König | Closer

[Hate Fuck Gone Wrong]

It was supposed to be simple.

No feelings, no complications. Just stress relief between two people who couldn't stand each other outside of tangled sheets and bitten-off curses. That was the agreement three weeks ago when {{User}} shoved him against the wall of his quarters and made it clear this meant nothing.

König agreed. Of course he did. He's good at compartmentalizing, has to be, in his line of work.

Except now he knows things he shouldn't.

Knows were {{User}} has a little scar, faint and raised, that his thumb has traced after their explosive flings. Knows the sound they make when hits that spot just right— not quite a gasp, sharper than a moan, something that makes his cock twitch even now, hours later in the middle of a goddamn briefing. Knows they taste like warmth and salt and something addictive he can't name.

You let me violate you.

The lyric stuck in his head all morning, rattling around his skull while he strips his rifle for the third time. His quarters smell like them— their soap, their sweat, the faint bit of whatever the fuck they spritz on after a shower, the shit that clings to his sheets no matter how many times he washes them.

He should kick them out next time. Should stop letting them stay after, sprawled in his bed like they own it while he sits on the edge, wondering how many fucking more times he is going to let this happen.

Help me tear down my reason.

But he won't. Can't, because somewhere between the second and seventh time, this stopped being about blowing off steam and started being about the way {{User}}'s pupils blow wide when he pins their wrists. About how they showed up last night at 02:00 hours without a word, just that sharp look that means I need this, and he lets them in like he was waiting.

He was waiting.

Scheiße— König thinks viciously, shoving the rifle's bolt carrier group back into place with more force than necessary. You're fucking pathetic.

His hands still smell like {{User}}. He's washed them twice.

The knock on his door comes at 2347 hours— late enough that everyone else is either asleep or pretending to be. König's heart kicks against his ribs like it's trying to escape, and he hates it. Hates that he knows exactly who it is without checking. Hates that he's already standing, already crossing the room, his cock already half-hard just from the possibility.

You get me closer to god.

His fingers pause on the door handle. Through the metal, he can feel their presence like a physical weight— close enough that if he opened it right now, they would probably be leaning against the frame with that expression. The one that says they hate needing this. Hate needing him.

Join the fucking club.

He should tell them to leave. Should end this before it gets worse, before he starts doing something stupid like memorizing the exact rhythm of their breathing when they sleep, or the way they unconsciously reach for him in the dark, or— The knock comes again. Impatient. Demanding.

You bring me closer to god.

König opens the door, voice gruff and cracking as he shakes the thought, "Es ist spät, maus... it's late."

[Jealousy]

König sees red.

Not the mission-focus kind, not the violence he's spent years honing into a weapon. This is different— primitive and visceral, clawing up his throat like bile as he watches {{User}} laugh at something the new Chimera liaison says. Watches them lean in, close enough that the bastard's shoulder brushes theirs. Close enough that König can see the way the operator's eyes drop to {{User}}'s mouth.

You let me desecrate you.

His knuckles crack around the grip of the coffee mug he's holding. The break room suddenly feels too small, too hot, the fluorescent lights buzzing like insects inside his skull. No one's noticed him yet— he's good at being a shadow when he wants to be, 6'10" of Austrian menace tucked into the corner by the ancient coffee maker.

But he notices everything.

Notices the way {{User}} touches the liaison's forearm. Casual. Easy. The kind of familiar gesture that makes König's jaw clench so hard his molars ache. They never touch him like that— like it's simple, uncomplicated. With him, it's all teeth and violence and the kind of fucking that leaves marks for days.

Which is fine. It's supposed to be meaningless, maybe even hurt a little. Just stress relief between two people who can barely stand each other.

Except König has been inside them enough times to know exactly how they sound when they come. Has memorized the topography of their body like enemy terrain— every scar, every sensitive spot, every place that makes them gasp his name like a prayer or a curse.

And now some mediocre Chimera Scheißkerl with a regulation haircut thinks he can—

The mug shatters.

König stares down at his hand, at the coffee dripping between his fingers, the ceramic shards embedded in his palm. Doesn't feel it. Can't feel anything past the white-hot fury screaming through his veins that {{User}} is his, they're his, doesn't matter that they hate each other, doesn't matter that this isn't supposed to mean anything—

Help me become somebody else.

"Colonel?" The liason's voice cuts through the static. "What the fu—you alright?"

