König | Spring Fever

[Spring Fever}

The dogwood trees were committing actual fucking war crimes.

König had decided this somewhere around sneeze number six— standing in the courtyard of the KorTac compound with his eyes streaming and his dignity quietly dissolving into the warm spring air. He had plans this morning. Specific ones. Coffee. The new Kar98 parts on his workbench. Maybe a film in the evening. None of those plans had accounted for spring and the fucking pollen.

And then there had been the briefing room incident.

He had been mid-sentence— mid fucking sentence, relaying extraction coordinates to four operatives who had absolutely no business watching their commanding officer sneeze so hard the map marker slid across the table. Twice. The third had come with a sound he refused to classify, followed by a silence from his team so careful, so studied, so pointed that it was somehow worse than if they had laughed. He had finished the briefing. He had not made eye contact with anyone. He had walked out at a pace that suggested he had somewhere important to be and stood in the corridor for a long moment, considering retirement.

He had not retired, but it had been close.

The hood from this morning was already back in his quarters in a small pile of disgrace— pollen-yellow across the shoulders, faintly visible even against the bleach stains. He had a system now. He wasn't proud of it, but he had it— a rotation of clean hoods staged in order of use, because every spring, without fail, whatever god oversaw flowering plants decided Colonel Alexander Kilgore had gotten too comfortable and needed reminding. Every year. Like clockwork. Like penance for something he had done and couldn't identify.

This was hood number three.

It had been forty minutes.

He stood at the low wall with his coffee going cold and watched the tree drop another fistful of fluff in a cheerful, oblivious drift. There was pollen on his shoulders already. He could feel i — or he was imagining it, which at this point was the same thing.

Verdammt.

He reached up. Pulled the hood off. Reached into his cargo pocket for the clean folded one— eyes streaming freely in the open air, one hand pressed to his face, the dusted hood hanging from his fingers—

and then he heard footsteps cross the courtyard behind him.

König went very still.

[Sex Pollen]

The dogwood trees were committing actual fucking war crimes.

König had known spring was going to be rough— the sneezing, the watery eyes, the annual ritual of swapping out pollen-stained hoods like pathetic seasonal penance. He had survived a near-disaster earlier, in the briefing room— that third sneeze had made a noise he would take to his grave, retreated to the courtyard for fresh air, and told himself it was just allergies.

Then the wind changed.

A thick, shimmering cloud of pollen drifted straight into his face like it had a personal vendetta. He coughed, swatted at it, grumbled something in German that would have gotten him written up— and the heat slammed into him.

Not the usual itchy burn. This was deeper. Viscous and sweet, crawling under his skin and lighting every nerve on fire. His stomach clenched, then his chest, then lower— much lower. A heavy, simmering ache bloomed between his legs so fast, his knees nearly buckled.

"Scheiße—" The word came out strangled. Every heartbeat sent another pulse of molten want through him.

He was sweating under the hood. Actually sweating. The material clung to his flushed face, and the cool spring air on his exposed neck only made the sensitivity worse. His thighs trembled. A low, involuntary groan slipped out when he shifted his weight— the friction absolute torture.

Das ist verdammt lächerlich...

He was Colonel König. He had cleared rooms full of hostiles without breaking a sweat. He had dragged men twice his size out of fire. And here he was: a giant hunched against a courtyard wall, one hand discreetly trying to adjust the massive bulge that refused to behave.

"Verdammt... stupid fucking flowers," he hissed through gritted teeth. His free hand ripped the current hood off, pollen dusting his shoulders. Another wave rolled through him— hotter, meaner, the need was building fast, fogging his thoughts with images he had no business entertaining in the middle of base.

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing ragged.

Just ride it out. It will pass.

It wasn't passing. If anything, it was getting worse. His skin felt too tight. His pulse hammered everywhere. And worst of all, his mind kept drifting to how fucking good it would feel to just—

Footsteps, crossing the courtyard behind him.

König went rigid, shoulders snapping straight even as his body screamed for relief. He didn't turn. Couldn't. Not while he was standing here like this— flushed, sweating, one hand still hovering over the obvious tent of fabric in front of him.

Bitte... just keep walking, his head tipped back, eyes fixed on the dogwood tree like it held the answers to the universe. Pretend you don't see the 6'10" disaster currently losing a war to pollen.