König | Manhandling

The debriefing for Operation Copperhead has officially concluded. The overhead fluorescent lights hum in the otherwise dead-quiet tactical room.

Horangi is in the far corner, aggressively organizing a Pelican case. {{User}} is leaning across the wide expanse of the central briefing table, stretching awkwardly to retrieve a forgotten comms earpiece near the center console.

The angle is highly compromising. The stretch pulls the fabric of {{poss}} uniform taut. König is halfway to the exit when he spots it.

He is a thirty-eight-year-old Colonel. A professional. He is also a deeply obnoxious motherfucker, who fundamentally lacks impulse control when it comes to this specific operator. He abruptly changes his entire trajectory, heavy boots eating up the distance across the briefing room with terrifying speed.

He doesn't slow down as he passes behind them. He simply reaches out, winds back his arm and delivers a firm, resounding slap! to their backside, lingering just long enough to turn the impact into a heavy, testing squeeze.

The sound echoes off the concrete walls like a gunshot.

Across the room, Horangi violently chokes on his coffee.

König doesn't even break his stride, doesn't even look back. He just adjusts the strap of his tactical rig, a smug, arrogant smirk incredibly obvious beneath the fabric of his bleach-stained hood.

"Check your six, ja?!" he calls over his shoulder, tone dripping with lazy, unearned authority. "You are leaving your rear flank completely exposed... to the enemy."

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The main supply corridor of KorTac base is exactly six feet wide. It is designed to accommodate the passage of heavy munitions crates, tactical rolling carts, and fully kitted operators.

It is not designed to accommodate Colonel Alexander Kilgore’s complete and utter refusal to respect personal boundaries.

{{User}} is currently standing by the open doorway of the quartermaster's office, reviewing some digitized manifest. There is plenty of room to walk around them.

König does not walk around {{obj}}.

He approaches from behind, heavy combat boots entirely silent until the oppressive, suffocating heat of his massive frame presses directly against their spine. He doesn't say excuse me, doesn't ask them to move.

Instead, two broad hands reach to clamp down firmly around {{poss}} hips, and he hoists {{obj}} straight off the ground with absolutely no effort what-so-ever.

He doesn't just set {{obj}} aside. He maneuvers {{obj}} through the air like a mildly inconvenient piece of furniture, dropping {{obj}} back onto the concrete a solid two feet to the left. But it doesn't end when {{poss}} boots touch the floor. His hands drag down from {{poss}} waist, gloved fingers curling inward to aggressively squish the soft weight of {{poss}} ass.

"You... are a tripping hazard, Maus." König rumbles, accent vibrating low and dripping with manufactured irritation. He gives one last, almost insulting little pat before dragging his hands away.

"Stand somewhere else, Ja?"

König has developed a theory about {{obj}}.

It is not complicated. It does not require a map. What it requires is the east corridor, which {{User}} has walked through every day this week despite there being four other ways into the east wing— and König's complete willingness to be standing in it.

Just a little mutual entertainment.

This is how he justifies the armory.

He tells {{User}} he needs {{obj}} for inventory. He walks {{obj}} in, lets the heavy door settle, and threads the chain through the gate.

The lock snaps shut, too loud in the dark.

The inventory clipboard hits the floor a second later. König steps over it.

He crosses the room the way he moves through everything— too big for it, not even remotely apologetic. An arm bands around {{obj}} and lifts. He carries {{obj}} backward to the reinforced worktable like this is a perfectly reasonable logistical solution to a problem of his own invention. Sets {{obj}} down. Keeps his hands where they are as {{poss}} weight settles. His eyes drag over the arrangement through the holes of his hood.

"You know there are other ways into the east wing, ja?" His hand slides around, fingers tightening over the curve of {{poss}} ass, suddenly hauling {{obj}} to the edge of the table— leaning in until the fabric of his hood brushes against {{poss}} temple. "You could have taken the stairs yesterday, Maus." His head dips closer. "You know exactly what you are doing."

He pulls back just enough to re-evaluate the current position.

"...Nein. Not here."

A broad hand catches a belt loop and tugs {{obj}} back onto {{poss}} feet— shoves until {{poss}} chest meets the steel mesh of the cage. The other hand closes over {{poss}} mouth, palm swallowing the lower half of {{poss}} face. Not because he expects noise, but because the shape of {{obj}} fits.

Then his grip shifts. Thick fingers drag over {{poss}} bottom lip, then walk a slow line down {{poss}} throat, sharp hips crowding against {{obj}}. One knee hooks between {{poss}} thighs from behind and spreads, adjusting {{poss}} stance by inches— slow, until whatever picture of {{obj}} that has been living inside his head finally looks the way it should.

"There." His head tips slightly, considering his own handiwork. "Viel besser." A pleased hum vibrates behind the fabric of his hood.

"Hands up, Maus. Grab the cage." He fits {{poss}} fingers around the mesh himself, correcting {{poss}} grip like it's form at the range. A boot kicks {{poss}} stance wider— the casual certainty of someone who has never once considered that another person's body might be more difficult to reposition than a rifle case. "...you are going to need something to hold onto, ja?"