#cod horangi

Alone in his bunk in some safehouse outside of Zaravan City, a bunk way too short and narrow for his massive frame, he rubs the front of his combat trousers until his bulge grows and throbs against the zipper uncomfortably while he keeps huffing your gift under his sniper hood—such a pretty gift you’d left just for him before he had to leave for another deployment. 

Found atop your laundry hamper when he went through your apartment for his monthly safety inspection tour the day before he had to leave again, he tucked them into his pocket after checking the cameras he’d installed. 

But the pair of plain white cotton panties, the ones you wear whenever you’re bleeding, have lost their flavour at this point; its gusset, previously so rich with your lovely fragrance, is soaked through with his saliva and cum now, and König fucking hates it. 

Whining low in his throat like some mutt denied a treat, he stuffs the fabric further up his nose, sniffing it like a frantic bloodhound to get a last remnant of your scent as he rips open the Velcro of his trousers and pulls down the zipper to fumble his aching cock out. 

Stroking himself with rough twists of his wrist, twice, thrice—a few more times, he groans deep in his chest as his balls throb, and he shoots his load all over his olive-green tac shirt, making a mess all up to his heaving chest. 

He squeezes his pulsing cock until he groans, breathing heavy under the black cloth covering his identity as he stares down at himself—imagining once more how your beautiful pussy might feel sinking down on his aching flesh while you whimper and squeal as your body finally gives and moulds itself around his large size. 

Would you cry tears of pleasure? He exhales shakily as his cockhead flares with a fresh dribble of precum, the ache of his desire for you still burning in his loins.  

Fuck. He knows you’d look even prettier split open on his fat cock. 

His pretty, pretty princess.  

And right when he inhales deeply, heavy eyelids fluttering shut as he begins stroking himself to the thoughts of you once more, a few loud knocks rattle the tattered door to the single bedroom so harshly, he fears it might burst out of its hinges. 

“WHAT?” the former Colonel bellows, still clutching his cock in his gloved hand while a spike of agitation makes his cheeks burn hotly under his self–made hood. “I’M BUSY!” 

“Schluss mit wichsen!” It’s Krüger, his disrespectful shithead squadmate. “We got orders to move!” 

König groans and sinks deeper into the bunk while the bedsprings squeak under his heavy weight. He growls impatiently as he hears Krüger snicker at the other side of the door before his retreating footsteps fade away, no doubt to go inform the rest of KorTac that their Austrian Commander was too busy stroking off to get his ass moving. 

“Scheiße,” he murmurs to himself under his breath and throws back his hood to rake a hand through his sweaty hair as he looks down at his now–wilted cock. 

König hurriedly tucks himself back into his combat trousers with an annoyed huff, hastily wiping his hands on the stained tac shirt before peeling it off. He glances longingly at your panties still clutched in his other hand. 

“Mein Engel... you make it so hard to focus,” he mutters darkly as he carefully folds the damp fabric into a Ziplock bag from old field rations. 

The metal locker chest by his bunk squeaks when he opens it to stash this newest “memento” in the growing collection—all neatly labelled by date and location retrieved. His gloved fingers linger over a special prize: one of your hair ties still holding a few strands of your hair. The one he loves to wear around the base of his cock. 

When his comms crackle to life with Krüger’s obnoxious voice, his agitation spikes again: “Fünf Minuten, König! Oder ich komm da rein und hol dich persönlich!” 

A muscle ticks in König’s jaw as he slams the locker chest shut hard enough to make the whole bunk shake, “Anyone touches that fucking door and I’ll reassign them permanently to latrine duty.” 

There’s only silence on the other end now. Good. With a final longing glance toward Zaravan City’s skyline just visible through grimy (temporary) barracks windows, he pulls up footage from your apartment cameras on his tablet. 

Just checking in before deployment... just to get his fill and make sure no threats have appeared while he’s away... 

The screen lights up, gnarly and pixeled, showing you currently flitting around your kitchen in a comfortable hoodie and leggings combo, humming along to some pop song while making coffee. 

König steps off the plane’s cargo ramp onto the tarmac, heavy boots thudding on metal and steel as his eyes already fixate on the familiar skyline of the city, illuminated by the low, golden glow of the setting sun. 

It's been six weeks this time, far too long in his mind. 

The season has changed while he’s been away; turning from a late summer to autumn in a blink, or so it feels. It’s colder, crisp, as soon as the sun disappears behind thick clouds. Another sign that your life keeps going on, flowing with the seasons, though lacking his presence and guidance while his duties keep him away so much. 

He struts stiffly, flanked by a few KorTac men including Krüger and Horangi, the latter of whom gives him a wary look under a baseball cap. 

