#awkward fink

He shifted his weight, hat tucked respectfully under his arm. The classroom lights were bright. Too bright. The tiny chairs were a menace. And the hand-painted banner over the door read:

MILITARY MENTOR DAY – RENT-A-GRANDPA EDITION!

He still wasn’t sure who on base had signed him up. (He suspected Gaz. Actually, he was certain it was Gaz.)

A small girl with curly red hair marched up to him, hands planted on her hips with all the authority of a junior drill sergeant.

“Are you my grandpa?”

Price blinked. “…For the hour, luv.”

She nodded, satisfied, and took his hand like she was towing a mountain.

“Good. We’re drawing animals. You look like you’d know how to draw a bear.”

Price had never drawn anything that wasn’t a tactical diagram or a crude map. But for her? He crouched next to the table and did his best approximation of a bear. It looked more like a potato with opinions, but she gasped like he’d painted the Mona Lisa.

“That’s the best bear EVER!”

The praise warmed something in his chest that had been dusty for years.

A boy with big round glasses tugged on Price’s sleeve next.

“Grandpa Price, do you drink tea before bedtime?”

Price let out a surprised laugh. “Every night.”

“Mommy says only old people do that.”

“Well, your mum’s very wise.”

Another girl plopped down beside him, shoving a picture book into his lap. “Read this one! You have a story voice.”

Price hadn’t read to anyone since… well. A long time.

He cleared his throat and began reading, voice soft and steady. The children slowly leaned in, pooling around him like ducklings. One rested her head against his arm. Another crawled closer until she was practically sitting on his boot.

He didn’t mind. Actually — he felt something settle inside him. Something gentle.

One teacher, watching from across the room, mouthed at him: “You’re a natural.”

Price shook his head. He wasn’t. But he wanted to be.

When the hour was up, the kids swarmed him for hugs. Price gave them each a careful, warm squeeze — nothing too tight, like they were made of fragile glass he’d been entrusted with. The hour had been over far too quickly.

As he finally stepped out of the classroom, wiping a smear of green crayon off his sleeve, he found Gaz leaning against the wall, smirking.

“How was it, Grandad?”

Price looked down at the hand-drawn picture still clutched in his fingers. It was a stick figure with a big hat, labeled “GRANPA PRIS.” surrounded by more potatos with opinions, some clouds, something that should probably be a cookie but looked more like a pizza and eight tiny stickfigures with various colorful haircolors.

He cleared his throat.

“…Good,” he said quietly. Then, after a beat, “Really good.”

Gaz’s smirk softened. “You’d make a brilliant dad, y’know.”

Price tucked the picture into his vest, voice rough. “Maybe. But today — today I got to be a grandpa.”

Golden hadn’t meant to listen.

They’d only gone down the hall for tea, naturally, ears flicking at Soap’s voice carrying sharp like a knife and just as cutting through the half-closed kitchen door.

“Command offered Price a Rottweiler hybrid. Said Golden wasn’t… steady enough.”

The Retriever froze, cup clutched tight, tail curling low. The words stabbed sharp. Not steady. Not enough.

They inched closer, pressing to the wall, ears perked high. Unnaturaly still and silent, the everthumping tail gone and replaced by a soft and furry stick.

Gaz’s voice cut through, steady. “Steady? Golden’s the one who keeps us moving. They’re why half our ops finish clean and without as much injuries hidden from the medics.”

Soap barked out a sharp laugh. “Bloody right. Loyal as hell. Command’s daft if they think some guard-dog can do what our Retriever does.”

Nikolai chuckled darkly. “I’d enjoy meeting the officer who thought such a thing. Rottweilers bite strangers. Retriever? Retriever pulls you all back home. Big difference.”

Golden’s chest fluttered, but doubt still burned. They shifted their weight, tail twitching nervously.

Then Ghost’s voice came, quiet but heavy.

“They’re irreplaceable.”

Golden’s breath hitched. Ghost never spoke unless it mattered. His words carried like stone, unshakable. “Golden’s saved every one of us. Loyalty like that doesn’t get swapped out.”

Golden blinked fast, throat tight, cup trembling in their hands.

That was when Price’s boots echoed down the hall. His Bear scent hit before his words did — heavy, grounding, unmistakable.

“No one’s replacing my Retriever,” he said, stepping into the doorway, voice like gravel and iron. “Not now. Not ever.”

Golden’s tail gave one weak, hopeful wag before they could stop it.

