Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They're in the tiny living room now, each with a bowl of the finished soup. It's delicious, which Till attributes aloud to the fact that most of the ingredients were stolen. They have a good laugh, then settle into eating and conversation. Paul seems content to do most of the talking and they let him, cutting in at their own risk.

After a while, Till finds his attention drifting, as it seems to more and more these days, to Flake.

He sits cross-legged on the patched sofa beside Paul, listening as the other prattles on about the uselessness of some guitarist. Flake looks quite comical at first glance, bony limbs bent out like a stick insect's from an equally skinny frame. But Till doesn't focus on that for long.

His gaze falls instead to the bowl in Flake's lap. Flake lifts it close to his mouth whenever he eats, but when he isn't the bowl is lowered and balanced atop crossed ankles.

There's no reason why something so mundane should be erotic. It's just a bowl of soup, after all. Then again, it's a bowl of soup that happens to be resting very close to the V of Flake's legs.

Till has no idea where the thought comes from but it's already in his head before he can stop it. He wants to be fed from that bowl. He wants to get up, crawl across the floor and kneel in front of Flake, waiting patiently with hopeful eyes as he offers careful spoonfuls of steaming chicken and broth.

Flake would watch him with that near-constant bemusement at first, surprised, maybe a little embarrassed, but ultimately willing to indulge this request.
Paul might have encouraged him a bit as well. No sense in thinking he'd just sit by idly and watch.

Inevitably, the last drop comes and goes. Till feels pleasantly full. He is, however, far from sated. A new hunger has reared its head, built steadily as he sat in the chair lost in thought. It throbs below his belly and leaves his face hot. His breathing stutters.

Till stares at the now-empty bowl still sitting in Flake's lap. If only it would disappear. It served its purpose but now he just wants to take it away and bury his face in what lies beneath.

Yes.

That's what he wants. No sense in avoiding it now…

"Till!"

Till blinks, startled. Paul and Flake are both staring at him; Flake with concern and Paul with a mix of humor and confusion.

"Are you alright?" Flake asks.

Till nods slowly. Fuck. How long have they been watching?

"Fine," he says.

"Are you sure?" Paul's smirk widens  "'Cause you looked like you were trying to explode Flake's bowl with your mind."

Till shrugs. "Yeah? Maybe I was just zoned out from all your jabbering." He grins as Paul rolls his eyes, then stands and begins to collect their empty dishes.

Flake smiles faintly as he hands his off. Till at least has enough composure to return it before escaping to the safety of the kitchen.

Chapter Text

With practiced ease, Richard finished applying the last of the eyeliner and stood back to look himself over in the airport bathroom mirror. It was late enough that no one had come through and given him strange looks (not that he would have cared anyway), so he took his time, smiling faintly at his work. Carefully spiked hair; dark painted nails; pristine liner; the black choker around his neck beautifully contrasting pale skin. All of it could have been considered a signature for him at this point, but tonight was special and every little detail felt significant.

A week earlier, Richard had sent Till and Schneider a handful of pictures from the photoshoot done in advance of the album. They were mostly black and white, some against urban brickwork and a few in the forlorn emptiness of an old field edge. The reaction had been even better than expected

"You look good in a choker.”  Till said almost immediately after they’d all gotten on the phone together. "Was that Felix's idea?"

Richard smirked as he lounged in the chair beside the apartment’s balcony. "No, it was mine. I'm glad you like it."

"You look like some sort of demon,” said Schneider.

“Yeah,” Till agreed. “Like you'd let us fuck you and then tell us afterwards that our souls belonged to you now."

Richard had fully expected they'd turn to the suggestive. Plenty of their conversations these days did, whether they’d been made for that reason or not.

"I still have it, you know," he purred. "I'll wear it the next time I come back."

Till chuckled darkly. "You do that and we might not even make it to the house."

"I'm sure you have more self-control than that, Till."

"Don't count on it."

Back at the mirror, Richard licked his fingers and tugged at a stray bit of hair, smoothing it back into place. If he’d played his cards right it wouldn’t remain  immaculate much longer, but he was a perfectionist at heart and he had to at least make the effort. 

Finally assured of his work, Richard buttoned his coat, the very same one he’d requested to keep after the shoot, gathered the make-up and hair product into the satchel carry-on, then ventured out to the valet station to find a cab.

This was by far the longest stretch he’d been away. While all of them had gone into this agreeing that it would be easier for Richard to just stay in New York for the production, and Richard knew his creativity thrived best when he could be independent, time did eventually take its toll. Till and Schneider never failed to remind him of their continued affection but Richard needed more than words and reassurances spoken over thousands of miles. He needed contact. He needed to hold and be held. He needed to kiss and touch and caress and love in all the ways he'd come to expect being in this relationship. 

Richard knew Till and Schneider felt the same. Recently, it seemed he couldn't go a week without being treated to a conversation (usually quite filthy in Till's case) detailing all the ways they planned to show him how much they'd missed him when he finally returned. Richard had no doubt they’d be true to their word. He looked forward to it. Even so, he still preferred to be in control when he could, if only arbitrarily. A surprise visit seemed in order, so he'd bought a plane ticket to Berlin and pointedly not told Till or Schneider anything outside of a few innocent questions as to what they'd planned to do that weekend. It had hurt his heart a little to lie when they were so eager for him to return, but as far as Richard knew they didn't suspect anything. He’d even called them that morning from the airport concourse.

"Richard?" Till had answered sounding faintly concerned. "Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, everything's fine."

"What time is it? I didn't think you were capable of waking up this early." 

Richard rolled his eyes at the faint snark as he noted it was just before five in the morning. In truth, he couldn’t actually recall the last time he’d gotten up so early of his own free will. Well, surprises sometimes required sacrifices.

"I couldn't sleep,” he said. “I figured at least one of you would be awake by now."

"Yes, unlike you we don't begin our days at noon."

"I think it should be a crime to make music before twelve."

Till laughed and Richard heard him start walking, then the sound of someone else speaking low and muffled in the background.

"Since when are you awake at five in the morning?" Schneider's voice asked a moment later.  "Who is this really and what have you done with our Richard?"

Richard let his voice turn petulant. "I couldn't sleep. Is it so bad that I thought Till might sing me a lullaby?"

There was a brief pause. Schneider made a sort of thoughtful hum, which Richard imagined was his reaction to something Till had done

"I think he'd do much more than that if you were here."

A warm and pleasant shiver slipped down Richard's spine. Perhaps he should have done this somewhere a little more private.

