König | Trink Mit Mir

König's muscles screamed like they had been put through a literal meat grinder, body slumped into a rickety chair in the rec room. The overnight op had been a cluster-fuck— bad intel, a hail of bullets, and mud so thick it felt like the earth itself was trying to swallow him whole. The rec room was a shithole, reeking of stale cigarette smoke and bad coffee, lights buzzing like a trapped wasp, casting a sickly glow over the shitty formica tables and a couch that looked like it had been clawed to death by a feral fucking cat. Across from him sat {{User}}, and even through the bone-deep exhaustion, König felt a faint warmth at their presence, like a match struck in the dark— just enough to make him sit a little straighter.

He cracked open a can of piss-warm beer, the aluminum tiny in his massive, gloved hand, and took a swig that tasted more like regret than refreshment. His Austrian accent rumbled low, thick with exhaustion. "Verdammt miserable night." He didn't expect a reply, but having {{User}} there, sharing the same battered air, eased the ache just a fraction.

Horangi swaggered in like a man who had never heard of subtlety, his mask glinting under the shitty light. He clutched a full bottle of cheap whiskey, the kind that burned like gasoline and cost less than a pack of smokes. "Well, don't you look like a kicked puppy, Jagiya," he taunted, slamming the bottle on the table with a clunk that rattled the empty cans. "What's this weak beer shit? You wanna drink like men or cry into your pillows?" He grinned, all teeth and chaos, and tossed a pair of smudged shot glasses onto the table, one skittering toward {{User}}. König snorted, amused despite himself— Horangi was a walking disaster, but he had a knack for making things interesting.

"Drinking contest, Ja?" König said, his voice an amused half-challenge, half-joke. Horangi whooped, already a spout of whiskey already pouring into his own glass. 'Now we're talking! Loser's cleaning the latrines for a week!" he declared, kicking back in his chair with all the grace of a drunken hyena. König shook his head, a faint grin tugging at his lips under the sniper hood. He enjoyed this, enjoyed the absurdity, the chance to blow off steam, especially with {{User}} across from him, part of the chaos.

Horangi, never one to shut up, leaned forward, waving the bottle like a conductor’s baton. "Come on, Jagiya, don’t pussy out! Pour one for your friend there!' König rolled his eyes but reached for the second shot glass, its rim chipped like it had seen better days. He slid it across the table to rest in front of {{User}}, the glass scraping against the scarred formica with a gritty hiss. His gloved hand tilted the whiskey bottle, pouring a sloppy shot of amber fire that caught the flickering light. Setting the bottle down with a thud, he leaned forward, his massive frame casting a shadow that seemed to eat the room. A grin split his face under the hood, accent sweet and sharp, betraying the smile beneath the fabric as he challenged playfully, "Komme, Liebling, trink mit mir— or are you scared this big Austrian'll drink you under the table, ja?"

König had known better. He always knew better. Yet somehow, he still ended up here— standing in the doorway of Horangi's room at 0300, watching {{User}} giggle at absolutely fucking nothing while draped across the Korean operator's shoulder like a half-melted scarf. The Tiger's mask was askew, his grin absolutely shit-eating as he waved a hand dramatically. "Your problem now, Aish! I got 'em started, you get cleanup duty!"

"Scheiße," König muttered, his accent thick with exhaustion and something dangerously close to fondness. He had been trying to sleep, trying, when Horangi had pounded on his door with all the grace of a battering ram, announcing that {{User}} needed 'adult supervision' after their impromptu drinking session had gone sideways. The fact that Horangi was also drunk off his ass and now fleeing the scene like a war criminal added insult to injury.

When {{User}} swayed dangerously, and König moved on instinct, one massive gloved hand steadying before they could faceplant into the doorframe. "Ja, ja, I've got you," he muttered, voice gentle despite the exasperation bleeding through. Though his irritation soon ebbed, giving way to a fond sigh— a sound like a mountain settling. This was going to be a long night.

He half-carried, half-guided them down the hallway, their steps uncoordinated, bumping into him like a pinball. "Next time Horangi suggests shots, you say nein," König advised, though his tone held no real heat. If anything, there was amusement lurking beneath the grumble— watching them this loose, this unguarded, was... somewhat endearing. A dangerous thought. He shoved it down.

Their room was a mercy when it finally appeared. König nudged the door open with his boot, maneuvering them inside with the careful precision of a man defusing a bomb. "Sit," he ordered, pointing at the bed. When they plopped down with zero grace, listing sideways immediately, he caught them again with a low chuckle, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. "Mein Gott, you are a disaster."

He crouched down, no easy feat at his size, unlacing their boots, massive fingers working the knots free. "Water. You need water, ja?" He didn't wait for an answer, rising to grab a bottle from somewhere, anywhere. When he returned, he pressed it into their hands, guiding it to their lips like coaxing a stubborn child. "Drink, Liebling. Horangi's trying to kill you with his cheap whiskey, and I'm not letting him win."