Inside, Soap grinned sharp, Gaz smirked wry, Nikolai leaned back smug. And Ghost, silent and looming, inclined his head in the faintest nod. All in agreement.

Golden swallowed hard. Their chest ached, but the ache was warm now, shaky with relief. They set the cup down with trembling fingers and padded into the room before courage failed them.

Every head turned.

Golden stood in the doorway, ears pinned back, eyes wide and wet. “You… really mean that?” Their voice cracked, small and unsure.

Price’s gaze softened, though his mouth stayed firm. He stepped forward, big hand reaching for their scruff, pulling them in against his chest.

“Mine,” he said, loud enough for all to hear. “Always mine.”

The Retriever whimpered, relief flooding out, and then their tail was wagging so hard it thumped the doorframe like a drum. Soap laughed, reaching over to ruffle their ears, and Gaz chuckled low, shaking his head.

“See? Told you,” Soap teased.

Nikolai smirked like a cat with cream. “Retriever doubted the Bear. Not very smart.”

Ghost just grunted — but the gloved hand that briefly ruffled Golden’s hair as he passed said more than words ever could.

Golden bumped their head into Price’s chest again and again, needing him to feel it, needing them all to know it. Sunshine warmth burst out of them like it never left.

John Price

„John, dinner is ready.... John!” You stand at the foot of the stairs, one hand on the rail as you call for your husband upstairs. John had come home from a month-long mission just three days ago and he had done nothing but sleep and eat and lounge around, watching you, recharging his batteries. This morning, he had kissed your temple, one big hand palming the back of your neck lovingly the other grabbing the cheek of your ass possessively and had whispered into your ear, breath tickling the shell of your ear, that he would conquer the only foe living in this house. The one that hid away from open eyes and bred in the shadows, duplicating every time you turn around and become aware of the looming fight again.

Paperwork.

You hadn’t seen your noble knight and battler of paperwork since you brought him a small platter of snacks around midday, having concerned yourself with household chores and doing the dishes, going shopping (because that ravenous man had eaten you out of everything you had stored in the fridge, and even the cupboards).

So now, hours later, after not even hearing a peep from the man you call your husband, you decide to climb up the stairs again, to follow the old wooden hallway to the office right at the end, which’s door was slightly ajar.

“John? Are you alright? Did you hear me?” You speak up again, slowly pushing open the heavy oaken door, the angles creaking as you do. “John? Jo – oh.” You have to bite your lip as your eyes fall onto the big and burly man with slight greying hair at his temples.

John was still here, was still at his work desk. But that was where the picture you remembered from this midday differed from now. Instead of slightly leaning over the desk and rummaging through papers, one hand holding up his chin and head John was now entirely slumped over the surface of his desk, his hand still holding his pen while his other had dropped down, hidden from your sight. His cheek was smushed against the last paper he had worked on, ink stains in blue and red decorating his cheek and even the ridge of his nose. His eyes were firmly closed, his lips parted invitingly if not for the very small strand of drool at the edge of his mouth.

Your poor husband was asleep.

Dead asleep, like a stone, like the DEAD asleep. Just like the first three nights after you both came back from your two-week long honeymoon.

But you couldn’t leave him like that, his neck and back would surely be killing him tomorrow. So, you step closer, loudly, the floorboards creaking underneath your socked feet. (You had tried to touch him once, exactly once, when he was unaware and couldn’t hear you walking closer. He had been so sorry afterwards, coming back quick to himself, but he still had punched you hard and grabbed your arm to put you down. You knew your man, knew his work and the problems coming with it.)

“John… come one, hubby. Its me, wake up for me?” you murmur gently, slowly reaching out with your foot to tap his leg, poised to let jump back if you needed to. But it seemed as you didn’t, as your husbands’ eyes slowly opened, his nose crinkling. With a groan his body started to move, joints cracking and his muscles tense from sleeping in such a weird position.

“Love?” he muttered, his voice low and gravely from sleep, his eyes slowly focusing on you as he leans back in his chair. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing is wrong. I called you for dinner.” “Dinner? But you were just in to… Oh.”

You nod. “Yeah, you fell asleep. Maybe you should go to bed, hubby. You clearly need a bit more time to relax and sleep before you jump into the next fight again.” Instead of talking to you, he hums, a jaw breaking yawn following.

“Come to bed, Dinner is ready but its just in the oven to stay warm, it will be there later on.” “… come with me? Sleep better with you.”

