Chapter Text
When you had gone out to tend to the horses and chickens, König fucked his good hand with the bedroom door wide open.
He hadn’t even waited until you made it all the way downstairs. As soon as he saw your head disappear, he began to palm himself while your slippers softly shuffled against each step in your descent. It began underneath the covers first, the added weight against his hand applying a pressure in his ministrations that caused heat to bubble beneath the flesh of his scarred neck and cheeks; that heat carried over down his chest, not quite compressing but the start of, slinking it’s way down through his stomach and straight to his cock. There was a two-to-three second delay in the processing power of his mind where a teensy-weensy whine was strung up in the air like linen left out to dry, so light and airy that König’s heart almost gave out as he stared at the open door and out into the quiet hallway. What if you had heard him? Would you return after having chalked it up to his major injury with a question of concern sitting on your lips?
But if you saw that it was all because of him touching himself so good, would you watch?
His bottom lip was snagged between his teeth. His ears were attuned to you already. Despite you and him being the only individuals residing in this house, he knew who you were just by your footsteps alone and he waited eagerly. Are you coming up to check on me? Did you hear me? Do you want to watch me?
There was only silence as his perverted companion. And he knew by experience in any situation that the thicker the silence, anything that split through it was amplified by ninety decibels.
He palmed himself a little more firmly and swallowed the accumulation of spit that had threatened to spill from the corners of his mouth.
Through his T-shirt, his nipples were peaked and aching. Aching for what? He knew, but not really.
His gaze honed in on the open door again and a broiling surge of adrenaline had König’s hands trembling as he pushed the covers down to his knees— just enough distance for accessibility to conceal his modesty had he heard you walking up the stairs, but just enough distance where he would risk getting caught. He could possibly scramble, possibly lose his hold on a sheet if he had moved too fast and then his swollen cock would be on display for your eyes to see.
An arresting shiver gripped König's spine.
He needed to undress immediately. Now. Now.
Oh. König had been correct. There was, in fact, a wet patch at the front of his sweats. He hadn’t caught it when he had returned to bed, too panicked in hiding his arousal as fast as possible for the medical examination you had penciled in; his arousal had been so great that he dribbled right through the thick fabric and he could feel his cock sliding against his own wet mess with any miniscule shift of limbs or breath.
He really had been on the verge of an orgasm. This is what they call edging, isn’t it?
König thinks he likes it. He thinks he really likes edging.
He wants to do it again.
But he knows he can’t. He doesn’t have the capability, doesn’t have the discipline to keep from fucking himself.
He thinks that would be your job. Your job to discipline him. You would tell him no and he would beg for yes.
What the fuck was wrong with him? ‘Everything,’ echoed his mind. ‘You’re so fucked in the head you want a stranger to treat you like a dog on a leash.’
Would you put a collar on him? You refer to him as a cat, but would you leash him like a dog? Would you pull at the leather and make him look you in the eyes? Drown him in your deadwaters and bring him back to the living to do it all over again?
He imagines it’s leather. In his fantasy, it’s all leather.
König’s sweats sit in the center of his big thighs before his lungs could expel his next breath. His cock is wet. Slick. Fat and long and drooling; it pools at the coarse hairs that decorate his pubic bone. The tips of his fingers gather some of his precome and he drags it all the way up to his happy trail. He watches the way it glistens in his pubes, all sticky and slippery under the morning sun that plays peeping tom in his window. He likes how the cool air contrasts the warm precome decorating his searing flesh.
Would you smear him with his own come the way he’s doing it to himself right now?
He doesn’t even need to spit in his hand. He’s never had to do that before. It’s always spit, fuck, and move along.
Excitement licks at his insides. König has never wanted to take his time like this before.
But there is a difference between wanting and accomplishing. König wants to take his time but he isn’t certain he can. On a scale of one-to-ten, he is currently at a solid four. And the more he thinks about you and your eyes and your mouth and your skin and the silk adorning your skin,
he sees his cock twitch and drool. Underneath his mask, he’s drooling, too.
König doesn’t bother wiping it away. He lets it slide down his jaw and the way it tickles has him twitching.