"I'm sure he would. But I think I'd actually prefer a song right now.”

Till had eventually compromised with a somewhat bawdy improvisation of an old lullaby, sung with all the soft sweetness he could muster. It was actually quite nice, though Richard was constantly glancing over to make sure the gate worker was not about to start announcing flight boarding.

"So…” he said as Till finished and the conversation drifted into a lull. “Are both of you going to be home tonight?" 

There was a low chuckle on the other end of the line, Till most likely. His voice came a moment later.

"As of right now, yes."

"Why?" Schneider asked. "Were you hoping to give us one of your little camera shows again?"

It took every ounce of Richard's control to remember that he was currently in the middle of an airport and not the privacy of his apartment. He managed not to moan out loud, though he did have to discreetly cross his legs.

"Maybe," he murmured. "If you think you need something to tide you over again."

“Mmm, I think we just might…”

“Then you have something to look forward to later. Let’s say around nine your time?”

They’d all agreed, and Richard had ended the call only moments before the announcement came for boarding.

The cab ride took longer than expected. It was ten minutes after nine when the driver finally let Richard out about two blocks from the house. Richard shouldered the carry-on, then started down the sidewalk, pulling out his phone as he went. He hadn’t brought any other luggage simply to avoid having to drag it along. There were still plenty of his things here that he could make do with for a few days.

Till once again answered the phone when he called.

“Hey. Everything alright? We were starting to think you might have forgotten about us.”

“I take that as an insult,” said Richard, even as he laughed. “No, the damn camera isn’t working.”

Till laughed as well. “Of course it isn’t. I guess the universe just doesn’t want us to get off tonight.”

“Apparently not.”

Richard was only a few meters down from the house now. He slowed his steps, trying to work out how he should steer the conversation.

“What would you do if I was there?”

Till paused. He stayed quiet long enough that Richard almost questioned him.

“What do you mean?”

“If I was there,” Richard murmured. He went up the front steps and stopped beside the door. “Not on some camera, if I was there right now what would you do? Tell me.”

Till took a deep breath and let it out. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, laced through with desire.

“I think we’ve both already let you know in detail.” 

“I know. But I want to hear you say it again.”

Till let out a satisfied growl.

“Schneider might go for something more formal, but I’d have no problem just taking you to bed for a week and seeing what happens...” 

Richard smiled knowingly. “Well, I’m not sure I could give you the whole week, but I’ll try.” With that, he pressed the doorbell and waited.

Till didn’t bother to end the call before starting to the door. He didn’t say anything else, neither to Richard nor to Schneider, but soon enough the footsteps on the line became footsteps in the foyer, and the light was on, and the door was being unlocked, and Richard stood there on the threshold looking up at Till’s astonished face with a coy smirk.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” he asked when Till did nothing for several seconds except look him up and down. “I promise I won’t steal your soul.”

That broke the spell. Till’s astonishment slowly faded, exchanged for a dark grin that sent heat shooting down to Richard’s stomach. Till looked him over once again, taking a step closer as his gaze slipped from eyes, to lips, to the choker, to the coat and back.

“You know,” he said, “I don’t even think I’d mind if you did.”

Later, Richard would be glad he’d tucked his phone in a coat pocket before the door opened. He wouldn’t have had time after. Before he knew it, Till had grabbed him and hauled him into the foyer. The satchel slipped off his shoulder, but he hardly cared now, too overwhelmed by being wrapped in Till’s arms. God…had he always smelled this good?

Richard looked up, reaching to take Till’s face in his hands. Oh, how wonderful it was to hold him again; to feel his warmth; to see his beautiful eyes without the distortion of a screen. Richard pulled him in for a kiss, then let their foreheads rest together, savoring a brief moment of peace.

“I missed you so much.” 

Till let out a rumbly little sigh, smiling.

"I missed you too."

Richard kissed his forehead, then his cheek, then his lips. They must have been drinking wine before he arrived; he could still taste it now, heady and sweet. He angled his head to deepen the kiss, wrapping his arms around Till's neck as the other pulled him closer.

The kiss quickly grew heated; this was Till, after all, how could it not? Richard tried his best to keep pace but soon realized it was easier to simply give in and let himself be taken. He clung to Till, if only to keep from collapsing at the knees as arousal and adrenaline overwhelmed him.

By the time Richard even registered the approaching footsteps, Till was fumbling with the buttons of his coat. He hadn’t let up in his kissing, and Richard reached down blindly, equally desperate to have the coat off, along with everything else underneath it.

“Don’t tell me you actually started without me.” 

Just as Till opened the last button, another pair of hands pulled the coat off Richard’s shoulders and down his arms, pinning them behind his back. In the next moment, it was tossed aside and Schneider was there pressing himself close. His voice was low and warm.

"Where did you come from?"

Richard moaned softly. He'd almost forgotten what it was like to have Schneider murmuring in his ear like that, so close. Hearing him through a phone speaker couldn't possibly do justice. 

"Thought I'd surprise you."

Richard had one hand around Till's shoulders but the other reached back frantically until Schneider found it and brought it to his lips.

"I see…" He kissed Richard's neck, just above the choker. "What a delectable surprise."

Richard didn't bother to keep the conversation. He simply closed his eyes and let himself melt into the growing heat and sensation. 

He was effectively trapped; Schneider behind him, arm wrapped around his chest, and Till before him, still hungrily kissing as his hand slipped down Richard's lower back to grope his ass. Not that Richard had any desire to escape. He craved attention and he would have gladly stayed here forever and let himself be indulged in whatever way the others saw fit.

Eventually, Schneider spoke again. 

"As much as I think we'd all be fine just doing this right here, I think we'll be more comfortable elsewhere."

Till growled an agreement somewhere in the vicinity of Richard's throat. "Sofa or bed?"  

Richard balked. He pulled back as much as the holds on him would allow, enough to stare at Till incredulously.

"You think I spent nine hours on a plane for the fucking sofa?"

Till raised an eyebrow. He looked like he was trying not to laugh. Finally, he leaned in and kissed the corner of Richard's mouth. "It was just a suggestion. No need to get vicious."

"The floor is also an option," Schneider said with a dark grin. "Honestly Richard, I think you should be grateful that we're going to fuck you at all."

Richard froze.

"What?

"Oh, don't act so shocked," said Schneider, voice warm and patronizing. "First you lie to us, tell us we need to wait just a little longer for you, then you show up here unannounced wearing that damn choker and think we'll just throw ourselves at you and forget all about it?" Schneider clicked his tongue. "I hardly think that's fair."