--still on my Hybridverse idea and this brain baby came straight from a talk with @sentientsheepdog from the discord server. I hope you like this as much as I do.--

The barracks mess hall was loud tonight. Too loud. The air was thick with sweat, fried food, and the sour tang of alcohol smuggled into canteens, soldiers half-shouting over each other in mismatched languages. Laughter spiked sharp, boots thudded against the floor, and somewhere across the room a card game was already dissolving into arguments.

König sat hunched on a bench near the wall, as always, trying to take up as little space as his enormous frame would allow. Shoulders curved forward, hands folded in front of him, mask shadowing his eyes. His plate sat barely touched. The noise pressed in on him, every sound jabbing at the edges of his nerves.

He wasn’t the only one there from his unit — you were, too. The smallest hybrid in the whole company. Where König looked like he belonged in some mountain fortress guarding gates, you looked like you belonged in someone’s handbag. Fur-tipped ears twitching, tail held high, sharp little eyes darting to catch every flicker of movement.

You’d claimed a seat beside him without hesitation. Nobody had questioned it. Nobody ever did.

For a while, it was fine. You ate, König pushed food around his plate, the noise rolled over both of you.

And then it came.

A voice from the next table, sharp and lazy at once: “Oi, big mutt. You gonna finish that, or you waiting for your master to tell you?”

König froze.

There were chuckles, a ripple of interest. Someone leaned across, a smug grin pulling at his mouth. A soldier from another unit, half-drunk already, the kind who always sniffed for weakness. “Look at him. Doesn’t even bark back. You sure you’re not just a service dog, hm? Big paws, no bite.”

The laughter bit harder this time. König’s ears pressed flat against his skull, body curling smaller, as if he could disappear into the concrete wall behind him. He didn’t answer. He never did.

And that was the mistake. Because before König could fold in on himself completely, you moved.

Your chair scraped loud against the floor as you shoved it back. Tiny frame straightening, hackles bristling, tail stiff as a rod. In two quick steps, you planted yourself directly between König and the soldier leaning over.

Your teeth flashed.

“Say that again.”

The soldier blinked, startled at first. Then barked out a laugh. “What’s this? Chihuahua’s got opinions?”

You didn’t budge. Your whole body trembled, but it was the kind of vibrating tension that came before a strike. The kind that made even bigger hybrids hesitate. “Pick on someone your own size,” you spat, voice shaking with fury. “Oh wait. You can’t. Because you’re a coward.”

That made the laughter stutter.

The soldier tilted his head, smirk pulling thin. “Careful. You might trip over your own shadow down there.”

You took one deliberate step closer, baring your teeth fully now, a low growl vibrating out of your chest. Everyone nearby went quiet, tension sparking through the air. Nobody had expected this. Nobody expected you to be the one snapping.

König sat frozen behind you, wide eyes fixed on your back.

The soldier’s smirk faltered. He raised a hand like he might push you aside — and that’s when you lunged.

It wasn’t a full attack. Not claws-out. But your speed was sudden, sharp enough to shock him — your teeth snapping just shy of his wrist, close enough to graze fabric. The sound was vicious, a crack of jaws that left the air heavy.

The soldier jerked back instinctively, face twisting. “Fucking hell—”

You didn’t stop. You stood your ground, shaking but unflinching, and snarled low enough that only those closest heard it: “Touch him, and I’ll tear your hand off. Test me.”

Silence.

Across the room, the card game had stopped. Conversations dulled. Every set of eyes was on the smallest hybrid in the building, baring teeth at a man three times your size — all to shield someone even bigger.

The soldier hesitated. His smirk slipped into something brittle. He muttered something half-hearted, shoved back to his own table, and sat down. The ripple of noise slowly returned, though more muted this time. Nobody laughed.

You stayed there, planted firmly in front of König, until the tension eased out of the air.

Only then did you turn.

König hadn’t moved. His plate still sat untouched. His hands were tight together, knuckles pale beneath the gloves. His eyes — just visible beneath the mask — were wide and uncertain, flickering from you to the table and back again.

“You didn’t—” his voice rumbled low, caught in his throat. “You didn’t have to.”

You snorted, ears flicking back, tail still twitching with leftover adrenaline. “Of course I did.”

He blinked at you, confused, almost shy. “But… why?”

You crossed your arms, still bristling, but your voice came sharp and sure: “Because you’re mine to yell at. Not theirs. And now eat! Cold food sucks.”