His gaze settles on the open door again. He waits. And waits. And waits. He doesn’t hear your familiar footsteps nor does he sense your quiet presence. König is alone in this house with the door wide open and his cock standing at rigid attention and he feels a little disappointed. A little sad. A little desperate. He wants to fuck himself in front of you.
How would you do it? In some perfect world where you wanted the same thing he did right now— had the same fantasies as him, the same aroused intensity as he did— how would you do it? Would you lean against the doorway with crossed arms as you watched? Would you remain silent and attentive and gesture slightly with your head as a signal for him to continue?
König shivered and wrapped his hand around the base of his girth. The familiar weight against his palm is pleasurable in its own right.
How would you do it? The question presented itself again. He mulled it over. As he considered, he kept his grip loose. Edging. Maybe he can edge himself without you. He can do it while he thinks of the right fantasy, the right scenario he can start touching himself to. Maybe he doesn’t need you.
No and no — he answers himself because even if he can edge himself, he’s still stroking himself to the thought of you, and when he starts fantasizing about you, he can’t edge himself anymore. It’s impossible. König needs you. He needs you to get better and to get off.
How would you do it?
König whimpers the moment he figures it out.
You would tell him to sit on the edge of the bed and then slot yourself between his legs like he had desired you to do so earlier, like the missed opportunity that slipped by and through like sand, and you would embrace his neck with your arms and pull him down so his face was pressed directly into your breasts. Your chemise would be resting low enough to feel the heat of your skin through his sniper’s hood and he would be able to smell your perfume against your skin.
No. Well, yes. Yes, you would pull him into (preferably suffocate) your chest and you would lift the hem of his hood just above his nose so he could inhale the fragrance of your skin and perfume, so that he would be able to press his lips against your warm flesh, so he could lick and drool all over your tits and rub his cheeks against the silk and spit.
That’s how he starts. You would tell him to touch himself in his fantasy and he would touch himself in the reality, his scarred palm and fingers rubbing his weeping cock while he pictures burying his face his your saliva-slick tits and your thighs pressing into the insides of his thighs; your fingers would be playing with his hair.
No. Pulling. Pulling his hair. Beneath the hood. Gently, at first. You would want to work him up at a snail’s pace.
Or so he thinks. He does. You seem like the type to make him want to cry.
König wants to cry. He wants you to make him cry.
A whimper stumbles from his mouth and he tightens his grip. He drags his fist slowly, achingly slow, all the way up to his swollen tip and twists his wrist in a way that has his belly in knots and hips twitching. He does it again. And again. And again. And again. He’s panting like a dog in August heat and slouching against the pillows that prop him up against the headboard and because of it, a stab of pain in his side punches him from the inside out. König grunts and winces.
But he doesn’t stop fucking himself. Even with the pain of his ribs.
The animalism König is currently experiencing was not something he had ever thought would be even remotely possible. The more he fantasizes and the more his hand moves at this languid rhythm, the hotter and more frequent the chills are that lap along his blazing skin— they adorn his thighs, run along his scalp, lick along his abdominal muscles and all the way down to his groin. His body is thrumming with sweltering desire— he surrenders himself to the exhilarating pleasure, feels like he’s going to come soon and his eyes begin to grow wet.
Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes.
His thoughts are consumed by you— by every curve, contour, and line of your body, it’s all etched into his memory. How could only sheer hours have affected him like this? How? How?
No. He’ll figure that out later. Right now he doesn’t give a shit. Right now he wants to come.
He pictures you crooning sweet nothings into his ear. König hears your voice like a whisper in the night, distant and passing like an autumn breeze.
He wants to hear you in person. He wants to hear you say these nice and dirty things directly to him. What would you say? Would you call him sweetheart again? Would you tell him that he’s doing well for you? That his home training is coming along nicely?
A high-pitched and pathetic moan was pulled from the sincerest part of himself. If he asked nicely, would you get him a collar?
Oh. He’s getting ahead of himself. But would you? Would you?
Then he was fucking himself— really fucking himself. His grip tightened and his pace kicked off to a point where tears began to fall and he didn’t bother concealing his little noises. His whines. When he thumbed his slit and pressed it he cried out, and when he paid special attention to his frenulum he blubbered something so fucking stupid that he couldn’t even understand it himself.