“You’re staring again.” Horangi remarks nonchalantly, “It’s creepy, dude.” 

However, König ignores it, too focused on the familiar weight of the duffel bag on his broad shoulders and the need to just finally see you again—no matter how artificial that “meeting” will have to be. 

He knows your routines by heart. Perhaps he’ll meet you at the gym or in the hallway, and perhaps this time he’ll have the balls to make eye–contact for once. 

The KorTac team, exhausted and weary, moves through the military base towards the motor pool where their jeeps and cars are parked while König’s long strides outpace everyone else’s with graceful ease. 

Krüger snickers. “Eager to get out of here, eh Colonel? Gonna see your girl? Have a sniff right from the source?” His words are dripping with sarcasm, and König hates how fast his face begins to grow hot under his hood. The fellow Austrian doesn’t relent, “Are you even sure she’s single? Woman like her must have a shitload of dudes on standby—” 

Despite his anxiousness, he snaps him a nasty look. “Shut your mouth before I shut it for you, man.” He exhales sharply through his nose, adjusting the straps of his old duffel bag with unnecessary force.  

“Standby,” he then mutters under his breath, voice dripping with disdain. As if anyone could compare to him—the one who watches over you, protects you, knows you better than anyone ever could. His jaw clenches at the mere thought of some stranger touching what is rightfully his. 

Krüger raises an eyebrow but wisely keeps quiet, ignoring Horangi’s muttered curse. 

The worn leather creaks in protest as König’s fingers tighten around the strap again, briefly imagining them around his teammate’s neck. His pulse thrums erratically under his hood—half from rage, half from shame at being so transparent, and how easily he keeps letting them get under his skin. 

“Fuck, you’re all insufferable,” he grits out before shoving past Krüger toward his Mercedes jeep. The keys are already in his pocket, and he doesn’t wait for dismissal or goodbyes.  

The engine roars to life, and König peels out of the motor pool fast enough to kick gravel at their boots before the city blurs outside the window as he drives recklessly toward your shared apartment complex, tactical gear still strapped to his body, fingers drumming impatiently on the wheel whenever traffic slows him down. His mind races with possibilities, and a particularly dark thought slithers through his fried brain— 

You could have been with someone else while I was gone. The steering wheel groans under his grip as König floors it through a yellow light just as it turns red behind him. 

A crispy autumn breeze sweeps through your place when you open the balcony door in your living room after leaving your front door cracked open as well, leaving one of your shoes between door and frame to keep it from slamming shut right away. 

The open–space apartment smells like pumpkin spice, bourbon vanilla and cinnamon, thanks to the Yanke candles you’ve been burning every evening since the first leaves have changed colours, and the temperature has dropped. 

You’ve decorated, changed your bed sheets to something warmer, added pillows and another fluffy blanket in preparation for your favourite seasons to come—always craving coziness and comfort. 

König stands in the darkened hallway, his gloved fingers brushing over the doorframe of your apartment as he takes it all in—its scent, the warmth, you. His breath hitches when a stray breeze carries pumpkin spice straight to him like some cruel taunt of domesticity he can’t have. 

You've changed things again, and he wasn’t there to witness it. 

Peeking through the gap of your front door, he notes every little difference with clinical precision—the new knitted throw blanket draped over the couch (would it smell like you if he buried his face in it?), those ridiculous seasonal candles (he could pocket one just to keep your essence close), and most damningly... two wine glasses drying by the sink. His stomach drops. 

Boots are silent against hardwood as he creeps forward on pure muscle memory alone, pushing the door open before it can creak—until movement in his peripherals catch his attention through your slightly ajar bedroom door. 

How can you even be this foolish and keep your front door open like this? Unless— 

And König freezes mid‒step when he sees you lounging on that freshly made bed in nothing but an oversized hoodie and pair of baggy sweatpants, your feet clad in a pair of thick, fuzzy socks with black cats and pumpkins stitched onto. You’re idly scrolling through your phone while humming some tune like this isn’t about to ruin him completely for another three months of deployment without you.  

The sight punches all the oxygen right from his lungs worse than any bullet ever could, because there’s no denying how painfully real you are compared to whatever desperate fantasy gets him through long nights overseas where even stolen panties aren’t enough anymore. 

König’s heart beats wildly in his throat as he stares, frozen in place in the middle of your apartment, stuck between kitchenette and living room. His darkened eyes rove over your body from behind his hood. Longing that borders on desperate hunger. 

All sweet, with your legs tucked under the sheets, your chest rising and falling with each breath. He’d eat you whole if you’d only let him. 