For a moment, König just stared.

And then, slow as a sunrise, his shoulders uncurled. Not much — just an inch, maybe two. But it was enough to feel like the whole room shifted.

You climbed back onto your chair like nothing had happened, tail flicking, ears still alert. König watched you for a long time, the corner of his eyes softening beneath the mask.

When he finally spoke again, it was almost too quiet to hear. “…Danke.”

Hello Anon!

and gosh has it been a while since I got one. I was wagging my imaginary tail as hard and fast as golden. To your question, instead of just answering this per text and my opinion, my tired brain threw together this one here. Hope you like it. Wrong Fit

The offer came quiet, tucked between mission briefings and paperwork.

“Captain Price,” the handler said, sliding the folder across the desk. “Special request. Rottweiler hybrid, top of their training class. Protective instinct as strong as they come. Loyal. Grounded. They’d fit well with your unit.”

Price looked at the file. The photo showed a broad-shouldered hybrid, sharp eyes, posture tight as a drawn bow. Every line screamed discipline, control, predictability. A good soldier.

The kind of match Command would approve of.

Price lit his cigar slowly, smoke curling as he flipped the page. Temperament notes: calm under fire, excellent guard instinct, naturally territorial, steady with orders.

Steady. Predictable. Reliable.

Not sunshine. Not bounding steps and clumsy wagging tail. Not arms full of random “gifts” fetched from around base. Not a pup that needed scruffing just to calm down.

Price’s lips pulled tight around the cigar.

He remembered the Retriever curled up outside his door, refusing to sleep alone. The way they’d defended him bloody and snarling when he went down in the field. The ridiculous, ceaseless wag of their tail that lit up the base like a torch.

He remembered how alive they made the place feel. How alive they made him feel.

The Rottweiler on the page would never wag their tail like that.

“Solid choice, sir,” the handler added. “Strong Alpha hybrid. No nonsense. Might keep your… current assignment in line, if nothing else.”

That earned a growl low in Price’s chest. “My Retriever’s not an ‘assignment.’ They’re mine.”

The handler blinked. “Of course, Captain, but Command—”

Price snapped the file shut. His hand was heavy on the folder, final. “Command doesn’t get a say in who I keep at my side.” His eyes narrowed under the brim of his cap, voice firm as steel. “I’ve already got my match. Don’t need another.”

For a moment, silence. Then the handler nodded stiffly, gathering up the folder and retreating.

Price sat back in his chair, exhaling smoke slow and heavy.

He looked at the empty doorway, then at the quiet corner where he knew — any moment now — his Retriever would bound in, tail wagging, bright eyes looking for him like he was the center of the bloody world.

And Price smiled, small and private, cigar glowing.

Wrong fit, my arse.

Price: - He lays on his back, one arm around your body, holding you securely to his side in a gentle but firm hold. - only wears sleep shorts and his dogtags to bed. His thighs are too thick for normal sleeping pants and he gets way too warm in those anyway. Also he loves that he can feel your skin on his when you tangle your legs with his own. - loves when you are draped half over him, your fingers curled into his chest hair, one hand of his covering yours. One of his fingers is laying on your pulse point, feeling the steady thrumm while his thumb lazily traces over your knuckles. - he doesnt need a blanket. And you dont either. He is a living furnace, even in winter you are always cosy warm.

Ghost: - curled around you, holding onto you tightly. - always sleeps closest to the door, its instinct, dont question it. - on bad nights he will sleep on top of you, his head firmly positioned on top of your chest, ear firmly pressed against the spot where your heart beats underneath layers of skin and flesh. Its his most favorite lullaby. - would sleep in his tactical gear if you hadnt forbidden it, so he wears a long shirt and long sleeping pants to bed. - will wake when you move or twitch and check if everything is alright before falling back to sleep - forget going to the loo in the middle of the night alone. What if you fall? Or stub your toe? And he isnt there to protect you from the corner of the shower? No way. He is sleepily stumbling right after you, only alert enough to fall into bed after you and curl around you, again. - only needs a light blanket when sleeping with you, because you are clingy (as if he is not!). And needs a weighted blanket on nights when you are away on business.

