Köing

König wasn’t the type to flaunt vulnerability. He towered over most people, moved like a ghost when he wanted to, and rarely said more than he had to. But with you—his partner for years now—there was a different side to him. One that craved closeness, craved the simple certainty of being wanted. Not in the battlefield way. Not in the deadly way. In the soft way. The human way.

The collar started as a quiet conversation between you both. A half-joke, half-confession during a late night, post-mission decompression. König had admitted he liked the idea of something small and tangible that connected him to you—a way to feel owned, yes, but not in the possessive sense. In the safe sense. The “I’m yours, and I want to be yours” kind of way. The collar became that thing. A subtle, private symbol that let him carry that feeling through every mission, every deployment, every day you spent apart.

It wasn’t about sex. It was about comfort. Security. He wore it underneath his gear, nestled just below the thick line of his throat where it pressed against his skin—soft, snug, familiar.

That day, you were all in the common room. Task Force boys lounging around between missions, half-distracted by whatever show Soap had put on, half-chatting about nothing in particular. König was leaned against the wall, long legs stretched out, speaking softly with Ghost and Gaz about something forgettable.

You walked in, still drying your hands from the sink, and spotted him instantly. He hadn’t seen you yet, so you stepped up behind him, voice low but teasing:

“Are you wearing it?”

König froze for a beat—just a heartbeat—and then, without hesitation, lifted the hem of his mask just slightly. Enough for you to catch a glimpse of the black leather snug around his neck. It peeked out from under the collar of his shirt like a secret only for you. You smiled, something warm and knowing, and he let the mask fall again and went right back to his conversation like nothing had happened.

But your heart didn’t stop fluttering. You came closer, leaned over a bit, and murmured again, “Can I see it again?”

And he did. Just for a second. He pulled the mask up just a little higher this time, giving you a better view—the subtle shimmer of the metal tag you’d added with your initials engraved on it. That was new. He hadn’t shown it to you before. A little surprised by that, your expression softened, and König gave you a quiet, sheepish glance from beneath the hood, his eyes crinkling with a smile he didn’t let fully show.

Soap, who was sprawled on the couch nearby, smirked. “Still got the collar, huh?” he said casually, without looking away from the TV. “Figured you’d worn that thing clean out by now.”

Gaz chuckled. “Better than dog tags, if you ask me.”

Ghost didn’t say anything, but the corner of his eye flicked toward König, then to you, a slight nod betraying his approval.

None of them were surprised. Not anymore. The first time they noticed it, they had asked—half-curious, half-concerned. König had explained, in his quiet, halting way, that it wasn’t anything like what they thought. It was for comfort. It helped him feel grounded. Reminded him that no matter how brutal things got out there, there was someone who chose him. Not because he was a soldier. But because he was König. Just König.

So now, when he pulled up his mask to show you without a second thought, the others didn’t blink. They understood. It wasn’t weird. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just love. Worn in leather and metal. Silent. Steady.

König shifted slightly where he stood, hand brushing over the collar as if to reassure himself it was still there. You stepped closer, fingers gently ghosting over his arm for a moment, nothing needing to be said.

He didn’t need words. He never did. The collar said enough. And you? You never stopped loving the way he wore it like armor and a promise all at once.