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“Come in, Lieutenant.” The voice comes from inside the room.
Stauffenberg’s bedroom is nothing special; it almost doesn’t seem fitting for a man as unusual as him. A large bed with white sheets, wooden furniture, books on the nightstand. Werner is standing on the doorstep, unsure how to proceed. The room is dimly lit, and Stauffenberg is partially undressed, in just his uniform shirt, top button already unbuttoned, and his pants. He’s also wearing the eyepatch, preferring it to the glass eye as usual.
“Sir?” Werner hesitates. He feels like he’s intruding on something private.
“Come in and close the door,” the man orders.
“Sir,” Werner affirms and starts moving because following orders is the one thing he knows how to do. He knows he’s doing the right thing, even if the implication of the orders he’s following sometimes threatens to overwhelm him.
Meeting the man has been punch after punch from the beginning—he’d entered the office only knowing the man from legend, had known to expect the injuries, but nobody had told him that Stauffenberg was the most beautiful man in the country. Then, while he was still reeling from sudden attraction, he was immediately thrown into the decision of a lifetime—report treason or take part in it—and he still isn’t quite sure if he’s made the right decision.
He still doesn’t know if it’s his training or his nature or the sheer beauty of the man that makes him fall in line every time, obey every word like gospel, but he closes the door behind him and stumbles forward.
“Colonel, at your disposal.”
Stauffenberg smiles at him, something he hasn’t seen him do often, and it makes him uneasy. He won’t be able to hide his attraction for long if Stauffenberg keeps looking at him like this.
“You can call me Claus.”
“Yes, Sir.” Stauffenberg’s smile spreads wider. Werner flushes hot with the realization of his mistake, but he can’t make himself say Stauffenberg’s first name to correct himself either.
“You said you’d do anything for me, right?” Stauffenberg asks, letting the mistake slide, accepting the ‘sir’.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Help me with these buttons,” Stauffenberg says.
Werner nods and steps closer, he understands this. He’s watched Stauffenberg do his daily business with only three fingers, and thought to himself that it must be uncomfortable at several times. But he couldn’t exactly offer his help, that would certainly be rude. Being asked for help is infinitely better, and he deftly and quickly unbuttons Stauffenberg’s shirt down the front.
He didn’t expect to be taken out by the sight of dark curly hair leading down into uniform pants. Amusement is written into Stauffenberg’s eyes when he finally looks up again.
“Sorry, I—”
“Continue.”
“Sir?”
“I’m tired. Help me undress.”
“Yes, Sir.” Werner swallows hard and slides the shirt over Stauffenberg’s shoulders. There are scars down his sides, but nothing is as eye-catching as the sight of his right arm coming into view, with a stump where his wrist should be.
Werner takes the shirt and folds it up on the bedside table.
“My boots next,” Stauffenberg says and Werner obeys. He has to kneel on the floor to get at the black leather boots, the zipper indeed tricky even with a fully capable hand. Stauffenberg lifts his feet one by one to step out of them and allows him to set them aside.
He looks up and what he sees takes his breath away. Stauffenberg is looking down at him, the eyepatch giving him a stern look as usual, but he imagines there is something softer in his expression. His hand comes down to touch Werner’s cheek with two fingers. When he feels a touch on his left cheek, he startles and opens his eyes (when did he close them?) to find it’s Stauffenberg’s stump, cradling his face between his hands.
“Sir, what—”
Stauffenberg silences him by pushing two fingers to his lips. “You want this,” he says, without a sliver of doubt.
“I want you, Sir,” he whispers, and kisses the hand caressing him.
“Then take off my pants and you can have me.”
“Sir.” Werner’s heart is pounding in his chest as he unbuttons Stauffenberg’s fly and slides his pants down over his hips, taking the underwear right with him. He doesn’t have any patience left, needs to see this man naked right this second.
The happy trail he noticed earlier leads down into a thick bush of dark hair, in which a half-hard decently sized cock is nestled. It’s painfully pretty, just like the rest of the man, the pink head wet and half covered by velvety soft foreskin. His hands grip thickly muscled thighs. His mouth waters.
He leans forwards and takes it into his mouth, drags his tongue over the head to coax him into full hardness. A strangled sound above him and Stauffenberg tumbles backwards onto the bed, which is only a step away. It’s a little awkward, probably the first time he’s seen Stauffenberg stumble, and Werner is amused and not just a little smug that he managed to surprise him.
Climbing on the bed after him, he ends up kneeling between strong legs, looking up at the man’s shiny wet cock, softly muscled torso, and handsome face. Stauffenberg’s gaze is heated and he wishes, not for the first time, that he’d get rid of the eyepatch—even though he knows there’s no eye under it, it’s the last bit of cloth on him, and it seems to be hiding something.
He can’t make himself say anything, though, and leans down instead to suck the cock presented to him. He’s good at this, takes him all the way to the root, burying his nose in the dark bush before pulling back off and licking the head on the upstroke. His face is heating, aware that Stauffenberg must notice he’s experienced.
A hand comes to rest in his hair and he automatically relaxes and focuses on the task. It doesn’t take long until Stauffenberg tenses up and groans, and bitter come spills into Werner’s mouth. He swallows, and pulls back.
He must look a mess. But Stauffenberg does, too, splayed out on the bed, flushed down to his chest. He did that to him, he realizes, and Werner is overcome with desire once again. He moves up, unbuttons his own pants and grips his own weeping dick when he covers the man. He intends to jerk off over him, satiating his hunger by looking at him, but Stauffenberg surprises him once more.
A hand joins his own on his cock and he is gripped by three strong calloused fingers. Stauffenberg doesn’t even have to move them much because his hips are fucking into them of their own accord, his cock sliding through the grip and over the stumps of his fourth and fifth fingers—he hopes he’s not hurting Stauffenberg, but the man is looking at him open-mouthed and open-eyed, unflinching.
And that’s it, he finally breaks and pushes the eye patch up to reveal the lightly scarred, but not unsightly empty eye to his view. Stauffenberg’s open mouth is too inviting not to kiss. It’s uncoordinated, but he doesn’t care, and he comes like that, panting out his orgasm and striping Stauffenberg’s front and some of his own uniform white.
“Do you like my injury?” Stauffenberg asks a moment later, more calmly than Werner feels.
He fidgets, sits down on the bed away from Stauffenberg and shoves his cock back inside his pants, suddenly self-conscious. “The truth, Sir?”
“Always the truth.” His gaze is piercing, even as he should look weak and broken, naked and mutilated, Werner sees only a proud and complete man, made only more beautiful by his physical imperfections.
“I like it, Sir,” he admits. “I like all of you,” he adds and feels himself turning scarlet as he looks away.
“You will stay in my house from now on. For safety, for assistance, and for... company.”
“Of course, Sir.”
He lifts his bad arm. Werner takes it and leans down to press a tentative kiss on the stump.
“Good,” Stauffenberg says.