"Though you are very worth throwing oneself at," said Till. 

Richard relaxed slightly, aware now that they were only toying with him. 

"I just wanted-" he began, but Till bit down hard on his earlobe and the rest of the thought left him in a moan.

"A surprise," purred Schneider. "Yes, we know. But it's still not very nice to tease us." He mouthed up the side of Richard's neck again. "Especially when we haven't been able to touch you for so long." 

Richard moaned, loud and unashamed, as Schneider reached down to grip him through his pants. He pushed forward instinctively, but Schneider's hold loosened as soon as he did, forcing him to do the work himself as he desperately tried to get more friction. The movement pushed him closer to Till, who stepped forward enough that Richard could feel him warm and hard against his thigh. Till began to slowly grind against him, leaving a trail of soft bites down his jaw.

"I think he'll be more willing to make it up to us if he's comfortable, Schneider.”

Schneider hummed quietly. "Is that true?" He let his fingers trace the outline of Richard's cock, just barely enough to tease him. "Are you going to make it up to us?"

Richard moaned and bucked against Schneider's hand, only to have its touch disappear completely. He was speaking before he even fully knew what he was saying.

"Yes. God, yes, just- fuck…I need you."

"If you need something from us, what do you say?"

Richard groaned through gritted teeth as Schneider gave him another stroke, once again far too soft to truly provide any relief. He really should have expected they might make him beg. He didn’t want to, that hadn't been part of the plan, but he was also going to go insane soon if someone didn't touch him properly.

Slowly, only a little begrudgingly, Richard let himself relax. He could fight them later if he wanted to. His head dropped against Schneider's shoulder with a soft sigh.

"Please," he breathed.  “Please…I need you both so badly."

Schneider made an approving hum.

"Of course."

His hand moved from Richard's chest and sank into his hair instead. He made a show of it, deliberately ruining the carefully crafted spikes as he pulled his head back to kiss him. 

Richard moaned and opened his mouth to it, letting Schneider's tongue tangle with his own. The kiss was nowhere near as hungry as Till's had been, but it was still firm, deliberate as only Schneider's kisses could be.

Richard had no idea how long they went on. He was vaguely aware at one point of Till murmuring something that might have been 'fuck'. A moment after, Schneider was pulling away from him.

"I think we should go to your room, Till," he said. "You have the most space."

Till snorted. "You're just saying that because you haven't cleaned yours."  He grabbed Richard's hand with a grin and began to lead him down the hall, calling over his shoulder. "My room means I get him first."

Chapter Text

Richard is still fast asleep when Till wakes up. 

That's how it usually is. Out of the two of them, Till has always been the early riser. Richard, on the other hand, would probably keep the sleeping hours of a cat at all times if he could. He does sometimes when they're in downtime like this. He can sleep until noon with ease. Even if he doesn't, he'll inevitably find some excuse to pull Till away for a nap in the early afternoon, though whether or not they actually end up sleeping is another matter.

This morning, Till doesn't get out of bed right away. There isn't anything pressing that needs to be done. He's comfortable here, not too warm or too cold, and it's peaceful. Content, Till turns his attention to the still-sleeping man beside him. 

Richard is lying on his stomach. His arms are under his head beneath the pillow, face turned away from Till and from the sun that casts a warm glow over his skin. Till gazes over the smooth plane of his back, bared to the waist. It rises and falls slowly with each quiet breath. Even at rest, Till can see the strength of muscle beneath the sleek and tempting softness. There are birthmarks as well, scattered little speckles dark against pale skin. 

One mark in particular eventually draws Till's eye. It's the closest to him, down on Richard's shoulder blade. It's bigger than some of the others, but still barely more than a little spot of color, plain and unassuming. Till stares at it for a while. Then, without any reason other than that he wants to, he leans in and kisses it. 

By this point in their relationship, it could probably be said that Till has a habit of waking Richard up with kisses. Till would never deny it, nor would he necessarily apologize when they were more playful bite than kiss. ("It's not my fault you're so biteable", he'd tease in the face of Richard's mock pout). Both have their own advantages, depending on Till's overall goal, but like his earlier decision to just watch for a while, he wants to take his time this morning. 

Richard barely responds to the first kiss. Only when Till moves lower, trailing down the line of his back to kiss another mark, and then another lower still, does he finally shiver. Goosebumps rise in Till's wake. A moment later he's rewarded with a sleepy moan as Richard shifts beneath him.

"Good morning," Till whispers. Soft dark hair tickles his chin as he leans over to kiss Richard's head, just beside his temple.

Richard makes a noise like a cat just woken up. A moment after, he mumbles into the pillow.

"What time is it?"

Till glances at the clock. "Still early. But the sun is up."

Richard grumbles softly. He still hasn't bothered to open his eyes. "Then why are you waking me up?"

Till smiles. "Because you were glowing and I wanted to kiss you."

He's not lying; not really. Richard was in fact glowing, and Till would never pass by such an excuse to kiss him. He's being a bit cheeky now, but if he expected to be ignored because of it, Till is pleasantly surprised when Richard lets out a snort and slowly shifts to lie on his back, one arm sprawled above his head. 

"Do you really think you're going to flirt your way out of this?"

The wry look on Richard's face is tempered somewhat by sleep-tousled hair and eyes that haven't quite fully committed to being open. It should really be illegal for someone to be so attractive with so little effort. 

"Maybe not," Till says with a mischievous grin. "But I am going to try."

Richard raises an eyebrow. "You're lucky I haven't already hit you with a pillow."

"Oh, I'm sure you don't really want to do that..."

In the end, Richard lets him steal a kiss without protest. He doesn't protest either when the kiss moves from his lips to his jaw, down his neck and over his collarbones to his chest.

Till moves slowly, reverently. The hours he has spent like this; lost in his work, ever-observant for some new source of pleasure. And Richard responds with such lovely sounds. A soft breath when Till's lips brush lightly over his skin. A quiet whimper when a tongue swirls around one of his nipples. A sharp gasp when the same is caught and tugged between Till's teeth.

" Fuck… "

Richard's voice is a whisper, low and sleep-rough. He slides a hand into Till's hair, silent encouragement that Till heeds a moment longer before moving his kisses  back up to Richard's neck. 

"We can if you want to…"  

He nips lightly at his ear, earning another soft moan, then pulls back to meet his eyes. 

Richard looks up at him with a lazy smile. 

