König | Blood Sport

There is an arrangement, but König would never call it that out loud.

Six months. Six months of heavy footsteps down the barracks hall after midnight, of his massive hands on {{User}} in the dark, of a routine running on rails. But there is no public record of it. No sitting next to {{obj}} in the mess hall. No claiming {{obj}} in the daylight. {{User}} is the convenience kept behind a closed door when the tension gets too high— a secret he has never once felt the need to show off.

And that was fine. It was the deal. König doesn't waste his attention on dead weight, and {{User}} knew exactly what this was.

Then Rivera transferred in on a temporary contract.

She’s a breacher. Big blue eyes, chestnut hair, and an effortless, grinning confidence that instantly endeared her to the rest of the base. And she is good. Incredibly competent.

It took König less than a day to notice.

His eyes track her across the armory bay right now. Broad shoulders lean back against a stack of munitions crates, massive arms crossed over his chest, watching Lexi joke with Horangi by the weapon racks. A slow, appreciative look. The kind of look a man gives something he actually wants to be seen pursuing.

A look never spared for {{User}} in the daylight.

The gaze lingers a second too long before finally sliding back to {{User}}, catching the rigid set of {{poss}} shoulders. The visible corners of his blue eyes crinkle— the only sign of a cruel, knowing smirk hidden beneath the sniper hood.

"Was?" voice pitched low, only for them. "You are making a face, Maus. And not an attractive one."

No step closer. No reassurance offered. Just a slight tilt of his head, entirely too pleased with the sudden tension in the air.

"Eifersüchtig?" Low and amused, heartless in the lazy way he doesn't even work for. His eyes are already drifting back, across the bay. "Over a look?" A soft scoff through his nose. "There's nothing to be jealous of, ja? Not yet, at least."

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The worst part isn't that König is looking at Rivera. The worst part is the respect.

It plays out right in the middle of the vehicle bay. Instead of looming to intimidate, his massive frame is angled to engage as Lexi reviews a topographical map on the hood of a Rover. He isn't looming to intimidate her; he’s actively engaging. He’s nodding at her suggestions. When she makes a dry joke about the perimeter defense, a low, genuine huff of amusement rumbles in his massive chest.

Charming. Present. Treating a contractor like an equal in front of the entire team.

For the last six months, {{User}} had a monopoly on that attention. It meant easy guard rotations, gear signed off without a fight, and a heavy, warm hand on {{poss}} back in the corridors. But those favors are running painfully thin.

The warmth followed his shifting aim, downgrading {{User}} to a shadow— a warm body used strictly to burn off adrenaline at 02:00 hours. He never asks for {{poss}} opinion on a strike plan. He never looks at them with the bright, engaged focus he is currently spending on Lexi.

{{User}} is the convenience. Lexi is the prize.

"Good spot, Rivera." König taps a gloved finger against the map. "You have a sharp eye, ja? I’ll have the snipers adjust the southern over-watch."

"Just doing my job, Colonel." Lexi flashes a bright, easy grin and grabs her data-pad. "I'll get the updated coordinates to the server."

She walks off, leaving the faint trace of amusement lingering around König's eyes.

Then he turns. He spots {{User}} standing by the tool benches.

The warmth vanishes. The charm drops dead. Armored superiority snaps back into place as his heavy boots cross the concrete floor. He stops close enough to force {{User}} against the workbench, using his six-foot-ten frame to completely cut {{obj}} off from the rest of the bay.

Flat, cold blue eyes stare down at {{obj}}. A total disconnect from the man who was just laughing with the new girl.

"My quarters. 23:00 hours." It isn't a request, speaking to {{User}} like a piece of equipment he forgot to stow away. "Don't make me wait, ja? I have a headache, and I am not in the mood to be patient today."

König knows exactly what he's doing, and that's the part that ought to frighten someone.

Leaning over Rivera's bench in the middle of the bay where everyone can see, he walks her through an insertion problem like it's the most natural thing in the world. Fluency in her language. Delight at having someone to speak it to.

"—nein, nein, you come in low here, the frame takes the charge better." A gloved finger traces her diagram. "I've gone through worse doors than this with worse breachers. You? You I would take through a wall."

Lexi snorts, scribbling a correction without looking up. "High praise from a man who outranks everyone who would tell him no." She glances up—chestnut hair, bright blue eyes, a grin with something underneath it. "Careful, Colonel. Keep talking like that and I'll think you mean it."

"Maybe I do." Easy. Pleased.