König could feel himself hurtling towards his orgasm and he isn’t surprised one bit that he’s not lasting long. His scrotum tightened, his heart was thundering against the confines of his ribcage— it even felt like his stomach was cramping because it was all too much, it felt too good, and he was ready to come and come and come.
There it is. His back is arching. His hips are meeting every downstroke of his fist. The little contractions every few seconds just under the area of his balls—- his cock feels so good, so phenomenal, all slick and slippery and he likes the obscene, wet noises that permeate and are amplified by the silence of this house. Really likes it. Loves it. Loves to feel filthy.
Instinctively, his bad hand comes up to his chest. His fingers twist and pinch and play with his nipple through his T-shirt. He’s whining, he’s mewling, all soft and sweet and quiet because everything is amplified in a silent room.
His wrist is aching but he gropes his pec anyway. Squeezes it. Massages it; flattens his palm and rubs his aching and puckered nipple through his shirt and König’s drool slides from his jaw and onto his adam’s apple. His face is turned to the right, staring straight at the open door as he strokes the fat girth of him with the hazy hope of you showing up and watching him come undone.
Could you hear him? Wherever you were, could you hear him pleasuring himself to no end to the thought of you?
His chest is so stuffed with heat that König thinks he swallowed the sun. His belly burns, his cock hurts, but it’s all delicious debauchery and, oh, f-fuck, he’s going to come—
“Please,” he begged to an empty room and an empty hallway.
His thumb and index worked his neglected nipple and König’s eyebrows furrowed while his jaw went slack— he was so sensitive, unbelievably sensitive, and he wanted something hot and wet to play with his own tits—
You. Only you. He wanted you to suck and lick his peaked buds, wanted you to lave them with relentless attention that the sparking nerves of them short-circuited his brain and seized the production of oxygen in his lungs.
König thinks he could come with you playing with his nipples alone. He thinks the stillness of your eyes would help him along with his orgasm.
“I need—” he pleaded to an empty staircase.
“I know,” you would croon. König could picture it. His eyelids are heavy and his eyes are glazed over but he can picture it. “I know what my little stray needs.”
It’s hot under his sniper's hood. Humid. Perspiration soaks into the material and clings to the curls that stick to his forehead. König thinks he has a fever.
He doesn’t.
“Sit up straight for me, sweetheart. Let me see it.”
König scrambled to right himself up against the pillows with a sharp gasp.
“That’s it, sweetheart.”
The way your voice is recalled from his memory makes it feel like you’re directly in his ear.
“Atta boy.”
His cock is coated in sticky precome and it won’t stop fucking leaking and he thumbs his slit again as if to plug up his mess and he whimpers and he does it again and his lips are wet and his chin is wet and his neck is slick with rivets of drool and he’s squeezing and fucking and stroking and coming—
“Very good, König.”
He’s coming and coming and coming and one last pinch of his nipple has him coming hard and moaning gibberish between clenched teeth and teary eyes and his back his arching and he can’t breathe. His palm and fingers cover the head of his cock, lightly rubbing against his tip and pressing into his slit; König’s eyes roll to the back of his head as the intensity of his orgasm binds him to the mattress. There’s so much, so much spilling out that it’s coating his cock all over again and König whimpers and whimpers and whines.
Like a little cat.
Hot chills roll along his skin, one after the other. König doesn’t know how long he lays there; he feels so fucked out that he can’t move. There’s no pain. No aching. No discomfort. There’s only the warm glow of his orgasm, the fog in his head, the thundering of his heartbeat. He’s warm all over. Tired. Wants to sleep. Wants to succumb all dirty like this for you to find.
He wants to go again. But he can’t. He’s jello on a mattress. König feels hollow but satisfied. If you had been here, would he feel different? Better? Dirtier?
Shame doesn’t present itself. Not yet, at least.
He feels himself going soft and as an experiment, tugs himself again, and winces. Feels like a horrible tickle.
He wants to go again.
And he’s still staring at the open door. He climaxed just like that, staring at an empty hallway with the ghost of your voice licking at his ears.
His gut stirs and he knows you’re inside now. How? Just does.
König feels his eyes growing heavier and heavier.
He hears your footsteps. They’re soft. In his fog of pleasure-stricken delirium, he can still hear them. Maybe he should have jerked himself off to the natural pace of your footsteps.
If he did, would you watch?