"Or…" he murmurs as he reaches to twist a stray strand of Till's hair around his fingers, "we could just go back to sleep."

Till sighs. He really can't argue with those pretty eyes; even less with that alluring mouth that speaks such logic like a muse. It's his weakness, really, and Richard knows it all too well. Not that Till would ever complain. As it is, he goes willingly when Richard gently tugs the strand of hair and pulls him into such a soft and tender kiss that he could almost believe he's already fast asleep and dreaming. 

Eventually, Till finds himself once again lying on his back. Richard lies next to him, wrapped close in his arms, practically purring with contentment as he nestles his face against Till's chest

"Just another hour or two," he says through a yawn.

Till smiles softly and kisses his forehead. 

"Whatever you'd like. I'll still be here."

"You'd better be."

Less than an hour later, when he's  woken by a warm body pressed against him and soft lips kissing his neck and a faintly calloused hand wandering down beneath the blankets, Till can't help but laugh. 

"Had enough sleep already?" he says as he opens his eyes.

Richard ignores the comment. He nips at Till's jaw as his hand stills, then pulls back to fix him with a petulant stare.

"Are you complaining?"

"Not at all."

"Good. Now be quiet before I change my mind and go back to sleep."

Till does as he's told. He smiles to himself, sighing softly as the hand from earlier finally finds what it's looking for. Now that he thinks about it, there really isn't any reason for them to leave the bed at all today if they don't want to.

Chapter Text

As expected, he hadn't fooled anybody. Paul, volunteer to stay behind with the ship? On Ostara? Who was this impostor and what had he done with the real one? 

While having his plan be common knowledge to the entire crew wasn't necessarily a problem (Paul had done far more embarrassing and far less rewarding things in front of complete strangers), he still felt mildly relieved when the commenting was kept to a minimum; if not for his own sake, then for Oliver's.

The man in question had already disappeared down to the engine room by the time the others set off on their various errands. Jens and Schneider were headed to Aljoscha's to see about mail and transport contracts. Richard's only acknowledgement before leaving with the supply list was a knowing look and a humored scoff. Till, on the other hand, had grinned and clapped Paul on the back as he headed down the loading ramp. 

"Don't let that shyness fool you. I know for a fact he's a spitfire when he wants to be." 

Paul smirked. Spitfire was hardly a word anyone could have ascribed to Oliver, but there was something in the way Till had said it that made him at least consider he might be telling the truth. Paul would just need to find out for himself, wouldn't he? 

"I think I'll be alright." 

"Oh, I'm sure you will." 

At the end of the loading ramp, Flake stood with his arms crossed. He looked remarkably judgemental for someone who was also trying to look like he didn't give a damn. 

"If we come back to an empty hangar, I hope it was worth it." 

Paul raised his eyebrows.

"You know, there's this wonderful new invention called a security lock, Flake, and I'm pretty sure this door has at least two of them." 

Flake rolled his eyes and muttered something Paul couldn't fully hear. The word 'fuck' had been in there somewhere. 

"Oh, I think everything will be fine," said Till. "Ostara's a safe port." He put an arm around Flake and began to steer him towards the hangar exit, winking at Paul over his shoulder.  "Have fun." 

Paul gave them a coquettish wave. He would be soon if things went according to plan. They were already going much better than he thought they would; perhaps his luck would hold out a little longer.

As soon as Till and Flake were out of sight, Paul closed the loading hatch and made sure both locks were active. He set the comms to alert for any attempted entry, friendly or otherwise. Ostara was indeed a safe port, safer than most, probably, but hell if Flake was going to have the last laugh about this. 

When Oliver had announced during the pre-dock meeting that he planned to stay behind with the ship and fix the engine couplings, Paul couldn't believe his luck.  

On the outside, the statement was perfectly mundane. Oliver often volunteered to stay behind when they first landed in a port. His personal dealings in Ostara were few and far-between and usually happened later in the evening. Paul knew too that the engine couplings were in desperate need of a diagnostic, but Oliver had looked at him when he said he'd be staying behind. 

None of the others seemed to have noticed the glance at first, save maybe Till. Paul might have missed it too if he hadn't already been watching. After weeks of trying to discern Oliver's feelings, it was about as good a sign as he could ask for, and he was convinced Oliver had done it on purpose. The man was just so difficult to read sometimes. All the time, really. Even now, months after he and Flake had officially joined the crew, Paul still found himself surprised.

Did Oliver know he was doing it? Probably. He must have. He didn't seem so dense to just go around acting like that for no reason. What was the old phrase, still waters ran deep? Paul had never been one for proverbs or poetry (that was Till's domain and he could keep it) but he was intrigued all the same. Who knew what those mysterious depths might have to offer?

Paul idled in the upper decks for a while. He was all for moving things along, cutting to the chase, getting what he wanted, but just now he didn't feel like rushing. Probably best to let Oliver actually do something productive with the engine.  Knowing him, he'd make a point of finishing with it no matter what other activities Paul might present to him. He was pragmatic like that.

So, Paul waited. Patience might not have been his strongest suit, but contrary to Flake's leading opinion, he could exercise it when he really wanted to; even if that meant he had to sit with his thoughts.

Earlier, after the crew meeting but before they'd landed, when he'd found himself in an uncommon moment of quiet, Paul had been surprised to find himself entertaining doubt.

What if he'd misinterpreted the look entirely?   

This wouldn't have been the first time he'd let his feelings get away from him. The expression might have just been some completely ordinary Olli-ism; no connotations or hidden meaning. It might have even been some sort of elaborate prank.

But no, Paul didn't really believe that. At least, he didn't believe it enough to abandon his current plan. 

It was too perfect to be just coincidence. Oliver had to have picked somewhat on his feelings; if not by himself then with help from the others. Paul had even foregone most of his usual behavior for when he liked someone (or at least wanted to get in their pants) He'd tried it right at the beginning but Oliver had just stared at him with that standard quizzical expression of his and gone away. 

"He'd probably give you an answer if you would just ask him and not be so much of an ass about it," Flake had retorted one night when Paul came to his cabin to complain. "You know that doesn't work on everyone."

Paul had shrugged and muttered "It does most of the time."

"Mmhm. And how many times has it gotten you punched in the face?"

"Olli isn't going to punch me in the face, Flake. He's too polite for that."

Flake made a dubious noise, not looking up from his writing pad. 

"You really think he would?"

"I think you don't know enough about him to say either way."

Well, there was no arguing that. But how much did any of them know about Oliver? He wasn't exactly an open book. Jens probably knew the most, but Paul would have had more luck cracking into a Luxware system than convincing him to say anything.