Soap: - no fixed sleeping position. He starfishes, noodles around, and planks on the bed. All at once. Though, he never pushes you out of the bed, again. Once was one time too many and the *Look* you gave him after that scared him for life. - falls asleep with you in his arms as the big spoon. wakes up in a double spiral, flat salto mortale with you on top of him, his legs wrapped around you like a monkey. And no one knows where the blankets have gone to! - would sleep naked but you wont allow it, on every night. He starts with a boxershort and a shirt and wakes up with one article of clothing missing. - is a sleep kisser. Kisses your fingers, your shoulders, your chest and if he is lucky, your mouth in his sleep. Also cant get enough contact. - loves when you card your hands through his hair when he had a bad day, or a nightmare. Calms him down real quick. If you speak gaelic, he will literally start drooling in his sleep - all the blankets and then no blankets - nights with Soap are wild. In more ways than one.

Gaz: - has a strict routine before coming to bed - loves to have you at his side when falling asleep, your head on his shoulder and his nose buried in your hair. Its calming for him. - sleeps like the dead. Or a stone. Or a field of stones. You could play hardcore metal with screeching violins and that man will only twitch a finger. - *has* to have contact with you while sleeping. Doesnt matter if its a hand, a foot, a leg or even your head, NEEDS contact. If there is no contact, he will wiggle in the bed to search for you, and he will be asleep while doing that - has a whoe ass pyjama, which looks like a suite or at least fitting together like those checkered Ones made out of cotton. Filthily comfy and wont let you burrow them. - Needs at least two blankets and you to rest in comfort. - Listen! Has the most wild dreams and will talk to you in his sleep, wont remember anything in the morning though

Captain John Price

Price is the picture of calm under fire — but this? This short-circuits the man.

He hears, “John… I think my water just broke,” and for a split second he freezes like someone yanked the power cord out of him.

The next second? MILITARY COMMAND MODE ENGAGED.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t panic. His voice drops into that steady, low captain tone. “Alright, love. I’m right here. We’re going.”

He has a go-bag already in the closet, sorted by trimester, labeled, and repacked monthly.

He puts a hand on the small of your back the whole time, guiding but not rushing.

Drives with terrifyingly smooth efficiency (he absolutely uses the “captain voice” to cut through traffic politely when some asshat tries to judge his driving style).

Inside, he’s a soft, molten mess whispering:

“We’re about to meet our kid… bloody hell.”

But outside? Unshakable, gnarly oak tree.

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Ghost does NOT panic.

He malfunctions.

The mask can’t hide the instant, wide-eyed oh no that hits him like a shockwave.

He just… stares at you for a solid 4 seconds.

“…Now?”

You nod, breathing hard as you look onto the now shiny floor beneath you.

“…Right. Right. Right then.”

And he moves.

Scoops up the hospital bag like it weighs nothing.

One arm around your waist, steady, grounding and oh so gentle.

Checks doors, keys, car, everything in a ruthless efficiency loop.

But every minute or so?

He mutters under his breath:

“Bloody hell… it’s happening… it’s really happening…”

He’s not scared for himself — he’s scared of not being perfect for you. He stays glued to your side at the hospital, silent, protective, massive hand wrapped around yours the whole time. Dont worry Luv, you can break it if you want to.

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish

Soap goes straight into:

“OH—OKAY—OKAY—WE GOT THIS—OH JESUS—OKAY—”

He’s not useless. Not entirely. He’s just loud. Bolts upright like he’s been shot.

Immediately drops whatever he’s holding.

Tries to put his jacket on but somehow gets both arms into the same sleeve.

Then he sees your face — and instantly calms down.

“Right. Aye. I’m with ye. Deep breaths. We’re good.”

He shifts into hyper-focused soldier mode, but with the eyes of a guy who is 92% sure he’s about to cry from joy.

He keeps making little jokes to keep you relaxed:

“Hey, remember t’ breathe, lass. I cannae be the only one hyperventilatin’ here.”

He will absolutely tear up the moment you’re in the car.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

Gaz is the perfect mix of:

extremely prepared

extremely soft

extremely overwhelmed on the inside

When you tell him your water broke, he straightens up like he’s about to salute the queen or like someone told him Manchester was disqualified from the next big chapionsleague.

“Okay. Okay. We’re ready. We’re good. I rehearsed this.”

He did rehearse it. Multiple times.

There’s a checklist taped to the fridge. He memorized it.

But the moment he helps you into the car, he squeezes your hand and whispers:

“I’ve got you. We’re doing this together.”

He talks to you the whole way, keeping you calm, keeping himself calm, grounding everything with warm, steady presence. He calls Price on the way, voice steady but shaking slightly.