And those damn wine glasses by the sink. 

A hot, sharp spike of jealousy pierces through his chest at the thought that someone else could have been sitting across from you, sharing wine, sharing your smile, your laughs—enjoying you in a way he wishes he could—on the night he returned home. 

And when a low, strangled sound pushes past his clenched jaw, he cannot even swallow it—half anger, half agony. 

His fingers twitch at his sides as he forces himself to turn away from the bedroom door. He can’t be caught here—not yet, not like this.  

But he does allow himself to walk over and let his other hand ghost over the kitchen countertop where you prepare meals while you’re still unaware of his presence—pondering if he could take one of those damn wine glasses right now.  

Smash it, so no one else ever drinks from it again. 

The creak of mattress springs makes him freeze mid‒reach. You’re shifting positions on the bed, maybe to get up. His skin prickles with a rush of adrenaline as König exhales through gritted teeth, finally retreating toward the front door like a phantom—but not before scooping up that ridiculous pumpkin spice scented candle with its wax half‒melted. 

The decision to burn it later in his own apartment while watching your live feed is made on the spot. And he’ll imagine those supple hands of yours lighting wicks and fluffing pillows that should be shared with him instead. 

As he slips silently back into the hallway, but not before shoving your shoe aside and closing your front door properly, Krüger’s taunt from earlier echoes in his skull: “Are you even sure she’s single?” 

Four days later, König finally snaps. 

He’s been following the live feed from your apartment obsessively since his return—watching as you laugh into your phone screen, curl up with a book, cook meals in that damn hoodie he wants to steal and never give back. But mostly, he’s been watching him. 

That fucking lawyer from the floor above who keeps “accidentally” running into you by the mailboxes or offering to help carry groceries upstairs. The way his hands linger just a second too long when passing over bags of groceries or that one time he dared to touch your lower back when holding open the lobby door for you yesterday—all captured in crisp 4K resolution through König’s hidden cameras. 

He’s the one who drank wine with you. David Nowak, who plays golf every Sunday.  

Was ein Wichser. 

And tonight, this bastard had the audacity to bring you takeout after noticing on some social media bullshit (an app König only downloaded to create a throwaway to follow you) that you weren’t feeling well—making himself cozy on your couch while handing over containers like some chivalrous knight instead of rotting where he belongs: six feet under dirt where the mercenary himself would gladly bury the prick if given half a chance right now. 

His bare fingers curl around the cool metal railing of his own balcony. Gusts of wind whip past his uncovered face in the darkness while he keeps replaying the footage in his mind. 

Whenever he closes his eyes, your smile makes something vile twist inside ribcage while David’s annoying laughter keeps echoing inside his head, already haunting him. 

Fury throbs hotly alongside jealousy until it becomes unbearable beneath his shirt stretched taut across his broad shoulders. No matter how many cigarettes he smokes to distract himself, lungs filling with burning tar with each long drag, or how many times his vision blurs with rage‒filled tears threatening to spill over, it doesn’t change the fact that König cannot keep going like this; not when you consume his every thought, awake or not. 

This isn’t working anymore. Not with that guy now in the picture. 

A plan starts forming between gritted teeth then; something far more permanent than cameras ever were meant to be anyway– 

“Time’s up, Engelchen,” he rasps out before crushing his cigarette under his bare foot harder than strictly necessary before disappearing inside his own apartment once more. 

König waits until the clock strikes 0200 AM—that precise hour when most if not all neighbours have finally succumbed to sleep on a weekday. His gloved fingers methodically assemble the kit he’s prepared with his most trusted friends’ help: 

A syringe of propofol (acquired from KorTac's medical supplies, provided by Horagi). Heavy-duty zip ties (the kind that won’t break under even his considerable strength, provided by Krüger). A rolled‒up canvas bag lined with soundproofing material (owned and provided by Nikto). Neither of them asked any questions. 

David is an easy mark—predictable in his routines after a short time of observation, soft around the middle from too many client dinners and lack of proper exercise, too arrogant to notice he’s being stalked by an apex predator. 

König had watched through binoculars as David stumbled drunk into his apartment an hour ago after some pretentious fundraiser. 

Now he crouches before David’s door, picking the lock with steady hands despite how violently his pulse thunders in his ears. The metallic click almost sounds dooming in the empty hallway. 

Inside, David snores face‒down on Egyptian cotton sheets that smell like expensive cologne and single‒malt scotch‒laced sweat. And despite his size, the mercenary moves like smoke across polished hardwood floors until he looms over the bed—until one gloved hand clamps over David’s mouth while another drives the needle straight into the exposed flesh of his pale neck before those bleary eyes can even flutter open properly. 