In the end, Paul had laid off on his usual tactics. He'd only poked at Oliver a little bit. A few comments here, a pointed look there, just enough to tease the suggestion of something more. Offer but not pressure. Up until a day ago, he had almost convinced himself that Oliver simply wasn't interested; then came that fateful glance and now here they were.

After about fifteen minutes of waiting, most of which was spent pacing back and forth  between the galley and his cabin, then inside his cabin flopped down on the bunk, Paul finally decided he'd had enough of patience. He stood, smoothed his ruffled hair, and headed down to the lower service corridor. 

The engine room lights were on when Paul peered inside. It was quiet,such a bizarre change after weeks on a contract run. The low thrum of the engine was constant then,  faded into the background, as calm and comforting as a cat's purr. The Engel felt strangely hollow now without it. Whenever they landed, there were always a few hours after shutdown where it seemed to Paul that something had been pulled out of his very bones.    

"Olli?

The engine's silence had at least one good outcome. In the absence of ambient sound, there was room to make out the faint clinks and scrabblings of someone working in the room beyond. They stopped as soon as Paul spoke.  After a short pause, a quiet voice answered from the front of the engine mooring. 

"Underneath." 

Paul followed the narrow, grated catwalk. At the far end, he found an open tool box, and crouched down to see Oliver lying on his back against a padded mechanic's mat. Above him, one of the bottom plates of the engine casing had been removed. A mass of metal parts and wires seemed ready to spill forth from the opening. 

Oliver was in the middle of reattaching a cable. He had a smudge of grease on his forehead and another on his cheek. When he'd finished, he glanced up at Paul. 

"Yes?" 

"Everything going alright?" 

Oliver looked back at the engine and surveyed it in silence before nodding. 

"So far, yes. Have the others already left?" 

"Yeah, a while ago. It's just you and me." 

Olli hummed quietly. He grabbed the fastener he'd been using, as well as a previously discarded wrench, and tossed both into the toolbox.

"I was wondering how long it would take you to come down here," he said, glancing up at Paul. "You're late." 

It took a moment for the words to click. Once they did, Paul let out a sharp laugh and shook his head. More little shit than spitfire apparently. And to think he'd been worried about Oliver's enthusiasm.

"I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting." Paul knelt and shifted to lie down on the unused edge of the mat. "Flake appointed himself chief security officer and said 'no fun allowed' until I made sure everything was locked up. So, with any luck, we won't find ourselves suddenly flying off to ports unknown." 

"I suppose that's good."

Paul watched Oliver carefully. He hadn't given much sign of surprise or discomfort when he decided to lay next to him. Then again, if Oliver had already been expecting him to come down here, maybe he'd expected this as well. Paul turned his attention up to the engine.

"Anything here giving you trouble?"

Oliver shrugged. "Not really. I just need to adjust the screw plates." He glanced over Paul's shoulder. "Can you find me a star driver?"

Paul followed his gaze and realized he'd effectively blocked Oliver's reach to the toolbox. He rolled over and dug through it, eventually finding the requested driver buried at the bottom.

"You really need to organize this thing," he said as he handed it off.

"It usually is. Richard must have used it last."

Paul snorted. "You'll have to yell at him when he comes back."

"I will."

With that, Oliver returned his attention to his work.

Paul settled back on the mat. He could feel impatience starting to rise but he tamped it back and focused instead on watching Oliver as he began to adjust the screws around the coupling casings. 

It was a surprisingly delicate task. Too tight and there was a chance the screws would fuse. Too loose and the vibration of the engine might cause them to fall out and disrupt the coupling connection. 

Paul had watched Oliver work plenty of times, but he'd never seen him specifically do this. Every movement was precise, practiced and smooth; from the way Oliver held the driver, to the specific number of turns for each screw, to the careful pressure he put on the plates.  

At one point, Paul glanced at Oliver's face and nearly laughed out loud. Otherwise stoic in concentration, he'd stuck his tongue out ever so slightly, the tiniest bit of pink. Paul had never noticed him doing that before. It was rather adorable.

"You're being very quiet."

Oliver still had his eyes on a screw plate. He hadn't spoken in question, but he seemed to be waiting for an answer.

Paul shifted closer, propping his chin up on one hand. 

"Am I?"

"I keep waiting for you to give me a lecture about screw tightening."

Paul smirked to himself. He had been uncharacteristically silent. It was usually a given that he'd offer advice if he found someone working, whether they had asked for it or not.

"I guess I was just distracted."

Paul was close enough now to touch Oliver's arm. He was wearing his under-vest this morning so it was bare, warm from the ambient heat in the room. Paul watched the wiry muscles shift as Oliver lowered the driver and slowly turned to look at him.

"Yeah?"

Paul's eyes glimmered.

"Yeah."

In hindsight, the kiss was rather sudden. Paul had always intended to do it, had hoped he would get the chance eventually, but Oliver's gaze on him was so openly intrigued that he couldn't help himself. He kept it short, pulling back when he sensed  little movement in return. 

Oliver was staring at him with wide eyes.  Paul could have sworn he was blushing, though the light was too dim to tell for sure. There was no clear expression of like or dislike either.

"Too fast?" 

Oliver blinked as though he'd been in a trance. His surprise slowly changed to an amiable smile.

"Oh, no. My hands are just covered in grease." He held one up to demonstrate. "Unless you want that all over your clothes." 

Paul felt warmth pool in his stomach. Well, he couldn't say he would have minded it. He'd surprisingly never fooled around under a ship engine before, but there was a first time for everything. He leaned in to murmur in Oliver's ear.

"I could just take them off..." 

Oliver frowned and glanced down at his hands. 

"...I sort of need them for-" 

"Not your hands." Paul smacked him on the arm, barely managing to keep a stern face. "You're worse than Flake. Stop making things awkward while I'm trying to seduce you." 

Oliver grinned, visibly shaking with held laughter.

"Oh, is that what you're trying to do?" 

"No, it's just completely normal for me to kiss my crewmates on the mouth while they're working." 

Paul looked down at him petulantly, now propped up on an elbow.

"Well?"

Slowly, Oliver's grin mellowed to a shy smile. He broke Paul's gaze, sounding embarrassed.

"Sorry. This hasn't happened in a while. I'm a bit out of practice." He looked back at Paul expectantly, still smiling softly. "You can kiss me again, if you want."

