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It requires some DuoLingo cramming, a shameful amount of Google translating, and escapades into some unsavory internet forums parsing the intricate linguistic differences between scheiße , ficken , bumsen, and vögeln. But you finally managed to cobble together an attempt at a list for König, in German, of all the tricks you like your partners to pull in bed.
Once you’ve got the whole thing drafted on your computer, you decide to write it out longhand too. For a personal touch. Also, you can’t risk someone encountering it on the public printer. So you sit down at your desk, tear a page out of your notebook, and start scribbling it out.
Over the course of your writing, rereading the list, your cheeks flush more and more. Your heart starts pounding. It’s one thing to belabor the fantasies in your head, or talk dirty in the heat of the moment. Something about putting pen to paper and carefully choosing the right words to describe how you like get get fucked in meticulous detail feels far more vulnerable. Still, there’s a distinct satisfaction to writing out the final word with a flourish, folding the paper up tight, and covertly slipping it under König’s door on your way to a debrief meeting. You’ve done your part. Now, the ball is in his court.
A few days pass, and you don’t see König at all. You don’t even run into him by the gym, and it gets your mind stewing against your better judgment. The two of you lead busy lives, doing all kinds of dangerous work. There are higher priorities than some silly promise about sex and German practice. Still, you start to wonder if you somehow slipped the list into the wrong room. At least there’s some comfort in the fact that no one else would be able to read it.
It finally happens on an unusually slow afternoon. No sparring matches, no emergency meetings. Just you killing time in your room, flopped back onto your bed trying to read a book you can’t focus on. You slam it shut with a huff and place it down onto the floor. You’re about to muster the courage to get up and look for your friend when there’s a knock at your door. Three strong strikes, and you have a strong suspicion of who it is. It has your springing to your feet and your hand on the doorknob in an instant.
You open the door to find König leaning against the side, his frame filling out your view into the hallway.
“Hallöchen,” he says.
Is this going to be the way the two of you greet each other from now on? You certainly hope so.
“Hallöchen,” you reply. “What’s up?”
“I got your list.”
König reaches into his jacket pocket and removes a familiar folded up piece of paper.
“And…?”
“You have a very dirty mind, Sonnenschein,” König says.
There it is with that nickname again. You’ve stayed true to your word and refused to look it up, even in the pits of your research. The curiosity about its true meaning eats you up inside.
“Well, you asked for it,” you say.
“I did.”
He clears his throat and turns his head from one side to the other, surveying the hallway for stragglers. He looks back at you, and he’s got this sheepish expression with pink cheeks. There’s something so adorable about how shy he is about this.
Still, it’s probably best to talk things over in private. You step to the side and König enters. You shut the door behind him. Then lock it. Presumptuous? Maybe. Necessary? Definitely.
“You wrote it very well, but you confused some of the words,” König says. “I want to make sure I know exactly what you mean.”
He unfolds the list and places it on your desk, smoothing out the creases with his hands. Goodness, with him handling it, a standard sheet of paper looks like a notecard.
“Sit,” he says, “and I will explain for you.”
He pulls out the chair to your desk and gestures toward it. To the untrained eye, it might seem like a perfectly innocent invitation, even gentlemanly. But you catch the wolfish glint in König’s eyes, the way they ream over you as you approach him. One foot in front of the other, you make your way towards him and sit down in the chair. You stare down at the paper, all too aware of his sizeable presence at your back. The moments tick by with agonizing slowness as you wait to see what he does.
“Well,” you say, “I’ve sat.”
“You wrote about being called names,” König says.
He leans over you from behind, shoulder dwarfing yours as he brings his face right next to your ear. You’re caged in against the desk, bracketed by his strong arms on either side, his chest pressing just slightly against your back.
“Yes,” you say.
It’s one of the first items on the list. König reaches his arm around you to point at it. He’s so close everywhere, and you can smell his aftershave again, and you feel your heartbeat quickening in your chest.