“Shhh,” König hushes as David weakly struggles against him for exactly six seconds before going completely slack under his grip—just long enough to make sweat bead along König’s hairline beneath his hood. “Just a little taste of what you deserve, lover boy.” 

By 0215 AM, the security cameras inside the whole apartment complex are malfunctioning. 

By 0222 AM, undisturbed darkness settles back over the many empty hallways of the building, where nothing else seems amiss—except perhaps a faint chemical scent that briefly lingers near your doorstep where someone may have paused just a moment too long before carrying something heavy wrapped tightly inside an industrial ‒grade canvas bag towards and unmarked, black van parked outside. 

And you remain peacefully asleep throughout it all—blissfully unaware, curled under a weighted blanket, smudged mascara shadowing your cheeks while, somewhere else, gloved fingertips reverently brush across an array of monitors displaying your sleeping form from multiple camera angles. 

It has been a week. 

David has ghosted you, it seems, which shouldn’t be as surprising as it is. Even worse, it scratches at your insecurities until the scabs come off and they’re left gaping and itching like an open wound—ready to fester into something mean if you don’t start tending to it soon. 

You were sure he liked you. Hell, he didn’t even pressure you to become intimate—which is the bare fucking minimum, but apparently already too much to ask for nowadays. 

The sound of your driver’s door slamming shut with too much force echoes through the underground garage like thunder rumbling through pouring clouds. With swift steps and clutching your purse, you make your way towards the elevator, though deep in your self‒loathing spiral, you nearly miss the trio of men already lingering there, looking rather menacing with their obscured faces, each one clad in some sort of black security gear. A parked, black van close by. 

Your steps falter briefly like a fawn learning to walk. 

This feels like a scene straight out of those dark romance novels your best friend keeps yapping to you about. It doesn’t feel exciting, though.  

Intimidating? Scary? Yes. 

Your heart stutters, your cheeks grow hot as soon as three pairs in different shades of blue snap towards you with freakish precision, like predators sniffing out wounded prey. The tallest one you recognize as the strange neighbour, the soldier, from your floor; the one who only ever seems to linger like a phantom in the corner of your eyes whenever you come and go. 

Clutching your bag tighter, you clear your throat and straighten your shoulders, “Good evening,” you greet them in passing, hoping they’ll leave it at that. 

König's entire body stiffens under his tactical gear when he hears your voice. His gloved fingers twitch at his sides as those ocean‒blue eyes burn into you from behind the sniper hood. 

Mein Engel... so close, in the flesh. 

The other two operatives—Krüger and Nikto—exchange knowing glances before smirking under their own masks, well aware of who you are to their obsessed commander. 

Nikto nudges König with an elbow, whispering something in Russian that makes the Austrian’s ears burn crimson beneath his hood. 

König doesn’t move at first, too busy drinking in every detail of you coming home from your late shift at work—the way your hands clutch your bag defensively (he wants to pry them open and lace his fingers through yours), and how your throat bobs when you swallow nervously (he wants to bite it). But then reality crashes back down on him like a bucket of ice water, when Krüger clears his throat pointedly. 

“H-Hello,” König finally rasps out, voice rougher than intended thanks to days spent screaming profanities at someone inside a soundproof basement. His accent curls thickly around the words like smoke from one of those damn pumpkin candles he stole from you last week (now sitting on his nightstand). 

The elevator dings open behind them but none of the men make a move to enter yet—too focused on watching you. König steps aside just enough so there’s space for you specifically while effectively blocking off Krüger and Nikto if they dared try entering with him now. 

“Pisdez... and we thought we are sick,” Nikto mutters under his breath, tapping a gloved finger against his skull. Next to him, Krüger shakes his head in amusement, uttering: “Schwachkopf.” 

Meanwhile, König ignores them pointedly. His chest aches looking at how tired and sad you seem tonight. Oh, was David that much of a coward? Not even one little text, hm? Schande über sein Haupt. And his lips twitch under the black cloth at his own sarcastic thoughts, but he manages to suppress his chuckle this time. 

“You look... cold,” he murmurs instead while resisting every urge inside him screaming take her take her take her and keep her safe. 

Krüger snorts behind him before muttering something about “simping” under his breath, swiftly earning a sharp elbow jab straight to the ribs. A courtesy from his commander, who towers over everyone present including poor unsuspecting you, currently standing frozen in place like the sweetest bunny rabbit—probably wondering why this masked giant smells faintly like cinnamon and bourbon vanilla underneath the faintest traces of gunpowder and something more metallic. 