Paul maintained his petulant expression for a moment, scrutinizing Oliver with one eyebrow raised. He couldn't feign annoyance for long, though; not when Oliver was looking up at him seemingly daring him to make a move. Oh, yes, there was fire here, he had no doubt now about that.

The logistics of being under the engine made it impossible for Paul to fully move where he wanted to. He nearly hit his head, then settled for taking Oliver by the cheek and pulling him in. Beyond the brief prickling of facial hair, his lips were surprisingly soft and Paul kissed them eagerly.

This time, Oliver responded. Out of practice or not, after a few moments of shy hesitance, he leaned into Paul's hand and angled his head, trying his best to keep up.A few moments more and he was reaching to wrap an arm around Paul's shoulders.

Paul hummed quietly and let him, moving to deepen the kiss. He thought Oliver might grasp the back of his neck, but even if he wouldn't have minded a bit of grease, Oliver made a point to only rest his wrist there. Considerate even now, Paul thought to himself with a smirk.

Moments soon stretched into minutes. The pleasant warmth that Paul had felt before was everywhere now. He had one hand on Oliver's chest, toying at the collar of his vest where it opened slightly to reveal more warm skin and a dusting of soft dark hair. 

It wasn't as though Paul had never seen it before. All of them had seen each other naked at this point, but there was a difference between sharing a shower area and stroking someone while  pressed up tight against them. The sharp exhale Oliver had let out when Paul first touched him was proof of that.

Of course, Paul wasn't content to just stay where he was. His hand drifted lower, partly with purpose and partly from a muddled desire to simply touch . He wanted to feel Oliver; every inch of him; anything he could reach. Paul moved over his torso, past his stomach, and lower still, only half aware between the heat swamping his senses and the continued vigor of kissing. He reached the top of Oliver's trousers, the thin gap where his vest hiked up and there was nothing to shield from wandering fingers. 

Oliver tensed sharply. He stopped kissing with a gasp, one hand gripping the back of Paul's shirt. 

Paul stopped and pulled away enough to speak.

"Alright?"

Oliver gazed up at him. He was panting, eyes dilated, face flushed. 

"Y-yeah…you just surprised me."

"Did you want to keep going?"

"Do you?"

Paul looked at him incredulously.

"I was just about to shove my hand down your pants, Oliver, yes I want to keep going."

It wasn't meant to be funny in the moment, but of course both of them burst out laughing.

"Here?" Oliver asked when he'd finally caught his breath 

Paul shrugged, smirking. 

"If you want."

Oliver flicked his tongue over his lips as he glanced around.

"There's not much space. The pad is pretty thin."

"Then maybe we should find somewhere more comfortable…" 

In truth, Paul was on the verge of just pulling Oliver out from under the engine and dragging him back to his bunk. Oliver looked like he probably wouldn't have even minded, but he eventually schooled his expression. 

"Let me put the casing back, yeah? Two minutes." 

Paul nodded.

"Deal."  He reached over and laid a hand on Oliver's chest again before he could move away.  "But you should know that I'm counting down. And I won't be held responsible for my actions when I get to zero." 

Oliver's eyes widened. He swallowed and nodded slowly, face nearing crimson. 

Paul wondered with amusement how many people had actually seen Oliver blush like that before. It was a very good look on him, certainly one he would be eager to see again in the future. He ran his thumb over the hollow beneath Oliver's sternum, grinning as the sensitive muscles twitched.

"Your time is ticking, Mr. Riedel..."

Chapter Text

They lay him down together, keep him surrounded; warm and safe, like any good pack would.

Flake sits at the top of the group. Richard rests back against his lap, head cradled by a pillow and Flake's gentle hands. Flake is stroking his hair now, fingers running absently through and through. It's such a comforting motion that Richard thinks he could eventually fall asleep to it. Perhaps another night. For now, he wants to be present as much as he can.

The others have all taken their places in turn. Paul is nestled close on Richard's left side, one hand resting across his stomach. The weight of it is comforting; it's always been one of Paul's favorite places to touch him.

He's started doing that again in recent weeks, touching Richard out of the blue. Sometimes it's just a quick squeeze of some soft bit as he passes by-Richard's hips, maybe, or his ass if Paul is feeling mischievous. Sometimes it's wrapping his arms around Richard from behind and holding him tightly, nuzzling at the back of his neck. Tonight, Paul has been stealing kisses here and there, sweet pecks that have Richard blushing despite himself. He's missed this so very much.

Richard glances to his other side, where Olli's head rests on his shoulder. He's grown his beard out again. It tickles whenever he rubs his cheek against Richard's skin, simultaneously scenting him and leaving his own behind. When they'd first laid down, he'd taken Richard's hand and kissed it before bringing it close to his chest. He still holds it there now, and squeezes reassuringly when Richard tenses at the renewed realization that he is, in fact, exactly where he thinks he is.

It's alright. We've got you.

Richard knows they do. Even with the faint voice that still lingers like a thorn in his mind and insists that he doesn't deserve such warmth and affection after what happened, that he never will, he knows that they'll all take good care of him.

A contented rumble brings Richard back from his thoughts. He looks down to see Till settling between his legs. The blush from Paul's kisses spreads down to Richard's chest. Even if they've already spent a few nights together since his return, seeing Till there, knowing that all the others are watching as well, sends a pleasant shiver rippling through his whole body. Till slides one strong hand up his thigh to his hip, squeezing at muscle and softness, smiling leisurely in appreciation even as his eyes darken with desire. Richard wants to melt.

They'd discussed beforehand, the six of them, how exactly things should go. Considering his past together with Richard, it seemed only fair to the others that Till be the first tonight. Richard couldn't have agreed more. He was nervous about how everything would play out, but Till is the one who knows him best. He knows what he likes, what makes him nervous and what excites him. He's been there for so many crucial moments, good and bad. Richard is relieved to have him here now for such a rekindling.

"Is everyone settled, then?"

Behind Till, on the left, Schneider watches the rest of the group intently. He pulled one of Richard's legs into his lap early on and he still holds it, rubbing at his ankle and calf, sometimes up to his knee; easing the tremors there while effectively keeping him from kicking. 

Schneider is the only one Richard was truly worried about. He still hasn't indicated if he'll join in fully tonight, but Richard is glad to have him here, and even more so that he's choosing to touch him. Schneider is a grounding presence, strong and steady; he's the perfect one to oversee and make sure that no one is ever in undue distress. His hands are good and firm too. Soon enough, Richard feels himself relax, and his leg finally falls still. 