“Ich mag es, erniedrigt zu werden ,” König reads. “I can try to degrade you, but I do not want to hurt your feelings.”
“You can call me a bitch if you call me something nice later,” you explain. “Balance it out. I won’t take it personally if I know you don’t really mean it.”
“Okay.” König rests his hand on your shoulder, just for a moment. “I will say it, but I will not mean it. Because you like it, and I like you.”
He’s so nice to you, and it seemingly comes so easily it’s like he isn’t even aware of how saying something like that affects you. Makes you feel warm and gooey in your stomach like you’ve just had a fresh slice of blue ribbon apple pie. Süß, you think.
“Thanks, König,” you say as breezily as you can.
“There was another one,” he continues. “Ich mag es, wenn man mich quält."
You rack your brain, stringing the words together over and over until you remember the process of putting them together the first time.
“I like it when people tease me,” you say. You crane your neck up to look at him. “What confused you?”
“Tease,” König says with a nod. “Okay. The word quält is more… when you torture somebody. Not so much fun, at least, not the torture I know about.”
“It’s less painful, more playful,” you explain. “Sometimes it’s more fun when someone doesn’t give me what I want right away.”
“I see.” König squints at the paper. “I think you should use the word Reizen. Ich mag es, wenn man mich reizen.”
“Ich mag es, wenn man mich reizen,” you repeat.
“Sehr gut,” König says with a smile, and your chest goes warm with the praise.
Then, König turns your chair away from the desk. He stands in front of you, and you gaze up at him from your spot in the chair. From your seated position, his hefty stature is even more apparent. You have to crane your neck to look at his face, and it feels like it’s miles away. König looks at you through, gaze half lidded from the perspective, and you do your best to hold it despite your percolating nerves. You can’t help it, it’s got to be some kind of primal instinct that pumps adrenaline into you at the sight of someone who should be a potential threat. König isn’t a threat, at least, not to you, not now, but it doesn’t make a difference. That gooey apple pie feeling shifts, mingling with a skipping heartbeat to concentrate at the apex of your thighs. You feel a slight dampness at the crotch of your pants, the arousal gathering in anticipation of what’s surely to come. Hopefully the both of you, there’s no way König came to your room with innocent intentions. The tension hanging in the air between you as you look at each other is so thick you feel like you could reach out and physically touch it.
Just as you’re about to say something to clear it away, König sinks to the ground. You bite at your lip, holding back a huff of surprise. Kneeling, he’s still around eye level with you sitting down.
“What are you doing?” you ask, and your voice sounds as small as you feel.
“We can do both at the same time,” König says. He casually places a hand on each of your knees. “I will help with your German and check some things off your list. Zwei Fliegen mit einer Klappe schlagen.”
“Zwei Fliegen…”
The rest of the phrase turns to mush in your mouth as he spreads your legs, moving forward just slightly to situate himself between them.
“Hit two flies with one swat,” König explains as he traces his hands down the length of your legs, leaving a path of warmth in their wake.
“Like killing two birds with one stone?” you ask.
“I think so, yes.” He glances up at you, running his hands back and forth over your thighs. “Can I take these off?”
He plucks his fingers against the fabric of your pants.
“Yes,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady.
First, König makes quick work of your shoes, removing one after the other and tossing them to the side. Then, he easily hoists your hips up from the seat of the chair to wriggle your pants down. He’s strong, he could manhandle you into any position if he wanted to, a thought that sends the heat swarming through your lower body pooling in your core. With a sharp flick of his wrist, the last bit of pants fabric clears the ridge of your ankles and lands with a thump on the floor. His hands quickly return to your thighs, fingertips dimpling into the soft flesh, the heat of his palms bleeding into your skin.
“What are you learning about right now” König asks, “on the evil app with the silly green owl?”
