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The word feels too big. Too loud. So it’s simply “an evening on the roof.”

For several weeks he’d been noting when the view from above was especially beautiful. One day after shift, he simply walked up to you and said:

“Let’s go.”

No explanations🙄

You climbed the service stairs and stepped out onto the roof. A cool wind immediately tugged at your clothes. Two old folding army chairs and a small table were already waiting.

“Here… it’s quiet,” he said softly, looking ahead. “And the view is good.”

“If you get cold — tell me,” he added under his breath, already ready to give you his hoodie with “colonel” written across the back.

Far below, the base generators hummed in the distance. He doesn’t know how to do evenings like this. He’s never been good at them. So he just sits beside you — huge, silent, watchful — and lets the silence do its work. His gaze keeps returning to you when he thinks you won’t notice.

He reached toward the table and froze.

The mask...

Without a word, you turned your chair so its back was to him. He looked at you for several long seconds, then quietly murmured:

“Danke…”

He removed the mask. Slowly.

After that kiss when you wanted to see his face, doing this next to you no longer felt impossible. He ate calmly, for the first time in a long while not thinking about someone seeing his face.

When he finished, the mask stayed lying on the table. He wasn’t going to put it back on.

You turned around. Your eyes met. This time he didn’t break the eye contact as quickly as usual. He only gave a small, slightly embarrassed smile at the corner of his lips.

Last time when he was pleasuring you, you secretly recorded your sounds on a voice recorder.

Now you slipped it to him to listen to while you went to grab some snacks as he recovers — or, on the contrary, it completely blows his mind 😏😁

Liebling eagerly reaches for him and yanks his pants down off his ass. His cock finally springs free — heavy, hard, and burning hot. König breathes raggedly, almost moaning. You wrap your hand around him right away, feeling the thick pulse beneath your fingers.

You stroke along his length, squeezing at the base, and he can’t hold back a deep groan, hips bucking forward into your grip. He inhales your scent greedily, breathing it in deep right between your bodies. His head falls back for a second.

“Fuck… Liebling…” he rasps, voice shaking. “Your hands… so fucking good… don’t stop…”

He kisses you like a starving man, takes himself in hand and presses closer. He slides the head of his cock along your wet folds, nudging between them, spreading your slick, but not pushing inside yet. You feel him trembling with need. His breathing grows heavy and hot.

“You know how much I love you…” he whispers hoarsely against your ear, voice cracking. “And right now you’re so… I want…” His hot breath fans over your neck; you see the flush creeping up his skin. “—to fuck you. The way you like. The way you deserve. Please… let me.”

Liebling spreads her legs wider, opening for him. He enters slowly. So fucking slowly. You feel every inch as he stretches you open, your walls clenching desperately around him. Even after he’s already worked you open with his tongue and fingers, taking him is always an effort. Your mouth falls open on a gasp when he finally bottoms out — buried to the hilt. His pubic bone presses tight against your clit, and every small roll of his hips makes you feel him there.

“Gut… so good…” he breathes out, forehead resting against yours as another groan escapes him. “So tight… so fucking hot inside…”

At first he moves in short, deep strokes, barely pulling out. Just grinding, rolling his hips, forcing you to feel every vein. His huge hands grip your thighs, thumbs digging into soft flesh.

Then he starts fucking you properly — long, powerful strokes, deep and hard. Each thrust knocks the air out of your lungs.

“Ich kann nicht… fuck…” he growls against your neck, voice trembling. The countertop is creaking with you, dishes rattling quietly in the cupboard from the force of every thrust. His hot forehead presses into your shoulder.

You feel your body struggling to take all of him. Too much. Too full. Too intense. But you still push your hips up to meet him.

Your hands instinctively fly to his neck. Fingers wrap around his throat from the sides — not hard, but firm. Light pressure. König’s whole body shudders, eyes rolling back for a moment, and a low, guttural moan tears from his chest — deep, almost animal:

“Mmmh… fuck… Liebling…”

He can’t hold back his moans anymore when your fingers press a little tighter around his throat and you clench around his cock.