However, before your eyes can widen further—DING! The elevator doors begin sliding shut abruptly, snapping König out of his admiring trance, but his feet feel heavy like concrete, and he stays rooted on the spot. 

Scheiße. 

As the elevator doors slide closed on your beautiful face, the only thought left in his brain is: Don’t. 

Don’t leave without him. Don’t be sad anymore when he’s right here. Don’t make a fool of yourself in front of your men, the little rational part of him still left pleads. The far more primal part of him, however, screams at him to reach out, to grab your wrist—just once, just to feel your fluttering pulse beneath his fingers again—but he clenches his jaw instead, fists tightening and trembling at his sides.  

Scheiße. 

Once the doors close with dreadful finality, his stomach plummets with nausea and his throat bobs dryly with unsaid words stuck below his Adam’s apple. 

“Jesus Maria und Josef.” Krüger huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose through his own mask, “That was... hard to watch.” 

“Do not fret, my friend,” Nikto mutters, clapping König’s shoulder firmly. “She did look smitten with you.” 

König grits his teeth; his jaw clicks with the pressure.  

That’s what hurts the most. 

He knows you are, so why keep pretending? You’re supposed to be together. He knew the moment your eyes first locked with his on the day you moved in. 

Krüger, ever the smartass, can’t seem to help himself, either. He laughs roughly and shakes his head at the ceiling as he fumbles a pack of cigarettes from a vest pocket, “Brother, smitten? Did we watch the same thing?” He gestures at the closed elevator before pulling his mask up to free his lips and stuff a cigarette between them, mumbling around the filter, “She looked like she was about to fucking piss herself, man.” 

König is tempted to put Krüger through a wall just then. The only thing holding him back is the knowledge that he might need his help again in the future. 

You were just nervous. Not afraid. Not of me. Never could be. 

That doesn’t help soothe the ache in his ribcage at all, though, nor does it settle the queasy anxiety gnawing at his stomach. 

When he finally speaks, it comes out strangled, gruff beneath the cloth over his face, “Halt doch einfach mal dein Maul, Sebi.” 

It feels like the universe is playing a cruel joke on him and you—determined to keep you apart while all he wants is to crawl into your lap and be called a good boy.  

Your good boy.  

He’d teach you to say it in German, make it sound even more real. 

König sobs brokenly at the thought; his sweaty forehead rests in his palm, elbow braced on his knee as he sits on his couch in boxershorts, clutching a bottle of beer in his other hand while his cigarette burns to the filter in the ashtray on the coffee table. 

The message with new orders came in right as he entered his apartment. A notification about an upcoming deployment already tightening around his neck like a noose, and he’s been wallowing in self‒pity since; now barely able to watch your feed. It hurts too much, knowing he’ll have to leave you so soon again. 

It’s odd, though, because it seems like you already know about the bad news as you drink away your own sorrows, clutching your third glass of red wine while sitting on your couch, all cuddled up in your hoodie and pajama shorts, watching some reality show—getting drunker by the minute while König watches through the screen with glossy eyes. 

Sneaking into your apartment at night has always left him feeling a certain kind of way. 

The thrill of finally being in your space (again), paired by the fact you’re oblivious to all of it, always makes his blood stir, his pulse rise, and his cock throb in his pants with every careful step he prowls into your apartment.  

The scent of your perfume and wine is thick in the air. Smoke curls up in the air from a burnt‒out candlewick on the coffee table as the gust of air kills the candle.  

The standby image of your TV casts a blue glow over your frame in the otherwise dark space.  

All curled up and knocked out on the couch—your lips slightly parted, cheeks warm from alcohol—has him swallowing hard underneath his plain balaclava.  

He should turn back. König knows he should turn back, but he needs this. Gott, he needs you. And then you shift on the cushions with a quiet whimper, kicking off one sock unconsciously (that he picks up and tucks into his pants pocket), asleep against the armrest, and something inside him snaps. 

He moves before his brain can catch up with his body—boots silent on the plush carpet as he crosses toward you like a starving man to a feast before he scoops you up with the utmost care. A brutish giant carrying a fair maiden.  

König has never been this bold, never touched you this risky, but fuck it if your warmth and weight don’t feel intoxicating in his care. 

You sigh softly in your sleep, murmuring something incoherent under your sweet breath that makes heat crawl down his spine like wildfire spreading through dry brushwood. Every single muscle in that massive frame tenses painfully tight beneath his clothes clinging desperately to sweat‒damp skin as he carries you into your bedroom and lays you down onto your bed. 