You laugh at that, grateful for the brevity of his words. So you’ve unleashed one too many offhand rants about DuoLingo. Still, your heart flutters at the idea that he remembered it, though. Made a mental note and brought it up to let you know he was listening to even your most benign of conversations.
“Duo’s been pestering me about food,” you tell him. “Going to the grocery store. What I like to eat.”
You gulp as König grabs onto your underwear and easily tugs it down just like your pants. In a matter of seconds, they join the rest of your clothes in the heap on the floor beside him. Now, the lower half of your body is completely bare. König’s touch lands on your hips, scooting them forward so your ass rests right on the edge of the chair, mere inches away from his face.
“I would know my answer,” König tells you, and there’s a newfound darkness to his voice that sends a shiver through you.
König stares intently at your bare cunt, already flushed with anticipation and glistening with arousal. The look on his face is enough to have you clutching the armests of the chair. You catch a flash of his tongue, quick and pink, as he runs it over his lower lip. When he finally looks back up into your eyes, his pupils are blown wide.
“Practice with me,” König says. He inches closer to you, hands settling on your knees to spread your legs further apart to accommodate his broad shoulders. “I will let you know when you make a mistake.”
“Okay,” you breathe, nodding enthusiastically.
“Sehr gut,” König says.
You’ll never get tired of hearing those two words leave his mouth. Very good . Especially when he turns to press a kiss to the inside of your knee. He does it again and again, warm breath ghosting over you as he inches up your thigh. Taking his time. Every so often, he stops to nip at your skin, leaving faint, reddening marks as signposts along his journey. You twitch with anticipation as he gets closer and closer to your sex. Just as he reaches the tender patch where your thigh joins your hip, he pulls back.
“Was ist Ihr Lieblingsessen?” he asks.
You repeat the words in your head, savoring the fluidity of the vowels and crunched syllables, the confidence with which König talks. It’s not just so you can mimic the pronunciation later. As cute as his Austrian accent is, there’s this hesitation which lingers in his speech when he talks to you in English. He sounds completely in his element in his mother tongue, and it’s riling you up in a way you never expected.
Was ist Ihr Lieblingsessen ?
It takes a second for the question to compute, but it’s an easy one.
What’s your favorite food?
König accompanies his question with a single fingertip brushing teasingly along the seam of your folds. Tracing up and down lazily as he awaits your answer.
In any other context, being forced to talk about your favorite food while someone went down on you would be deeply unsexy albeit somewhat ironic. But right now, König’s featherlight touches and watchful gaze have you so aroused you have to scramble for your response, even though you’ve answered the very same question countless times while working through the DuoLingo levels.
“Mein Lieblingsessen ist Pizza,” you reply.
“You say Pizza like you say it in English,” König chides. “Like peet-za. It is piht-za.”
Oh you are royally fucked if he’s going to be nitpicking like this.
“Pizza,” you correct yourself.
“Gut.”
König pushes his finger into your pussy slowly but steadily. Rewarding you. You keen against the sensation, the whisper of bliss that it brings. König has big hands, and big fingers, and just one is enough to feel substantial.
“Scheiße,” König says, watching intently as you take him. “Du bist klatschnass.”
You have no idea what that means, but you guess it has something to do with him withdrawing his finger and slipping it into his mouth, moaning as he tastes your arousal. Once he’s gotten his fill, he brings his finger back to your pussy and begins to slowly pump it in and out of you, building up a steady rhythm. It feels good, the gentle pressure of it.
“Wenn Sie Pizza essen,” König continues, “Was bekommen Sie aus dem Lebensmittelgeschäft? ”
He curls his finger up inside you, like he’s beckoning you closer. It strokes perfectly over your g-spot, and you let out a ragged “Fuck.”
With a raised brow, König repeats the motion again.
“Unfortunately, that does not count as an answer to my question,” he says. “And if you are going to curse at me, at least do it in German. It’s Scheiße .”
