It starts with a quiet morning and a grin—your own, mischievous, as you disappear into the spare room where König keeps the gear he’s borrowed for cleaning and maintenance. He thinks little of it at first, busying himself with coffee and the slow, soothing cadence of a German radio in the background. But when you return, you’re transformed.

You step into the kitchen, boots heavy on tile, wearing his old tactical vest snug over one of his black long-sleeved shirts, combat pants rolled at the ankles. The gear hangs a little loose on your frame but somehow fits you perfectly—both incongruous and devastatingly right. You stand tall, straight-backed, suppressing a giggle as you give a mock salute, lips parted in a proud, playful grin.

König doesn’t speak at first. His coffee cup stills halfway to his lips, eyes locked on you with a stunned, half-feral awe. You see the shift—the spark of heat lighting his gaze, the subtle clench of his jaw as he takes you in head to toe, his world colliding with yours in a way that feels both foreign and intimate.

“You like it?” you tease, spinning slowly, the heavy vest shifting over your hips. “Not bad for a rookie, hm?”

He answers with a slow exhale, setting his cup aside with trembling care. “*Du siehst… unglaublich *” he murmurs, voice low, thick with reverence and want. You look… incredible. There’s something raw in his gaze, something possessive and tender all at once, like he’s seeing a part of himself reflected in you, and loving it more than he expected.

He crosses the space between you in two long strides, hands finding your hips—big, callused palms gentle against the rough fabric. He tugs you closer, his eyes never leaving yours, and bends low to breathe you in, the scent of canvas and gun oil and something unmistakably you. “Das ist unfair, Schatz,” he says, his accent roughening as desire takes hold. “Wie soll ich dich jetzt gehen lassen?” That’s not fair, darling—how am I supposed to let you go now?

Your laughter melts into a gasp as he lifts you easily, setting you on the counter, lips trailing over your cheek, jaw, and down your neck. Every inch of you in his gear is a promise, a dream made flesh—and for a moment, there’s no world beyond the heat in his eyes, the weight of his touch, and the thrill of having breached the last of his walls, simply by stepping into his armor.

And there, in the hush of your sunlit kitchen, König worships you as both comrade and beloved.