It turns him on even more. For König, who’s used to controlling everything, being the biggest and strongest and nearly untouchable, your small hands on his throat are the complete opposite. The light choking gives him a sharp rush of vulnerability that he only ever allows with you. It’s the ultimate trust. Every time you squeeze just a little, his body answers with a surge of adrenaline. It makes him even harder, even more desperate. He **wants** to feel you **holding** him.

“More…” he whispers hoarsely, almost begging. “Hold me tighter, Liebling…”

“Scheiße… harder…” he moans straight into your mouth, not breaking eye contact. “Don’t be afraid… I’m all yours…”

He kisses you hungrily, almost roughly, while he keeps fucking you — deep and rhythmic.

The pace picks up. You arch into him, wrapping your legs around his waist. König growls low in his throat, scoops you up under your thighs and lifts you. He carries you toward the couch without pulling out, presses your back against the wall, still holding you in the air. He supports your entire weight so easily, yet pins you heavily with his massive body. A few more powerful thrusts against the wall while you moan into his neck, clinging to his shoulders, and then he moves you to the couch. He sits down, settling you on top so you can move however you want.

You pull your shirt off and he immediately latches onto your breasts. His huge palms cover them completely, kneading, fingers teasing your nipples. He looks up at you with hungry eyes, mouth devouring you, still groaning as you start riding him.

“Fuck… you’re so goddamn perfect…” he whispers, breathing in deep the scent of your skin, your hair, your arousal. He’s completely lost in you. But what gets him the most is your pleasure. Every shaky breath, every sweet moan, every time you clench around him — it makes him lose control even faster. He loves that he’s the reason for those sounds. That he’s the one making you this wet, this trembling, this greedy.

His own moans grow louder, hands on your waist guiding you as you sink down onto him. His fingers tremble against your skin.

When his patience finally snaps, he smoothly and carefully flips you onto your back and looms over you with his enormous body. One big hand pins both your wrists above your head on the couch. The other hand first greedily kneads your breast, then slides lower — gripping your thigh firmly. He buries his nose in your neck and inhales your scent greedily, deeply. The way you’re so soft and pliant and hot in his hands completely wrecks him.

His cock stays buried deep as he presses his whole weight down on you, kissing you almost ferociously.

He starts fucking you for real — powerful, deep, long strokes, nearly pulling all the way out before slamming back in, the wet slap of skin loud and filthy. He fucks you hard now, with deep, punishing thrusts, but at the same time his fingers — trembling with arousal — slip down between you. Not rough, but slow and gentle, pressing against your swollen folds, spreading your slick, circling your clit with precise, tender movements. The contrast is maddening: brutal, fast thrusts and such soft, careful fingers.

“Fuck, Schatz… I’m barely holding on, little one…” he groans, voice completely wrecked. He releases your wrists so he can pull you even closer. For him this isn’t just sex — he wants to be as close as possible, to merge with you.

Liebling reaches for him again, hands returning to his neck, fingers tightening. König instantly loses the last threads of control — he moans loudly, almost growling, hips snapping faster and deeper. He drinks in every moan you make, every flutter around his cock, every roll of your hips meeting his. That’s what excites him most — knowing he’s the cause of your pleasure, that you’re melting under him.

Every thrust makes you moan, and he answers

with growls and groans.

“Fuck, Schatz… I’m gonna come…” he rasps desperately.

You gasp that you can’t hold back either. He presses closer, gathering you in his arms, breathing hard against your neck as he licks the damp skin there, driving into you deep. The final thrusts are sharp and uncontrolled. His breathing is ragged, moans spilling out freely.

The orgasm crashes over Liebling in a powerful, endless wave — her body arches, she cries out loudly, clenching around him in sweet, pulsing spasms. König buries himself especially deep and comes right after — with a low, sweet moan, pulsing hot and hard, filling her with long, thick spurts.

He shudders against you, holding you tight with both arms, still moving slowly to draw out your shared pleasure. His chest heaves, face buried in your neck, and he keeps quietly groaning, kissing your skin while both of you tremble.

He holds you firmly, pressing you down with his weight, but so carefully. Trembling, breathing hard, he kisses your neck, your cheek, your lips, feeling you relax and go soft beneath him.

“Liebling… mine…” he whispers hoarsely, still buried inside you, in no hurry to pull out.