Oh, the bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps up the exact motion, hitting your g-spot with stunning accuracy. Didn’t he try to be a sniper once? Of course he’s good at zeroing in on a target. He innocently leans his cheek against your quivering thigh so he can gaze up at you. Your lips are screwed shut tight as you try to hold back the sounds clawing their way up your throat. Whatever might come out, it certainly wouldn’t be in German, some mumbled string of curses.
There is no way you’re going to speak coherently when he’s doing this to you, let alone a language you only started learning a month ago. You dig your nails into the armrests, trying to keep yourself anchored to earth so you can focus. Lebensmittelgeschäft. Grocery store. Ohmygod he’s sucking a hickey into my thigh. What do you get from the grocery store to make pizza? His lips are so soft. You scrunch your eyes shut tight to do away with the view of König’s hand undulating between your legs. Another thirty seconds and I’m going to cum on it. Focus! You can do this.
“Ich kaufe Käse und Tomaten,” you say. “Und…” How the hell do you say pizza crust in German? “Brot? ” Maybe that’s close enough. Flatbread pizza is a thing, right? “Großes Brot. ”
But it isn’t enough. König slips his finger from you, the mounting pleasure dissipating as a result. Your eyes snap open and you lurch forward in the chair, hips staggering forward as if they’re trying to chase it.
“Pizzakruste,” König corrects you.
You gawk down at him. So “big bread” was wrong. That’s not your fault, DuoLingo never went that in-depth about pizza ingredients.
“Really?” you demand.
You want to clench your legs together to maintain some semblance of pressure, but you can’t, because König’s blocking your way, eyes twinkling as he shakes his head.
“Pizzakruste,” he repeats, ignoring the indignation in your tone. “Practice makes perfect, Sonnenschein. Say it.”
You slump back in your chair, chest heaving. Your stomach feels like it’s on fire, scrambling in the aftermath of your ruined orgasm.
“Scheiße dich.”
He tilts his head to the side.
“You want to stop?”
You nibble at your lower lip, contemplating. You’ve never been one to be patient, and you know König would play nice and make you come in the next five minutes if you asked. He’s proven that ability time and time again, especially with the knee thing incident at the bar a while ago. But you asked for him to tease you, you spent half an hour Googling just the right words to do so, and he’s doing just that. There’s a part of you that, despite the frustration, is desperate to see just how far this whole arrangement goes.
You shake your head no. Nein. You don’t want to stop.
“Gut,” König says. “Dann hör auf, ein Miststück zu sein und tu, was ich sage.”
Again, you have no idea what he’s saying. Well, aside from Miststück, which he so helpfully explained to you that night in the bar . Paired with the way he says it, it’s clear that if you’re going to keep moving forward with this whole thing, you have no choice but to do what he says, and pray that he’ll reward you for it. There’s a darkness undercutting the familiar blue glint in König’s eye, a roughness to the way he keeps your legs pinned apart with his shoulders.
A foreboding kind of excitement simmers in your veins at the thought of it. And here you thought you had König all figured out. A gentle giant, you’d convinced yourself, just anxious, shy and sweet. Süß. Where the hell is this bossy, domineering side coming from?
Why the hell do you love it so much?
“Pizzakruste,” you relent. “Käse, Tomaten, und Pizzakruste.”
With a nod of approval, König picks up right where he left off.
“Welche Pizzabelage mögen Sie? ” he asks, slipping two fingers into your cunt this time.
“I… um…”
Your eyelashes flutter against the delicious stretch of it. One finger was lovely, but this hits the sweet spot, fuller, more intense. He resumes the same curling motion as before, right against the spot deep inside you that makes your calves clench up so tight the muscle starts to sting in protest. As a result of the denial from earlier, your body roars back into a frenzy with a newfound vengeance. Pleasure coils in your belly like a dragon, teeth clamped down around your ribcage, breathing fire up around your racing heart.
You don’t know if you’ll be able to take it if he stops this time, you’re so desperate to cum. What did he ask you again? You rack your brain, trying to pick up on the context clues provided in his question. Which pizza blank do you like. What kind of pizza do you like? What do you like on your pizza?
