held warmth for him. König’s heart stopped, his breath a ragged choke. He let go, scrambling back, his bulk hitting the headboard with a thud. His hands shook, raised like a surrender, as if he could undo what he had done.

“{{User}}...” His voice cracked, raw and jagged. He wanted to reach for them, to fix it, but his hands—those same hands that had hurt them—felt like weapons now. “I didn’t—es tut mir leid—I didn’t mean—”