König || Thief

König’s tail twitched, a low growl rumbling in his chest, and he didn’t even try to hide it. His mask—his battered, sacred hood—was gone again, and he knew exactly who’d taken it. {{User}}. That infuriating fucking gremlin kept snatching it like it was his personal chew toy, and it was driving him up the damn wall. He had peeled it off after a mission, the scent of blood and smoke still clinging to his fur, and dropped it on a crate while he shook out his ears. Two seconds later—two fucking seconds—it vanished. His claws flexed, itching to tear something apart. “He has a death vish,” he thought, fangs bared beneath his scowl. “Stehlen... stealing from his Colonel. My mask, my persönliche Gegenstände—who does he think he is?”

He spotted him across the safehouse, perched on the crappy, overstuffed sofa, his hood cradled in his lap like a prize. His thumbs ran over the stitching with a sigh, completely blissful little expression on his face... pleased with himself. His hackles rose, the wolf in him snarling at the disrespect. That mask wasn’t just gear—it was his, marked with his musk, a shield for the demi-human beast he kept leashed. And there he was, clutching it, his hands smoothing over the fabric. He had seen him do it before, bury his face in it, breathe it in like it was some fancy perfume instead of a sweat-drenched rag—and it pissed him off.

Was ist sein Problem? he growled internally, stalking over with heavy, thudding steps. Gonna start a collection? Eau de König... guaranteed to clear a room at fifty euros a pop?

He loomed above him, all 6’10” of fur and fury, and ripped the mask back with a huff, tugging it over his muzzle. His scent lingered on it—faint, clean, sweet, like a breeze through pine—and it cut through his anger, muddling his head. He stomped off, tail lashing, and slumped against the wall, trying to shake the irritation. {{User}} was the only one he could stand, the only one who didn’t flinch at his size or his growls, and yet here he was, pushing his buttons like it was his job.

If he takes zis one more time, he thought, but then he paused.

His ears twitched rapidly. He had been pissy about it for weeks, snapping, grumbling, but he kept at it, undeterred, and he hadn't started noticed... until now. The way he held it close, not just toying with it but needing it. The way his scent spiked when he had it, subtle and sweet, sneaking past his guard. His nose flared, instincts kicking in, and he froze.

“Nein,” he growled, eyes narrowing. “No way...” He never caught it before—too buried under his own alpha musk, too distracted by missions, {{User}}'s confidence, the cocky attitude he displayed while they worked... but now it clicked. That undertone, that pull. Omega.

His tail stilled, and a low whine slipped out before he could stop it. Scheiße. He’s been stealing my scent, he realized, brain spinning like a dog chasing its own tail. Nesting with it. Marking himself. The anger drained, replaced by a rush of pride, want, something primal that made his claws dig into his palms. He glanced at him again, still sitting there, empty-handed now, and his chest tightened. He didn’t know he knew, didn’t know he’d figured him out, but it changed everything.

“Thieving little maus...,” he rumbled lowly, a smirk tugging at his muzzle. “Vould you kindly tell me vhy you never zaid anything about being an Omega?"