“Ich mag Pizza mit Oliven…?” you reply, a questioning lilt trailing in at the end.
Olives with stuffed crust, your go-to order. But you couldn’t even say normal crust, so König doesn’t need to know about anything but the olives.
“Sie mögen Oliven,” König confirms with a nod.
“Ja,” you reply, a wave of relief washing over you.
“Lecker. ”
König leans forward and envelops your clit in the slick heat of his mouth. He immediately moans against you, the reverberations resonating from somewhere deep in his chest and all the way through you.
“Fuck- scheiße, ” you spit, clawing at the armrest.
It feels incredible. The warmth, the careful softness as he sucks your clit between his lips sends lightning sparking up your spine. In a matter of seconds, you’re shoved up right against that edge, your orgasm a shimmering promise just on the horizon. But just as soon as he’s there, he’s gone, pulling back and leaving you hanging.
“You go to order a pizza, what do you say?” König asks.
“What?” you pant.
How the hell is he able to keep himself so composed when he’s doing this to you? Your gaze wanders down, past König’s face, past his shoulders, down his chest to find… Oh. König has a major hard on, straining against the fitted crotch of his pants. Maybe he isn’t so composed after all, or at the very least, he’s just as worked up as you are. Just seeing it has your breathing growing heavier, your mind pivoting away from the task at hand and towards just how desperate you are to touch him, taste him, fuck him until you’re both spent.
“I know you can do it,” König prompts. “Ich hätte gerne…”
I would like… Fuck, exactly what he’s doing. König flattens his tongue as he maneuvers it up and down, catching your clit at every angle at once. His head nods just slightly, and you can’t help but nod too, like it’ll somehow telepathically project just how badly you need him to keep going, keep going. You wriggle forward in your seat, trying to grind down against him, but König moves his unoccupied hand up to band over your hips and keep you pinned down against the chair. With nowhere to turn to, no way to squirm from his hold, you have no choice but to sit back and take it.
“Ich hätte gerne…”
You cling to the words so that you at least have a place to start. You have never been so desperately turned on while talking about pizza in your life. You don’t know if you’ll ever be able to order an olive pie with stuffed crust again without thinking about the way your arousal shines on König’s lips as he waits for your answer. Your eyes sting with frustrated tears, the sight going blurry in front of you.
“Ich hätte gerne…”
Fuck this, you’re right there, you are so, so close. But König isn’t giving it to you, holding back just enough to keep you right on the edge and not a bit more. His fingers continue to pump in and out of you at that same languid pace, avoiding your clit at all costs. His hold on your hips is maddeningly steadfast. There’s nothing you want more than to snap free and ride his face until you’re coming all over it, but you want a lot of things. You want to eat beluga caviar and ride a limousine to the Eiffel tower and see the Aurora Borealis. It’s impossible.
You squeeze your eyes shut, the darkness buzzing as the tears stream hot down your cheeks. You open your mouth to speak, but your throat has gone dry. You try to take a deep breath, but it comes in hiccupy and thin. You try again, but all you manage to do is let out a gasp of desperation.
“Are you okay, Sonnenschein?”
König’s voice is soft and warm, any residual darkness from before gone in an instant. You open your eyes to find him looking at you, eyebrows pricked up in worry.
“Bitte,” you plead, the word coming out strained between clenched teeth. “Bitte, bitte…”
Your maundering devolves into a frustrated moan as König presses a soft, reassuring kiss right on your clit. Your cunt clamps down so hard around his fingers your stomach actually twinges in pain. Your hands clench at the armrests so hard you’re sure you’ve left half moon fingernail dents in the pleather. You’re so desperate for release, you’ll do anything. You’ll grovel at the feet of that goddamn green owl until you speak German like an expert.
“Hey.”