Tension had been building all week. Training drills, supply delays, tempers fraying in the cramped barracks — it was only a matter of time before someone snapped.

Tonight, it was you.

The mess hall buzzed with low conversation, trays clattering and boots thumping against worn floors. König sat hunched over his plate near the wall, same as always, chewing slow, mask shadowing his face. He was a calm island, as if the noise never touched him.

You were not.

Across the table, one of the new recruits had been running his mouth for the better part of ten minutes. Snide comments, lazy digs, and that sing-song tone people used when they thought they were cleverer than they were. Most of it wasn’t even aimed at you. But when he threw in a careless, “little dogs yap because they’re scared — same as people, yeah?” with his eyes sliding toward you—

That was it.

You shot up so fast your chair clattered to the floor with a metal shriek and an even louder thud. Tail stiff, ears pinned back, teeth flashing. “You wanna say that again? Say it. Say it to my face!”

The whole table went quiet. A few heads turned.

The recruit blinked, smirk twitching nervously. “Whoa, relax. I was just joking—”

“Don’t you dare.” Your voice shook, not with fear but with sheer fury. “You think you’re funny? You think small means weak? I’ll put you through that wall and show you weak.”

König’s fork froze halfway to his mouth.

The recruit raised his hands, awkward laugh bubbling. “Alright, alright, chill out puppy—”

You lunged forward a step. Sharp, fast, vibrating with anger. Very close to biting distance. So very close your breath and maybe some spittle ghosted over the skin of his hand.

And that’s when a massive shadow loomed behind you.

Before you could blink, two gloved fingers hooked the back of your collar and lifted you clean off the ground.

“Nein.”

König’s voice was calm, but it rumbled through the air like distant thunder.

You kicked immediately, squirming against his grip. “Put me down! I’m not done—König, put me down right now!”

But he didn’t.

In one smooth motion, he shifted his hold — huge hand sliding under your arms, scooping you up like you weighed nothing. You ended up tucked against his chest, legs dangling, tail lashing furiously. One enormous palm pinned your torso with steady, gentle pressure, holding you still without hurting you.

The entire mess hall had gone silent.

“König!” you barked, thrashing in his grip. “Let me go! He’s asking for it!”

König only shook his head, slow. “Später,” he murmured, carrying you away from the table with long, unhurried strides. “Not now.”

Your voice rose, sharp with frustration. “I mean it! You can’t just—”

“Ja, I can.” His arm tightened slightly, keeping you secure as you twisted. “Too small to fight when angry. You hurt yourself.”

That stung. “I am not too small—”

“Shh.”

He didn’t even raise his voice. Just that single soft sound, so heavy it cut clean through your rage.

You froze, ears twitching. Your tail still flicked with irritation, but your snarls dulled into grumbles as König carried you out of the mess hall entirely, down the quieter corridor toward the barracks.

You were still wriggling when he stopped outside the bunks, shifting his weight to lean against the wall. He set you carefully on his knee — not the floor, not the bed, but his knee, so you were still caught in his reach.

Finally, his eyes met yours through the mask. Calm, steady, unshaken.

“Are you finished?”

You bared your teeth one last time, more out of pride than anything else. “No.”

He tilted his head. “Then I wait.”

And he did.

For a long moment, you kept grumbling, snapping under your breath about idiot recruits and stupid jokes. König didn’t argue. He didn’t scold. He just sat there with you balanced on his knee, one huge hand steady against your side to keep you from leaping off to bite someone’s ankle.

The longer it went, the sillier it felt.

Your growls softened. Your tail stopped lashing. You sat there, cheeks hot, ears twitching as the weight of silence pressed in.

Finally, you muttered, “I could’ve taken him.”

König made a low, thoughtful hum. “Mm. Perhaps. But then paperwork. And yelling. Boring.”

You blinked up at him, caught between outrage and laughter. “…Boring?”

He shrugged, massive shoulders shifting. “Ja. Too boring. Better to carry you away.”

You snorted, tail flicking once. “You make it sound like I’m some toy.”

König’s mask tilted, the faintest curve in his eyes. “Not toy. Treasure.”

That shut you up fast.

Heat crawled up your neck, sharp retort dying on your tongue. You looked away, ears twitching furiously. “…Idiot.”

König only hummed again, deep and quiet, before setting you gently on the floor at last. His hand lingered for just a second longer, the ghost of warmth steady against your back.