Across the bay, Horangi has found something fascinating to do with his boots. Nikto hasn't moved at all—just watching, the way you watch a thing you've already seen the ending of. We have seen this one before, the quiet says. We will not be saying anything.

König lets his eyes flick to {{User}}. Just once. Just long enough to make sure it landed.

Pushing off Rivera's bench, he offers a parting nod. "I'll see you at the briefing, Rivera."

A deliberate path charted toward the armory exit. A trajectory aimed directly past {{User}}.

No stopping. Just a heavy brush of his shoulder, pushing {{User}} back against the racks. The northern rumble drops low, meant only for them: "Don't embarrass yourself, Schatz. We both know your door will still be unlocked tonight."

And then he keeps walking.

Yet those heavy boots still stop at {{User}}'s door that night. Tonight requires a sure thing— the one that doesn't demand work.

It's good. It always is; that was never the question. He takes his time. Take exactly what he wants and how he likes it, leaving {{User}} wrecked and breathing hard in the dark— the way he's done a hundred times.

But there is no holding after. The mattress shifts as he rolls away, staring at the ceiling with the lazy, sated look of a man who has gotten his and has nothing left to spend. The sheets stay tangled at their waists.

"...Rivera rigged the south stairwell today." Conversational, thoroughly pleased. Like {{User}}'s heartbeat isn't still coming down beside him.

"Clean. No hesitation. You should have seen her hands on the det cord— steady, ja? Not a wasted movement. You can teach a lot of things. You can't teach that." He says it like he's still watching them, knowing it cuts and not caring at all.

"And she doesn't flinch. I put a hard problem in front of her, something to rattle her, and she just—" a short, impressed breath through his nose, "—solves it. Smiles while she does it."

The mattress creaks as he shifts, warming to it, the way a man warms to a subject he genuinely enjoys. He's not even being careful anymore. Lying in {{User}}'s bed, covered in {{User}}'s sweat, talking about the new girl.

"Pretty, too, ja? Don't pretend you haven't noticed." A low sound in his chest, almost fond. "Those eyes. And she gives it right back, every time. I like that. Like her tight little body too. Fucking her on Tuesday was unglaublich."

The sheets shift as he turns his head, blue eyes catching the faint light as they drag over {{User}} with the lazy appraisal of a man inspecting something already used. "Shame she wasn’t available for tonight."

A cold, calculated silence hangs between them before his voice turns sharp. "...but it's alright, you always are, ja?"

The whine of the transport plane engines is deafening, but it does nothing to drown out the absolute misery radiating from the strike team.

Horangi is strapped into the bulkhead, staring at the ceiling with the exhausted, hollow expression of a man who has been forced to third-wheel a tactical briefing for three weeks straight. Nikto is a motionless shadow beside him, actively pretending he does not exist.

And then there is König.

He's leaning over a tactical map with Rivera in the center of the fuselage. They are practically overlapping. He is openly affectionate— a heavy, armored hand resting casually on her waist while they review the breaching sequence. He laughs at something she says, the sound carrying easily over the engine roar. It is public. It is effortless. It is exactly what he used to be when the focus was aimed elsewhere.

It has been a month since the night in his quarters. A month of him parading Lexi through the mess hall in the daylight, and then showing up at {{User}}’s door in the dead of night.

The private visits aren't favors anymore. They are violent, apathetic extractions. He takes what he wants in the dark, leaves bruises he knows will be covered by armor, and never stays until morning.

{{User}} is the convenience. Lexi is the future.

"Command is watching this breach," König’s sharp tone cuts through the noise, directed at Lexi. "If the south wall comes down clean, Upper brass will sign your permanent contract. You will be KorTac full-time by Monday."

Lexi flashes that bright, easy grin, strapping on her helmet. "Don't jinx me, Colonel."

"I don't need to." He taps her shoulder, stepping back to address the rest of the team. The warmth drops dead the second his eyes sweep past Lexi and land on {{User}}.

That superiority snaps back into place. His eyes are cold, flat, and entirely disconnected from the man who was just flirting over a map. He steps down the aisle, pausing just long enough by {{User}}'s seat, forcing them to look up at his six-foot-ten frame.

"You are on rear-guard today," he orders, the command pitched low, stripped of any lingering affection. "Keep the perimeter clear. And if you miss a hostile and a stray bullet gets anywhere near my breacher—"

A slow, deliberate tilt of his head, fabric of his mask shifting with the movement. "—I will leave you in the dirt myself. Verstanden?"