Everything is going to be alright. Of course it is. Richard knows it in his heart. It's why he's still here, why he hasn't heeded the intrusive voices and run away to hide- because he knows he has nothing to fear. He trusts the others implicitly. Even now, vulnerable as he is, he understands that they would never try to hurt him.

Till's first touch has Richard gasping. He jolts. His free leg strikes Till in the side, but the others are there to soothe him. Olli still holds his right hand. The other is around Paul's shoulders and Richard squeezes him tightly, gasps turning to unashamed moaning as Till continues. He's doing something absolutely devilish with his tongue now. 

Time passes. Again and again, Richard feels himself pushed close to the edge, only for Till to pull him back and let him settle. Even then, he's not left alone. Someone always has a hand on him somewhere, squeezing, petting, stroking. It's simultaneously a comfort and overwhelming in the best way. They're all watching, they're all going to see him completely undone; and then perhaps take their turn at undoing him.

Richard has always had a hunger for attention, whether that attention be mental or physical or simply the act of being seen. There are plenty of ways he's found to get what he needs, but this, what he experiences with the pack, when it's all of them together...this is something else entirely.

There's no hiding. Richard is laid out, opened and exposed, at the mercy of eyes and hands and mouths. Every touch, every sensation, every sound is magnified. His body and mind are consumed by elation and lust and pleasure; by need . 

Richard knows that he could escape if he truly wanted to. Renewing a bond, especially one as intimate as this, can be exhausting, physically and mentally. The others understand that. Richard has but to speak and all of this would end immediately. But he doesn't want to. As overwhelming as it is, he doesn't want to.

A brief moment of clarity. Richard vaguely feels his lower half being shifted. His legs are bent, pressed nearer to his chest, strong hands gripping tightly. Before he can wonder what's going on, there's a growl, and Till is lapping at him, hot and wet and eager. 

Richard's cry is swallowed up immediately.  So too are any words he might have pleaded. Paul is kissing him again, and Olli is there, nipping at his throat and chest. Richard doesn't know where to focus. He couldn't possibly, even if he wanted to. He sinks, lost in sensation. 

Nervousness is a distant memory now. The very idea that he could ever have been worried about this seems ridiculous. Richard feels only a desire for more, for everything and anything his pack is willing to give him. 

His pack.

Yes. They are his and he is theirs. He has always been theirs. A shame that it took leaving and rejection and so much pain for him to understand that. He can't imagine, now, being without this bond; without this love and caring. He doesn't want to know such a horrible feeling again, alone with no one to truly trust. He hopes he'll never have to.

"Richard?"

Paul's voice sounds distant, as though they've all been spontaneously transported beneath the ocean. Richard opens his eyes. Paul is there, looking down at him with concern. Richard blinks, and feels something slide down his cheek.

When did he start crying?

"Are you alright?" 

Till is sitting up, Richard's legs resting on either side of him. He also looks faintly concerned. 

Richard turns to him, then to Paul, and then to all of them; Flake gently stroking his hair, Olli holding his hand, their fingers intertwined, and Schneider, quiet but watchful. He smiles faintly and looks back to Till.

"Yes. I'm alright."

Chapter Text

At his request, the cab lets Schneider off a block or so away from the nightclub. He doesn't expect anyone to be following him, but he's only ever seen this neighborhood in daylight. It would be stupid to step into the lion's den without at least a little observation. 

There is no marquee on the building. A simple, golden-lit sign above the dark-paneled double doors announces its name: Amour. Several people loiter outside beneath the awning, some in conversation and others smoking. Schneider notes the cross-streets and the alley leading behind the building. It's nowhere near as lively here as it might be closer to the heart of the entertainment district, but he still has a mild crowd to blend in with.

There is no doorman outside. Schneider passes the smoking patrons and slips through the double doors, out of the cold and into the warmth. He's in the foyer now. At its end is another set of double doors. To the right, a tall, thin man with dark hair tends what appears to be the coat check.

“ Bonsoir Monsieur ,” he says as Schneider approaches. “ Guten Abend. ”

Schneider replies in German as well. The man continues with it for the rest of their conversation. He takes Schneider's hat and coat and gloves, putting all carefully away in the little alcove room behind his counter. He hands Schneider a numbered ticket in return. 

“Are you familiar with our establishment, sir?”

Schneider nods. “I am, yes. Though, this is my first time here personally.”

“We are always happy to welcome new patrons. I hope you will enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you.”

As with the front door, there is no other attendant. Schneider adjusts his cufflinks, runs again through his head the layout and the photographs from the dossier, then passes through into the club itself. 

Cigarette smoke meets him first. A layer of perfume lies beneath it, heavy and cloying but impossible to discern any one scent. The lights are low, the atmosphere just close enough to be warm without intimacy. 

On the whole, the place appears to be about half full. Most of the patrons are watching the stage, where a singer clad in shimmering silver croons in soft contralto, accompanied by a small contingent of musicians. 

Schneider makes his way to the bar. The bartender, a bald and bespectacled man with impressive forearms and an elegantly curled mustache, takes his order with a curt nod.

Schneider glances about the room. It's easy to feign interest in the performance as he scans whatever workers he can see for familiar faces. He's just another patron after all; he would be doing the same even if he wasn't here to infiltrate. 

The first round of observation turns up empty. There are several dark haired young men milling about the room, but none of them fits what he's looking for. As of their last intelligence, Richard was still under contract here. Perhaps he's otherwise occupied. He may have prior engagements or regulars to tend to.

Schneider makes himself comfortable as he waits and assesses the interior of the club itself. Most of the activity seems confined to the ground floor. There is the stage, of course, and the tables before it. The walls are lined with candlelit booths, about half of which are occupied. Several doors lead out of the main room. One, Schneider knows from the building plans, leads to a collection of rooms in the back. He's seen a few patrons leave that way already, escorted by various individuals of the establishment. Another door leads to the larger private room available by reservation only. A horseshoe-shaped mezzanine with staircases leading up both sides looks down on the performance area. There are booths here as well, though these are shrouded by burgundy velvet drapes, with lamps on the outside shining red to indicate occupation. In all, it's a rather beautiful place to have to investigate. Schneider has certainly seen worse.

"Do you have a light?"

Being addressed in perfect German surprises Schneider more than he expects. He turns, and quickly schools his expression when he sees the newcomer. 

Richard is settling into the seat beside him. He already has a cigarette in-hand, and raises his eyebrows as if to repeat his question. Without a word, Schneider  produces a lighter. Richard leans in as he flicks it open, head tilted almost coquettishly. When the cigarette is well-lit, he sits back with a sigh of relief.