Your bedroom is bathed in shadows as a sliver of moonlight spills inside through the blinds. König lingers at your bedside for a long moment, watching how your lashes flutter against the apples of your cheeks—how you instinctively curl deeper into the warmth of your blankets like some fairytale princess safe in her tower. 

His fingers twitch with barely restrained want. Pretty, pretty princess. 

One touch. 

That’s all he wants. Just one single touch to tide him over during those long, lonely nights ahead of him where he might not have access to his cameras or stolen trinkets—just memories of you and whatever fragile sanity they bring along with them. 

When his gloved fingertips finally graze over yours where they lay curled loosely atop crumpled sheets, you exhale softly in your sleep. A tiny little thing straight out of one of his forbidden fantasies. The ones where he explores your body to see what you like; maybe use the knowledge he gathered whenever he was able to witness you touching yourself at night. 

It makes his shallow breath stutter painfully inside his constricted lungs while his blood keeps rushing south fast enough to make black spots appear and start dancing along his peripheral vision momentarily. 

Too close now, yet too far gone already. 

“You wouldn’t mind, would you?” König whispers, deep blue eyes transfixed on your relaxed features while his fingers pop the button of his jeans and pull down the zipper as he exhales shakily; pressure easing from his erection at last. He licks his lips, shaking his head with a coy smile under his mask, “No, you wouldn’t.” 

The fabric of his glove isn’t any more pleasant around his aching flesh than his calloused hands, but it must be enough for now as he starts stroking himself. 

Bold and as comfortable as ever, he leans a knee on the edge of the mattress, bracing his free hand on the wall above your head as he continues touching himself and watching you intently, barely holding back a groan. 

But it’s somehow not enough.  

Greed starts gnawing at his insides, lashing out like some feral being as König lets his widened eyes drag along the curves of your body, lingering between your legs. His balls throb, heat coils low in his stomach. 

Straight from the source. 

His heart thuds against his ribcage like a war drum as he shifts slowly, carefully; observing your peaceful face while he nudges your knees apart until they seem to fall open willingly, his other hand stilling and holding his hefty cock at the base as it weeps for you. 

The mattress dips underneath his weight, and his breath hitches as König lowers himself between your parted thighs; his tall frame looming over yours like a predator savouring its prey right before striking. His fingers tremble as they shove the crotch of your flimsy shorts aside to expose you. 

And, by God, he could weep at the sight of your beautiful pussy up close for the first time. Pretty as a picture, all warm and inviting, and unshaven—just how he prefers it. 

His cock twitches in his grasp as he braces his hand on the mattress before bending down like some pathetic mutt to press his nose against your folds and inhale your sweet musk sharply through the balaclava’s cloth, filtering your scent straight to his deprived senses. 

A needy whimper slips past clenched teeth while his hips rut forward uselessly into his clenched fist before he forces himself back under control long enough to ruck his mask up and mouth at your cunt like some starving beast finally allowed near a meal after countless days of fasting. 

“Fuck—” He curses quietly against your seam; mouth dragging over your flesh and feeling coarse pubes on his lips before he finds your delicious clit and your taste bursts on his parched tongue. 

His fingers curl into the duvet instead of your hips, refraining from pulling you closer—afraid you might wake—and his cock throbs in his own grasp as he laps at you like a dying man finding an oasis. Every flick of his tongue sends sparks of pleasure through him just knowing he’s finally tasting you for real, taking from the source at last after so much wasted time of stolen glimpses and panties soaked in his own desperation. 

You squirm in your sleep with a soft sigh. König’s breath hitches in his throat against your slick folds when your body responds to him instinctively. Your warm, natural honey dripping onto his eager lips as if welcoming him home. His eyes roll back as pure euphoria washes over him—this is where I belong. 

“Mein Engel,” he rasps against your heated skin in between frantic licks that would embarrass lesser men if they saw their formidable commander reduced to this: kneeling and hunched over, stroking his flushed cock furiously, while lapping greedily between your legs like some common whore begging for scraps. 

König presses his masked face deeper into your warmth, the fabric of his balaclava soaking up your essence as he inhales sharply when you shift again in your sleep, pressing your hips up slightly—as if offering yourself to him in unconscious invitation. 

A broken sound claws from his throat at that thought, and he can’t stop himself from gently sucking the plush flesh of your inner thigh into his mouth, tasting your supple skin.  

His own need burns too hot to ignore anymore; those rough twists around his cock turn desperate while spittle and slick drip down his stubbled chin. The smell and taste of you even better than any stolen trophy ever could have promised him back then during those countless lonely nights spent jerking off on some sorry cot inside another forgotten safehouse overseas somewhere far away from where it truly matters most: right here—home with you. 