König squeezes your knee, and you look at him, trying to catch your breath. The words are at the tip of your tongue. You’re going to answer his stupid pizza question if it kills you.
“We do not need to keep practicing,” König reassures you. He traces your knee in soothing circles. “I do not want to torture you-”
“Ich hätte gerne eine Pizza mit Oliven,” you force between gritted teeth. “Ich hätte gerne eine Pizza mit Oliven!”
You look down at König with a start, grinning triumphantly. His worried expression dissolves, replaced with a grin of his own.
“Sehr gut,” he says. “That is enough.”
He removes his fingers from you, but before you can protest, he wraps both arms around your thighs and wrenches you up to his waiting mouth.
“Now,” he says, “I will make you come. I promise.”
- - -
König eats your pussy like it’s his last meal on earth, and he’s going to savor every second of it. He dips his head down, pressing his tongue inside you to lap up as much of your arousal as possible. Mein Gott , you are so fucking wet it’s driving him crazy. He felt it on his fingers earlier, slipping inside you with ease, but tasting it is something else entirely. All that teasing has done a number on you.
Maybe he was a little too mean to you, denying you like that, but you were the one who said you liked it when you didn’t get what you wanted right away. After a week of rereading that filthy list you’d given him, slipped under his door like a little love from a secret admirer, filling his mind with so many dirty ideas that he hadn’t been able to think straight for days, maybe you deserved to be tortured a little. You had tortured him, and no matter how unintentional it might have been, he wanted to get a little retribution regardless.
The indignation had lit a fire in your eyes, roaring bright even as you tried to keep your impatience at bay. Biting back all those cute little gasps as you fumbled through your pizza order in German. You were trying so hard to be good. Your cunt tastes like heaven, and König is determined to worship your body until you’re satisfied.
König nuzzles forward, spearing his tongue in deeper, nosing against your clit. He feels the muscles in your thighs clench beneath his hands in response, your hips tilting forward to chase the feeling. He tugs you closer against him, encouraging you to ride his face to your liking.
You take his encouragement up quickly, grinding against him with a sigh. It’s a sweet, silvery sound, and König decides he wants to hear it again. So he grips your thighs harder, dimpling fingertips into your soft flesh, so weich , letting you shift your weight more against him as he laps at your entrance. It does the trick. You sigh once more, thighs quivering against his shoulders.
“Danke,” you say.
Thanking him in German, even though he said you didn’t need to. There’s a pang in his chest at the sound of it, because there’s a part of him deep down that still can’t believe you’re giving him the time of day, let alone learning his first language. He gets so easily tongue tied in English, and when you speak to him like this, it’s like reaching a hand out across the divide, trying to understand him on his own terms.
König can’t take it anymore. He hasn’t been this hard in a long, long time, and he’s as desperate to cum as you are. He lowers one of his hands from your hips to paw for his belt buckle. After some fumbling, he finally manages to undo the fastening and open his fly. He barely has the patience to pull his pants down his hips, sliding his hand down the front to wrap it around his cock. His tip has been weeping precum into his boxers, staining the crotch with a wet spot. He begins to jerk off in earnest, thrusting into his fist frantically.
The two of you quickly fall into a rhythm like this. König’s motions drive him to lap at your pussy with even more intensity, which makes you moan and grind against him with more intensity, which makes him want to jerk off more. He can feel the tension rising to impossible heights, the both of you are getting close, he is sure of it. But he cannot get selfish right now. He promised he would make you come, and he’s going to make sure of it. He remembers how you reacted earlier when he sucked on your clit for the first time. You seemed to like it. So he does it again, taking your bundle of nerves between his lips, and sucks hard .
“König!” you gasp.
He feels your inner walls contracting around his tongue, then releasing with a new flood of wetness. Your orgasm hits you hard, thighs clench around his face, hips shaking, a cavalcade of lovely gasps and sighs pouring out of your throat like never before.