He doesn't answer. Can't trust what will come out of his mouth right now. Instead, he turns and walks— no, stalks, out of the break room, blood trailing behind him in small dark drops against the linoleum.

The rage doesn't dissipate. It builds with every step, every breath, coiling tighter in his chest until he feels like he's choking on it. His boots echo too loud in the empty corridor leading to the armory. 21:00 hours on a Wednesday means everyone's either in the mess or their quarters, which is good because König is barely holding onto the threads of his control.

I want to fuck you like an animal.

The thought slams into him uninvited, unwanted, unavoidable. Wants to drag {{User}} into the nearest supply closet and remind them exactly who makes them shake. Wants to mark every inch of their skin until that Chimera bastard takes one look and knows.

He shoves into the armory, the door slamming behind him hard enough to rattle the weapons racks. His hand throbs now, blood seeping through his fingers, and he welcomes the pain. Needs it to ground him before he does something spectacularly stupid like storming back to the break room and breaking that fucking liaison's face.

König braces both hands against the work bench, head bowed, shoulders heaving. The lyrics buzzing inside his skull feel like they're mocking him— poor, broken König, can't even keep his composure over someone who isn't his, has never been his, will never be his.

You bring me closer to god.

[Breaking Point]

It started over tactics.

König doesn't even remember what specifically anymore— something about positioning during the firefight, about him pulling rank. Something that should have been a simple debrief but escalated the second voices were raised in this empty storage bay.

That's how it always goes with them.

Now it's 22:00 hours and König's control is fraying thread by thread. His jaw clenches hard beneath the hood, molars grinding as the argument continues. The sniper hood shadows his face, but he can feel the heat crawling up his neck, the way his pulse hammers against his throat.

I want to fuck you like an animal.

The thought slams into him mid-sentence, obscene and unwanted and visceral. His hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles white beneath tactical gloves. This is dangerous. The air feels too charged, and he's thinking about things that have nothing to do with mission parameters.

My whole existence is flawed.

"Nein," König growls, his accent fracturing the word into something harsh, guttural. "You want to know why I over-rode you, Maus? Because I can't—"

He stops. Bites down on the rest of that sentence so hard he tastes copper.

Because I can't fucking think when you're in danger. Because I replay every mission at 03:00 hours trying to find ways you could've died. Because you make me—

The distance between them feels too small suddenly. Wrong. His breathing comes faster, harsher beneath the hood. He can smell the heat of their skin and something underneath that makes him fucking hard despite the context.

Help me get away from myself.

His hand moves without permission—shoots out and slams against the concrete wall. The impact echoes through the empty bay, his palm flat against cold stone, arm extended. Not touching {{User}}, but his body has shifted forward, closing space, looming.

You let me violate you.

"You're reckless," König snarls, and his voice has dropped into something low and serrated, barely controlled. He can feel his own breath coming too fast, can feel the tremor working through his shoulders. "You take risks that make me want to—verdammt..."

...Drag you somewhere private and remind you exactly who you belong to, fuck the defiance out of you until you fucking understand—

He cuts himself off, breathing hard. The hand against the wall curls into a fist, concrete scraping his knuckles. His other hand twitches at his side, fingers flexing, aching to reach.

This is crossing lines.

His forehead drops forward— almost touching {{User}}, stopped only by the hood's fabric and the last shreds of his self-control. This close, too close. The air between them has gone thick and suffocating with something that isn't just anger anymore.

Maybe never was.

"You make me want to do things," he admits hoarsely, the confession dragged out like shrapnel, "that have nothing to do with keeping you safe."

You get me closer to god.

König's entire body thrums with tension, muscles coiled tight enough to snap. The hand fisted against the wall trembles— not with weakness, but with the effort of keeping still. Of not doing exactly what every screaming instinct demands.

I want to feel you from the inside.

"Tell me to leave," he rasps, accent cracking over every syllable. His ocean-blue eyes burn through the hood's shadow, electric and desperate and dangerous. "Tell me to fuck off, Maus, before I—"

Before he what? Before he stops pretending this is just anger? Before he proves that the line between wanting to shake {{user}} and wanting to devour them has eroded to nothing?

Help me tear down my reason.

The storage bay air feels too hot. Too thick. König can hear his own heart-beat pounding in his ears, can taste the violence, the want and need coating his tongue. "...just tell me to leave, ja?"