“Please, please, please...” he begs hoarsely, panting against your soaked folds, your pubes damp with saliva, when his white‒knuckled grip tightens painfully around his swollen base. His cock throbs violently, heavy balls drawing up tight before he finally spills messily across his trembling digits with a quiet, shuddering gasp. 

Once he’s gotten his fill, König cleans you up methodically, leaving no trace to possibly confuse you before he settles on the floor beside your bed, cross‒legged, while his now stained jeans strain around his muscular thighs.  

A loyal guard dog throughout the night until sunrise threatens to creep past dark clouds outside the bedroom window as you begin to sober and stir, tucked safely beneath warm blankets and his saliva staining your cunt. 

And even when he is forced to leave you again eventually—  

He was always prepared-

Painfully prepared.. for every situation and some situations that weren't even possible.

You knew Simon loved knowing what he was going into at all times. However it can be a bit much at the best of times.

Ever had 2 different types of navigation tools including a compass while going to the post office?

You have-

Ever had hiking gear loaded into your car cause you where going to a local park to jog?

You sure as fuck have!

Thanks to Mr. Always Prepared Skull Man!

You swore this man was prepared for a Mutant zombie apocalypse with the amount of supplies and preparations he had constantly.

Sure while it wasn't something you thought about often and it was clearly in a loving way, He wanted to make sure you were always safe and you appreciated it deeply-

However when you go into your kitchen and see MRE's and emergency dried food to last 30 years next to your chips-

It can get a bit much..

It was always a bit power struggle with the broody man. You'd have a better time fist fighting a brick wall or bringing a rock to a orgasm then winning over the Lieutenant when it came to stuff like this.

Which lead you to staring at the hard black suitcase that was being loaded into the back of the SUV along with your guys few shared soft luggage bags.

You rub your temple, perfectly in between the two emotions of either crying or laughing at your partner.

"Simon-.. I love you. So so much. However I don't think, We need a literal military grade survival kit.. on a couples get away to a private resort"

He looked to you calmly-

"Never know.."

You look up to the sky, Begging whoever is up there that he leaves the kit in the car the whole vacation- and that he doesn't bring a tactical knife into the resort..

Price

John, the love of your life. The apple of your eye..

A good man and a Captain of a special Ops team...

Also..

The bastard that leaves one God damn bit left of whatever he touches and tells no one!

From toothpaste where there is only a bead sized amount left.

To even leaving four chips in the family size bag you'd gotten.

Leaves a single bite of ice cream in the pint and puts it back like it's still full.

Ever opened a box of what used to be Chinese takeout and seen literally 6 noodles, 12 grains of rice and a single piece of meat with a perfect green onion on top?

You sure as fuck had.

You knew it started out as something he genuinely did naturally. However once he figured out it annoyed you- It was on.. he now did it cause he knew it annoyed you.

The fucker-

Just how now you stared at the empty jug of what used to be white grape juice. Now with maybe a shot glass worth in the bottom.

You supress the demonic feeling of wanting to Hex your spouse.

Walking upstairs to his office area where you knew he was both smoking a cigar and drinking from his private stash while watching football (soccer).

Opening the door slowly you make direct eye contact with him. Price slowly raising an eyebrow at the serious look on your face.

"Yes Dear?"

You hold up the empty jug of juice and shake it a little showing the literal trinkle of juice left in it.

"Couldn't just kill it off could you?-"

John gives a smile at you as he takes a sip of his scotch.

"Well, Wanted to save ya some-"

John laughed loudly when you threw the empty juice jug at his head after that.

Kyle

Kyle likes to mess with stuff...

Always moving stuff around, always touching stuff, messing or bending things.

If it's in reach his hands seem to find it-

He's like those children you used to see that had to have their hands on the cart at all times or in their parents pockets cause they would always touch stuff.

Kyle was one of those people in adult form- You'd even heard his mother yell at him saying 'Idle hands are the devils workshop' when he visits and continues the practice.

While in most cases you didn't mind, it was a bit irritating when things got moved from where you'd left them or things just appearing out of thin air.

Your tube of chapstick? Suddenly in the Livingroom.

Phone charger? Now sitting on a random shelf.

You knew it wasn't on purpose but damn, Hell he didn't even seem to realize it himself.

He'd be sitting there, shaking his knee as he rolled something between his hands casually. The two of you talking about something random in the livingroom.

You can't help but narrow your eyes a bit as you see something silver in his palm which he was rolling like playdough.

"Sweetie, What are you messing with?"

He also looks confused for a second, not even realizing he had been messing with something. He looks over whatever had been in his hands.

"Uhh Looks like a oat bar-"

You scrunch up your face a bit.

