bri

The place is small like two narrow beds pushed against opposite walls, a shared desk cluttered with textbooks and protein shakes, and a single window overlooking the campus quad.

You drag the last suitcase over the threshold of the dormitory room, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that makes your stomach twist.

Your parents’ warnings echo in your head: Lock the door. Text us when you’re settled. Be careful. Always, always be careful.

You’re an only child. They’ve spent twenty-three years treating you like glass. When the landlord mentioned the only available room came with a roommate, they’d balked.

But the second he added, “He’s one of the task force boys. Big Austrian fellow and keeps to himself,” their tune changed instantly.

A soldier. Disciplined. Safe.

They’d practically shoved the deposit at him, convinced no man in uniform would ever lay a finger on their precious daughter.

You drop your bags with a thud and roll your shoulders, scanning the space. One side is bare which is yours, apparently.

The other is military-neat: bed made with hospital corners, boots lined up like soldiers on parade.

No sign of life.

You were hoping he’d be here so you could get the awkward introduction over with instead of accidentally terrifying him later when he came home to a stranger.

A door on the far side of the room, his bedroom and you guess then creaks open.

You freeze.

He has to duck to clear the frame. Six-foot-something, maybe more, built like someone carved him out of granite and then added extra for fun.

Broad shoulders stretch a black compression shirt until the seams look personally offended. Tactical pants, heavy boots. And a mask that a faded sniper hood that covers everything but his eyes.

Those eyes are pale blue, sharp as winter glass, and they rake over you from head to toe in one slow, assessing sweep. Not leering. Just…cataloguing. Like he’s deciding if you’re a threat or furniture.

You clear your throat, suddenly aware of how small the room feels. “ Hi. I’m, uh…the new roommate.”

His head tilts. When he speaks, the voice that comes out is low enough to vibrate in your ribs. Deep, clipped, unmistakably German-accented.

“ Glad to meet you.”

You offer a tentative smile. “ Same. I’m guessing you’re König?"

He nods once. “ Ja. Been alone for a few months. My last roommate moved out.”

A pause.

“ Said I frightened him.”

You arch a brow, folding your arms. “ Depends how creepy you plan to be, I guess.”

The corner of his eye crinkles like he’s smiling under the mask. “ Not creepy at all. As long as you don’t piss me off.”

The dry delivery catches you off guard. You snort before you can stop yourself. “ Noted. I’ll try to keep my pissing-off levels to a minimum.”

He huffs something that might be a laugh. Then he lifts one massive arm and points with a gloved finger toward the empty side of the room.

“ That’s yours. Bathroom’s through there.”

He nods toward a connecting door. “ Kitchenette down the hall. Quiet hours after twenty-two hundred if I’m on early shift.”

You drag your suitcase toward the empty bed. “ I’m usually buried in textbooks until midnight anyway. Med school doesn’t sleep.”

“ Med school.” He repeats, like he’s filing it away.

“ Good. You’ll be busy. I like quiet.”

You unzip the bag and start unpacking, hyper-aware of him still standing there, watching. Not in a creepy way the more like he’s waiting to see which way you’ll jump.

You pull out a stack of anatomy flashcards and set them on the desk. He shifts his weight, arms crossing over that ridiculous chest.

“ I keep things clean.” He says eventually.

“ Expect the same.”

“ Yes, sir.” You mutter under your breath, sarcastic.

His eyes narrow. “ Sir works.”

Heat flashes up your neck. You busy yourself arranging your laptop, refusing to look at him. The silence stretches, thick enough to chew. You can feel him still watching, and it’s doing annoying things to your pulse.

You risk a glance. He hasn’t moved. “ Something else?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “ Just deciding if you’ll last longer than the last one.”

“ I’m not scared of you.” You say, maybe too quickly.

One brow lifts above the mask. “ You should be a little scared. Healthy respect.”

You roll your eyes. “ I’ve dissected cadavers. You’re tall, not dead.”

That gets you another soft huff, definitely amusement this time. “ We’ll see.”

He turns to go back into his room, pausing at the door. “ If you need anything…quiet, space, someone to reach the top shelf just ask.”

The door closes softly behind him.

You exhale, only then realizing you’d been holding your breath. Your heart is beating too fast for no good reason.

He’s intimidating, sure.

Abrasive in that blunt, foreign way. But there’s something under it is the dry humor, maybe even consideration. And those eyes…

You shake your head. Focus. You’re here for school, not to develop a stupid crush on your giant masked roommate who could probably bench-press you without breaking a sweat.

Still, when you lie in bed that night staring at the ceiling, you hear him moving around in his room in quiet, deliberate footsteps, the occasional low mutter in German.

The wall between you feels paper-thin. You pull the blanket higher. This year is going to be interesting.

And long.

Very, very long.

…

You finally click the last drawer shut and survey your side of the room with exhausted satisfaction. Everything’s in its place. Textbooks stacked by size, notes color-coded, laptop charger coiled like a sleeping snake.

Your phone screen lights up: 00:47. Shit. No wonder your stomach is staging a full rebellion. You haven’t eaten since that sad airport sandwich at lunch.

The common area is dark and silent when you tiptoe out. Most of the task force guys are probably already rack-out, dreaming of push-ups and gunfire.

You’re halfway to the fridge when a low, rumbling voice slices through the quiet.

“ Still awake, Maus?"

You yelp and spin around, clutching your chest. König is sprawled across the couch like a panther on a branch that’s far too small for him.