Surrounded by your warmth, your taste, König feels like he could stay like this forever. He continues to lick you, feeling his own release approaching, approaching.
“Sehr gut,” he hears. Very good. Your voice hazy with pleasure, and he knows you mean it. “Süß.”
König’s hips stutter forward as he spills into his hand. He does his best to keep the mess contained to his pants, a voice in some far off corner of his mind chastising him for his carelessness. He just couldn’t help himself. How could he watch you, feel you, taste you fall apart in his mouth and not get off to it?
But any lingering hesitation is quickly batted away by the recollection of what you’ve just said. Süß. You called him sweet. No one calls him sweet. People call him strong, they call him dangerous, an asset, a human battering ram, a killing machine. You call him sweet, and it’s not because he’s useful, but because you like him.
König swipes his tongue over you one last time before leaning back, giving you both space to breathe. He leans back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, cleaning the residual traces of your arousal away. He looks up to find that you are still indisposed. So he steals these moments to watch you in all your post-coital glory, the faint sheen of sweat on your forehead, the rise and fall of your chest as you try to catch your breath, your messed up hair and fluttering eyelashes. You’re practically glowing.
“Hübsch,” König says. His hands shake as he hastily fastens up his pants. “You did such a good job, riding my face like that Sonnenschein.”
Your eyes open and you straighten up in the chair, leaning forward until your face is just inches from his. König glances down at your mouth, the hint of a smile tugging at the edge, and holds himself back from grabbing your face and kissing you.
“König you asshole,” you shoot back, grinning. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to eat pizza like a normal person again.”
“But you liked it, yes?” König asks. “I did not go too far?”
You reach forward and take his face in his hands. The warmth of your palms against his cheeks has all the blood rushing up to meet them. Rot wie eine Tomate , how topical.
“Das war umwerfend,” you tell him, then dissolve into laughter.
That was fantastic. He breathes a sigh of relief before he begins to laugh too. The two of you are a little dazed, sturzbetrunken with pleasure. He can call you a bitch if he balances it out with pretty. You can call him an asshole if you tell him he made you feel good. You were right, the sting dulls when he knows you don’t really mean it.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t do much to dull the sting in his knees. All this crouching is doing a number on his back. So König rises, slipping his hands beneath you to scoop you up into his arms bridal style. You yelp with surprise, flinging your arms around his neck and clinging close to his chest. It is not much trouble for him to pick you up, and he walks over to your bed in a few strides. You fit so well against him, he thinks. Soft and warm, shaking slightly with laughter. He tries to put you down on the mattress, but you hold on tight to him, bringing him down with you.
“Lie with me for a second,” you say, rolling onto your side to face him.
And König relents, even though his legs are half hanging off the bed from this angle. You look so sweet, all nestled in your pillows.
“My knees are all jelly,” you continue, “I don’t know if I’ll be able to walk to dinner. Do you know what we’re having?”
König remembers walking past the mess hall earlier and reading the sign. They are serving… oh no.
“I have terrible news for you,” he says. “We are having pizza.”
The look on your face when he says it. Glotzaugen and flushed cheeks, horror and disbelief and amazement all rolled into one.
“You’re kidding,” you say.
“Nein. I am not kidding.”
“Maybe I’ll just have sleep for dinner then,” you say, flinging your arm dramatically over your eyes.
“There is no need to feel embarrassed,” König assures you. “Your German is getting better. You did a good job.”
“Good enough for you to tell me what Sonnenschein means?”
König chuckles. So curious, that small curl of a smile on your lips like a ray of sunlight breaking through clouds. But if he has learned anything from what the two of you have just done, it’s that great things can come to those who wait.
“I think I will keep it a secret a little longer,” he tells you. “There are other things on the list to try.”
“Okay.”
You wrap your arms around him and nuzzle close to his chest, and König feels that bright, warm feeling rippling through him, the one only you can give him. He wraps his arms around you in return, pulling you closer, determined to make the feeling last as long as he can.