"We don't even have any granola bars in the house? Where did you get that?"

He shrugs having no idea himself.

Johnny

He buys bulk in everything...

Once he realized that it was a thing he could just do-

He did it with everything..

Bulk Paper towels, Bulk Soy Sauce, 45lb tub of Nut Butter? He got all of it, Leading you to staring up at what was equivalent to a Military food storage in your downstairs pantry.

Leaving you currently staring up at the 25lb cloth bag of table salt on the top of the easy 10ft tall pantry shelf wondering if this was worth the possible 80% death rate trying to fill up the salt shaker.

As you stare up at it, the man of the hour pokes his head in. Seeing you staring at the bag of salt.

"Love?-"

"Johnny My Dear- We have essentially a bunker of Bulk everything. I don't think we need anything else.. I cant even get the salt without risking a skull fracture"

Johnny chuckles at this. Setting down a box to grab the hefty stool kept in the pantry and pulling down the bag, Setting it next to you on the floor.

"Well just saves us the hassle"

He chimed with a chuckle. However you silently disagreed.. Before looking to the large box hed set down.

"What is that?.."

Johnny gives a shy chuckle as you move over opening it quickly you see a massive mountain of 250 individual bags of Welch's Fruit Snacks.

"Johnny.. Why is there enough fruit snacks to kill a small child?"

Hong-Jin (Horangi)

So you're darling husband, He has a wonderful terrible habit of just disappearing..

Walking through a store?

Going to a Restaurant?

Hell going down the hallway of your house!?

The Poof-

He's just gone.

Which always leaves you stranded looking around like a crazy person.. Currently in a giant ass world grocery store he had been the one to drag you to- Aka you knew nothing!

"God Damnit-"

You mumble looking around the aisles trying to see if you could spot him. The place was like a maze, each aisle was a different part of the world it seemed and had at least 60 people crammed in each section.

It was hell! Why did he leave you here!? Now rushing around to just find a spot that wasn't being occupied or in anyone's way.

Aisles 43!? You thought you where at 12!? Where is the Exit!?

Standing there confused by what seemed to be some sort of brooms, you feel a small tap and see Hong-Jin standing there calmly.

"Found you. Got what I needed, We can go now"

He holds up a single small package of a seasoning mix he liked.

...

There was a small tick in the back of your brain that said to shove that packet up his ass.

König-

One word-

ONE GOD DAMN WORD

Lüften...

While sure, it's good to air out the room..

However not when there is 4ft of snow outside and the heater is off because of König wanting to 'Save Gas'.

Bullshit to save gas, He just likes the cold. Correction.. He Loves the cold.

More then most around you or anyone probably in this country. He will happily have the window open and let the house freeze like the arctic saying its refreshing new air.

Ever seen those weirdos that walk in a blizzard in shorts, sandals and a shirt?-

That's him.. damn near skips when a snow storm hits.

However he drags that brand of cold enthusiasm into the house. Leading you huddled under 4 blankets as you have to turn the heater onto Max.

"I swear- If you open that God damn window.."

You mumble to you're spouse as you look up from the blankets of your guys shared bed hiding from the cold that was already in the room as the heater works hard to make the room livable.

Seeing König standing by the large window ready to open it- His hands on the little handle as he stared wide eyed at you.

"But-"

"There is a snow storm going on. The house does not by any means- 'need to be aired out'"

"It feels nice Liebling and it's goo-"

"Felix- I will turn the heat on during peak summer and leave you here... to melt"

And Bonus!

Nikto

This man will eat anywhere at anytime..

You leave him alone for .24 milliseconds?

He's munching on something in record time.

Sure he seemed to burn it off but it was the amount he could eat, what he ate and then if it was close to dinner. He would eat again-

You where honestly starting to worry about his health.. He was concerned about the scars on his face but not the amount of sodium he just drank from the pickle jar.

It made it so when you left to grab one of his prescriptions from the pharmacy which you swore was 15 minutes tops you walk in and see Nikto there with a mountain of food on your coffee table watching TV.

A opened pickled onion jar which was now empty- juice gone too, Some sort of packaged meat that seemed was mostly gone and what seemed to be a rolled newspaper filled with the shells of sunflower seeds and seemingly walnut shells (You hadn't even bought either of them-) And now he was cutting up an apple with a knife and using it to eat the slices.

"H-How, Its been 15 minutes... We don't even have walnuts in the house?"

Nikto looked to you eating another slice of apple and shrugged.

"We got hungry-"

He said plainly before looking back at the TV you standing there both worried and frustrated.

"How we just had dinner? There are leftovers!"