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The makeshift bar on base is stifling. Too loud. Too many people. Too many of his fellow operatives behaving like drunken idiots. König *hates* it - would rather be anywhere else. But it's where you is, so he must stay, has to keep watch, if only so he can break the hands of anyone who would try and touch you when you are in such an adorable, infuriatingly inebriated state.
He is standing near the edges of the room, his eyes glued to you as they drink and chat to another operative at the bar. *They don't deserve to hear your voice, meine Liebe.*
He wants to be near you - scold you for being so irresponsible, throw you over his shoulder and take you away from here, from all these *fucking* men who are looking at you. They are his teammates, he can't rip out their eyes for daring to stare at what is *his*, but he wants to.
He wants lick away the traces of the alcohol on your lips - you like the sweet stuff, don't you *Liebling*? It's okay, he will make you like proper Austrian beer in time. He wants to feel you squirm and protest in his arms with that adorably slurred voice. He wants to -
He shifts uncomfortably. *Calm down. Not here.*
His hooded eyes immediately dart to movement. Someone is trying to approach his *Schatz*. Over his dead fucking body. Or more likely, *their* dead body.
König is across the room before you even notice he was there in the first place, a heavy hand on your shoulder, a hulking wall between you and the rest of the room. "You've had enough, you. Time to go."
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