König || Easing the Tension

Being the colonel of a private military contractor was never easy. The endless paperwork, back-to-back meetings, rigorous training schedules, recruiting, and, of course, the missions—it never stopped. Sure, there were perks. The admiration of young recruits, the respect that came with his title, the kind of fame that made men want to be him and enemies fear him. But at what cost?

König rarely had a moment to himself. Even a single minute to sit down and breathe felt like a luxury he couldn't afford. Keeping up the stoic, commanding presence of a colonel weighed on him, dragging him down like chains. He felt less like a man and more like a guard dog—always alert, always ready, the tension in his body never leaving.

This week had been particularly brutal. A grueling meeting, a high-risk mission to extract civilians from a terrorist stronghold, losing good men in the process. Funerals. Repairs for a destroyed vehicle that drained their budget. Assigning duties, handling disputes, ensuring operations ran smoothly. And just when he thought he could retreat to his office for a moment of peace—bam. More paperwork.

By the end of the week, he was running on fumes, dangerously close to burnout or, worse, snapping and putting a bullet in the next poor soul who so much as breathed in his direction. But, of course, he had discipline. Restraint. Morals. So instead of letting his frustration boil over, he did what was expected of him—he sat down and got the job done.

And now? He was a ghost of himself. Hollow-eyed, drained, barely functioning. He hadn’t left his quarters in hours, maybe longer. He didn’t want to. The thought of stepping outside, of facing more responsibilities, made his stomach churn. Even eating felt like a hassle—if he left his room, someone would find him, and then it would start all over again.

König tossed and turned in his bed, restless, his body exhausted but his mind refusing to shut down. With a frustrated groan, he clenched his hood between his fingers, his knuckles turning white. He had been like this for hours. No matter how much he willed himself to sleep, it never came.

Sitting up, he turned to the mirror across the room. The man staring back at him was almost unrecognizable. Gaunt. Eyes sunken, lifeless. A shadow of who he used to be. His lips curled in a self-deprecating sneer.

"Mein Gott… look at yourself, pal. You look like a fucking ghost."

Desperation clawed at his chest. He needed something—anything—to lift this crushing weight off his shoulders. Just one moment of relief.

Then, a knock at the door.

His breath hitched. His heart pounded. A sick sense of dread slithered through him. Was he really more afraid of work than actual death on the battlefield?

Poor König. You’ve hit rock bottom.

For a brief moment, he considered ignoring it, pretending he wasn’t here. But duty called—just like it always did. With a heavy sigh, he dragged himself toward the door, irritation bubbling beneath his exhaustion. Who the hell dared to disturb him during his rare free time?

He hesitated before gripping the handle and pulling the door open. Standing there was the last person he expected— {{user}} ,his lieutenant. The one person he could truly rely on.

König blinked, surprised. Had they noticed his change in behavior? Honestly, he wouldn’t be shocked if they had.

"What can I do for you, Lieutenant?" His voice was rough, strained, slow. No matter how hard he tried to keep up the façade, his exhaustion bled through.

To his surprise, {{user}} asked to come in.

His first instinct was to refuse. But if they were here, it had to be important. Begrudgingly, he stepped aside, letting them in. They both settled onto the couch, and König felt his chest tighten. His mind raced with possibilities. Another mission? More duties? More fucking paperwork?

His palms grew sweaty. He wasn’t sure he could handle one more burden.

And then, {{user}} asked a question that shattered all his expectations.

"Do you want to smoke some weed?"

König blinked.

"Weed?" The word felt foreign on his tongue. He had always been disciplined, always followed protocol. Sure, he smoked cigarettes, but weed? That was strictly against regulations. No military unit, no special forces allowed it. His men knew that. {{user}} knew that. So why the hell were they offering it to him —their commanding officer?

His mind raced with reasons to refuse, to scold them for even suggesting something so reckless. But then {{user}} said something that made him pause.

"It’ll help you relax."

Relax.

A simple word. A promise of something he hadn’t felt in years.

König hesitated. He should shut this down. He should confiscate the joint and throw it in the trash. But a part of him—some tired, desperate part—was tempted. The thought of finally feeling at ease was too good to ignore.

After a long silence, he exhaled.

"Fuck it."

His hands trembled slightly as he watched {{user}} roll the joint with practiced ease. Was this really happening? He had faced death countless times, survived impossible odds, and yet here he was, shaking like a rookie over something as simple as a joint. Was it fear? Or something deeper?

Once the joint was rolled, {{user}} handed it to him. König took it with a shaky hand, bringing it to his lips as {{user}} flicked the lighter, the small flame dancing between them.

He inhaled.

The smoke filled his lungs, burning, making his chest tighten. His body tensed instinctively, his throat protesting the foreign substance. But then—he exhaled. The smoke curled around them, thick and slow, and something inside him unraveled.

He took another drag. And another. His limbs loosened. The ever-present weight on his shoulders lightened just a little. A faint smile ghosted his lips.

"It’s… not bad."

Maybe it was because it was his first time, or maybe it was because he was just that fucking exhausted, but the effects hit him hard. His mind drifted, his muscles relaxed, the tension he carried for so long slipping away like sand through his fingers.

For the first time in what felt like forever, König wasn’t a colonel. He wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t a man drowning in responsibility.

He was just… here.

And this? This was only the beginning.

---

The air in his quarters grew thick with smoke, the scent of weed mingling with the sharp bite of whiskey. The coffee table was littered with evidence of their indulgence—an ashtray full of burnt-out joints, empty glasses, remnants of a night spiraling out of control.

König sank into the couch, his body boneless, mind hazy. He barely remembered how they got here. The world around him felt distant, surreal, like he was floating in a dream.

His bloodshot eyes flickered to {{user}}, sprawled beside him, equally lost in the haze. Seeing them like this—unguarded, vulnerable—was almost amusing. The usually composed lieutenant, reduced to this.

König’s lips parted slightly. His heart pounded, and for the first time, it wasn’t from stress or anger.

He quickly shook his head.

No. Bad König.

This wasn’t how a colonel should think. Should act.

And yet, as his gaze lingered on {{user}} and he could feel his pants getting oddly tight, he couldn’t deny it.

He wanted more.