His hands stroke you gently now, soothing. He keeps greedily breathing in your scent, like he can never get enough.

König stands by the coffee machine, his massive frame slightly hunched as if trying to take up less space in the narrow corridor. The machine hums quietly, grinding the beans. The coffee isn’t for him. It’s for Liebling. He even chooses the syrup he once heard in her order. She was surprised back then that he remembered. He didn’t say anything, but he remembered more than just the syrup. He remembered everything.*He hears the footsteps before the voice.*

“Colonel.”

*He turns his head. A colleague. She stops too close, her own cup in hand. Too close.*

“I heard you were discharged from medical. How are you feeling?”

“Already fine.”

“You look good.”

“Thanks.”*“That should be enough.”*

*But the conversation doesn’t end. She keeps chatting about work, reports, recruits, jumping from topic to topic. He answers shortly, in a low, raspy voice—dry and restrained. Out of politeness. Nothing more. Almost the entire time, his gaze returns to the machine’s screen.*

*Thirty more seconds. Just don’t overflow. She’s probably already waiting.*

He wants to end it not because the woman is unpleasant. It’s just that random conversations always exhaust him. He has to search for the right words, watch his tone, like he’s taking some invisible exam that never ends.

The woman smirks.

“Do you ever relax?”

*He gives a quiet hum.*

"Sometimes.”

She laughs and lightly touches his forearm, as if by accident. König’s shoulders tense almost imperceptibly.

**Again. Why do people always touch each other?**

For him, touch has never been casual. It either means a lot… or it’s part of a fight. There’s almost no third option in his world.

He instinctively takes half a step toward the machine, increasing the distance. Maybe she’ll understand.

*She doesn’t.*

Continuing her story, she touches him again—this time with her palm on his shoulder. König exhales almost imperceptibly.

**Don’t offend the person. She’s not doing anything bad. Just endure a little longer.**

*Everything inside him tightens. The familiar shame, the tension in his muscles, the desire to simply disappear.*

**Fuck… just stop.**His fingers curl into fists inside his cargo pockets. The machine beeps shortly. Ready. His gaze automatically lifts… and freezes. At the other end of the corridor stands Liebling. Far away. Motionless. Looking straight at them. At this scene. His heart drops unpleasantly.

**Oh shit…**He doesn’t even think “she’s jealous.” The first thought is completely different.

**She’s going to think she came at the wrong time. That I’d rather talk to her. That she’s interrupting.**

He knows too well how easily people start to feel unwanted.

**Just don’t leave…**

Inside, real anxiety settles in. Not because of the colleague. Because of that look. He isn’t good at reading emotions, but her face… he’s already starting to understand her face. And right now, despite the flushed cheeks, it looks cold.

**She’s going to turn around.**

**And pretend she never came here at all.***

*And then something finally clicks.*

**No…**

**She’s… jealous?**

The thought is so unexpected that for a second he stops hearing anything around him.

**Of me…?**

Not annoyance. Not irritation. Not a desire to leave.

**She’s upset because… some other woman is standing too close to me?**

Something trembles in his chest. Heavy. Unfamiliarly warm.

**Scheiße…**

**So… she cares.**

From this realization, it becomes both lighter… and much more terrifying.

**Just don’t let her think I wanted this.**

**Just don’t let her think I responded.**

The woman beside him is still talking. He no longer hears a word. He grabs the cup immediately, as if waiting for exactly this signal to retreat.

“Sorry,” *he interrupts calmly, without rudeness. For the first time during the whole conversation.* “I promised someone coffee.”

He surprises himself by saying it out loud. Not “I have to go.” Not “I have things to do.” Exactly that.

**“Someone.”**

As if that alone is enough to explain everything. He nods to the woman in farewell and immediately walks down the corridor. Toward where Liebling is still standing.

**Just let her wait.**

His steps are heavy but quiet. Shoulders slightly tense, he holds the cup carefully in his large hand as if it contains something fragile. He approaches almost close and holds the coffee out to her.

“Coffee. With syrup. The way you like it.”

He meets her eyes and, after a short pause, adds darkly:

“I’m a victim of harassment.”

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