"Thank you."

“Lose yours?" Schneider asks as he tucks the lighter away.

Richard smirks. "It's more fun when someone else does it." He winks, then taps ash into the glass dish beside him. "Although, I do like to thank my volunteers properly, Herr… ?"

Forward, Schneider muses. That's good. It saves him the trouble of having to chase the young man's attention himself.

"Schneider."

"My thanks to you, Herr Schneider. You've saved me from certain death by withdrawal."

Schneider can't help but laugh. "You're very welcome. And if we're on the subject of names, might I ask yours?"

The man smiles. "I'm Richard."

"It's nice to meet you, Richard."

"Mm, you as well."

The arrival of the mustachioed bartender draws Richard's attention away. They converse briefly in French and he requests a glass of water with lemon.

Schneider takes the moment of distraction to survey him more closely. He looks rather more put together than the photos in his dossier, with his dark hair trimmed and slicked back, but there's no mistaking the face. He's dressed tonight in his shirtsleeves and a black vest. A small silver hoop earring glimmers in his right ear.

It's funny; despite the fact that this is all a charade, Schneider can't help but be drawn in by his own proclivities. He likes well-built men, their strong limbs and powerful bodies, though more often than not such men are rough and bearded. Nothing at all like Richard.

Richard is...pretty. He looks strong enough, but there's a welcoming softness to him as well, an elegance that Schneider more often finds amongst feminine company. His nose has a delicate upward curve. His eyes are darkened with kohl. When he grins at a whisper from the bartender, Georges, his lips curl in a way that makes heat start to rise in Schneider's face. He wonders what it would be like to kiss them; and then, somewhat suddenly, how they might feel wrapped around his cock.

Eventually, Richard's attention returns. He takes a pull of the cigarette, surveying Schneider's face with a look that can only be described as appraising. 

“You have lovely eyes,” he says. “Did you know that?

Schneider blinks, bemused. “I can't say I've been told before.”

“I'm surprised. They're very striking.”

“Thank you.”

A few moments of silence pass between them. Schneider sips his drink. He's honestly not sure how to follow Richard's complement. Thankfully, he doesn't need to.

“You haven't been here before, have you?” Richard asks. “I think I would remember someone with your eyes. Or maybe you have and I've just been unlucky.”

“I haven't been here, no.”

Richard nods. He takes a pull of the cigarette. Schneider can feel himself being scrutinized in yet another silence, even as his own attention is on the stage. He imagines Richard cocking his head like a cat when he says,

"You're very reserved."

"I did just meet you,” Schneider says wryly. “Then again, I suppose the etiquette might be different here than in Berlin."

Richard's face brightens. "Berlin! Is that where you're from?"

"More or less. It's where I work."

"What do you do?"

"Business."

Richard laughs. "I see. I suppose it's all terribly dull? Infinitely boring?"

Schneider shrugs. The mantle of the lie settles comfortably around him. "For the most part, yes. Not worth your time to hear about."

Richard flicks ash from the cigarette. This time, he reaches for the dish at Schneider's elbow rather than his own. He gets so close that Schneider catches the faint scent of cedar and cloves.

"Oh? And what do you think would be worth my time to hear about?"

"What would you like to hear?"

Richard regards him curiously for a moment. Schneider wonders if he's used to this sort of conversation turn. Perhaps his previous targets had been more interested in puffing their own feathers. Schneider wants Richard to like him. He wants to gain his trust as far as he can. He needs to; it's the only way this plan will work.

At length, Richard comes to some silent conclusion. He takes a leisurely pull on the cigarette and blows smoke out the side of his mouth before gesturing to the room around them.

"Why don't you tell me how you found our little jewel? Were we recommended, or was your coming here a happy accident?"

"An associate of mine visited the last time he was in the city." Schneider replies. "He recommended it to me."

"Oh? What did he say?"

"That the drinks were excellent and the company was even better."

There's a brief but wicked gleam in Richard's eyes. "Really...does he have a name, this associate of yours? Perhaps I've met him?"

Schneider watches Richard's reaction carefully as he provides Becker's name. Richard does seem to recognize it. His amused expression falters just a little, but he quickly covers it with one of contemplation.

"Hm. I guess not. Then again, he might not have given his real name. Not everyone does."

Schneider hums quietly in reply. Well, there's no doubt that Richard knows something about all this. Exactly how much remains to be seen, but he's not an innocent bystander.

Across the room, onstage, the singer's performance finally comes to an end with a soft piano flourish. Schneider and Richard both join the audience in clapping.

"That was lovely," says Schneider.

Richard nods, still watching as the singer bows.  "Selene is an angel. I'm glad you're here on her night. It isn't the same otherwise.”

“Will she be on again?” 

“Oh yes, this is just her warm-up. They'll have some dances, a few instrumentalists. She always has a bigger crowd later in the evening. Do you think you'll stay?”

“Yes. Though I don't expect you'll want to deal with me all that time.”

Richard tsks. “You sell yourself short, Herr Schneider. I came over here because I thought you were very handsome. And Jan told me you spoke German. I haven't been disappointed thus far.”

"I do appreciate the conversation. French doesn't always agree with me.”

Richard inclines his head, smiles. "Of course."

There's a pause. Georges moves past with a brief glance. Richard leans in to stamp out the spent cigarette, once again ignoring his own dish in favor of the one beside Schneider. He stops, close enough for his low murmur to be heard above the room's din.

"Is there anything else you'd like?"

There's a twitch somewhere below Schneider's stomach. He manages to ignore it, keeping his voice even as he considers.

"That depends. What could you do for me?"

Richard shrugs, smirking. He lowers his gaze and rests a hand on Schneider's knee, fingers rubbing slowly across the fabric.

"I could do lots of things for you," he purrs. "Or to you..."

Schneider glances at his knee before returning to Richard's face. Those beautiful eyes look up at him through dark lashes, hopeful and promising. God, he's like a dream . No wonder he's been so successful.

"I wouldn't say no to that."

Schneider allows Richard's hand to stay where it is while he finishes his drink. The deft fingers continue to stroke at him. He can feel their heat through his trousers. It's distracting, but finally he sets the glass aside.

"You'll forgive me if I'm not entirely familiar with formalities here. I'm afraid Herr Becker was vague."

Richard has the good humor to smirk. He looks only slightly patronizing as he stands and offers Schneider a manicured hand.

"Let's go somewhere quieter, shall we?"