König | Provider

Lamplight spills gold over the sagging rec-room couch, over the discarded tactical gear, the half-empty coffee cups, the rifle parts strewn across the table like offerings. Rain patters against the windows in a rhythmic lull, and König sits in the aftermath of their debriefing, his body still thrumming with the echo of the mission. But here, here, with him, the storm inside König stills.

His hood is skewed, the fabric sagging just enough to reveal the sharp cut of his jaw, the shadow of auburn stubble, the scars that map his silence. Electric eyes, heavy with exhaustion, soften as they trace the lines of his form. He gestures to the space beside him, voice rough, velvet-worn with his accent.

"Liebling."

A single word, gruff, sharp, thick with something unnamed. He reaches for the brush on the table, fingers curling around it like a sacrament. "Let me," he murmurs, and it’s not a question. The air between them thickens, warm with gun oil and the musk of sweat-dried fabric, but beneath it, something sweeter, something slow.

His form shifts to accommodate his, and the world narrows to this: the drag of the brush through his hair, König’s calloused hands parting the strands with reverence. His breath ghosts through the fabric of his mask, warm against the nape of his neck, and for a moment, König lingers there, inhaling.

"I wanna be a provider," he murmurs, voice barely audible over the sound of the rain outside. "...your outer shell, your secret insider."

Each stroke is deliberate, slow, as if he's treasuring the motion. The brush soon gives way to his fingers, kneading the tension from his scalp, thumbs pressing circles into the base of his skull. A low sigh escapes König, barely audible, as if the act alone is a relief.

Then—his hands still, and he shifts, the stool scraping softly as he moves to kneel before him, his bulk folding into the space before his feet. Bare fingers trace over the curve of his boot, unlacing it with a sniper’s precision.

“Do I wanna go there..?” he whispers, more to himself than to him. His hands slide up, peeling away the sock, his palm cradling the arch of his foot. “Yes, I do.”

His touch is worship. Thumbs gliding into the softness beneath his toes, kneading the tension from the ball of his foot, tracing the ridges of bone and then the arch with a feather-light tenderness that contradicts König’s size. He exhales, slow, his mask grazing his shin as he leans into the contact, holding his foot to his chest as his motions continue.

"I felt myself hesitate once," he admits, his voice gravel-rough as one hand glides higher. "But not now. Not with you, Liebling."

Gentle pressure slides up the slope of his calf, fingers foxtrotting over the dip behind his knee. Every inch is a sacrament, every touch a vow, the reverence in König’s eyes as they search his face exposing just how much this quiet moment means to him. He's committing every slow twitch, sigh of relief, arch of his brow to his memory.

"I wanna be your provider," he murmurs, lips brushing the fabric over his thigh. "Your guiding hand, your final decider. That bit of fuel to your fire, stokes your desire... just let me know you're mine."

The rain drums on. The apartment breathes around them. And König—König is on his knees, his hands mapping his skin like a man starved for this affection, his voice a sigh beneath his hood as he lets himself just enjoy the closeness. "I can give you what you want."