One long leg draped over the armrest, the other planted on the floor. He’s reading a comic book that looks comically tiny in his huge hands, the pages almost delicate between gloved fingers.

The only light comes from a small lamp behind him, throwing his masked face into shadow and making those pale eyes glow.

“ Dammit, warn a girl.” You hiss, trying to slow your racing heart.

He tilts his head, amused. “ Didn’t want to interrupt your…midnight raiding.”

You narrow your eyes and march to the fridge, yanking it open. Leftover containers, protein shakes, something labeled in German that you’re not brave enough to touch.

Your stomach growls again and loud enough to echo.

From the couch comes a soft, deep chuckle that does unfair things to your spine.

“ I left food on the table.” He says.

“ Knew you’d be hungry. Students always forget to eat.”

You glance over. There’s a foil-wrapped bundle with a sticky note: For the new one.

Your cheeks heat. “ You didn’t have to—”

“ Eat.” He orders mildly, turning a page.

You shuffle to the table and unwrap it. A burger is thick, juicy-looking with sesame bun. Smells incredible. You take a cautious bite.

König’s watching now, the comic forgotten in his lap. He’s still sitting, but even seated he’s enormous. The couch groans every time he shifts.

“ It’s plant-based.” He says before you can ask.

You pause mid-chew. “ I’m not vegetarian.”

“ Part of my diet.” He shrugs. Those massive shoulders roll like tectonic plates.

“ The taste is the same. Better, even. Try it before you complain.”

You roll your eyes but take another bite. And…damn it. He’s right. It’s rich, smoky, and perfectly seasoned. You can’t tell the difference. You make an involuntary little hum of approval and nod.

He gives a satisfied nod. “ Good. You’ll get addicted.”

“ Don’t get cocky.” You mutter around a mouthful.

He stands.

The room seems to shrink. He unfolds himself slowly, first the legs, then the torso until he’s towering again.

You’re eye-level with his stomach, the black fabric of his shirt stretched tight over abs you’re trying very hard not to notice. He steps forward, and you instinctively back up until your hips hit the counter.

“ Thirsty.” He says simply, voice low.

“ I need water.”

You’re blocking the sink. You scramble sideways, muttering, “ Sorry, sorry—”

He brushes past you, barely. His arm grazes yours, solid and warm even through fabric. You catch a faint scent of clean soap and something sharper, like gun oil. He fills a glass, drinks half in one go, throat working under the edge of the mask.

You focus very hard on your burger.

Sauce dribbles onto your chin. You reach for a napkin, too late.

A big thumb swipes across your lower lip, slow and deliberate, wiping the smear away.

Your breath stops.

“ You eat like a child.” He murmurs, voice rougher than before.

His thumb lingers half a second longer than necessary before he pulls away, sucking the sauce off casually like it’s nothing.

Your face is on fire. Your heart is trying to escape your ribcage. You can’t even form words just a strangled squeak.

“ I…uh…early lecture tomorrow…gotta—” You gesture vaguely toward your room, burger clutched like a shield.

He watches you, eyes crinkling at the corners. “ Gute Nacht, messy eater.”

You bolt.

The door to your room slams harder than intended. You lean against it, panting, burger still in hand, sauce probably smeared somewhere else now.

Your lip tingles where he touched it. You press your fingers there like you can trap the feeling.

Less than twenty-four hours.

You’ve been here less than a full day, and your scary-hot giant roommate has already fed you, laughed at you, and wiped your mouth like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You slide down the door until you’re sitting on the floor, and the burger is forgotten.

This slow torture is going to kill you. And the worst part? Some traitorous part of you is already looking forward to tomorrow’s breakfast.

…

You sit in the lecture hall trying to look like a functioning human being, pen poised over your notebook, nodding along as the professor drones about cranial nerves.

Your friends flank you, whispering snide remarks about how Dr. Kessler gave a 62 to the kid who literally wrote the textbook’s twin.

You laugh in all the right places, toss in a sarcastic “He probably grades on font choice,” and hope it sounds normal.

But your brain is a traitor.

Every time you blink, you see that massive thumb brushing sauce off your lip. Feel the faint pressure, the warmth. Hear that low, amused “You eat like a child.”

You’ve tried everything: reciting the brachial plexus, counting ceiling tiles, mentally conjugating Latin roots.

Nothing works.

Those stupid piercing blue eyes keep sliding into frame like an uninvited guest star.

“ Hey, you okay?” Maya nudges you.

“ You zoned out hard.”

You force a smile. “ Totally fine. Just remembered that the histology paper’s due Friday.”

They buy it, thank God, and launch back into roasting professors. You nod mechanically, pretending to listen while your pulse does an annoying little flutter at the memory of König’s chuckle.

By the time class ends, you’re exhausted from the mental gymnastics. You shove your earbuds in, crank your playlist, something loud and distracting and join the river of students pouring down the main sidewalk toward the dorms.

The late-afternoon sun is low, campus buzzing with the usual post-class chaos.

Then you spot the patrol.

Black SUVs, uniformed officers, a loose perimeter of soldiers in full kit. Rifles slung, vests bulky, moving with practiced efficiency.

A bright orange poster on a lamppost reads SURPRISE SECURITY INSPECTION in bold letters. Students slow to gawk while their phones come out.

You slow too, craning your neck as you walk, trying to figure out what’s happening.

It’s rare to see this kind of presence on campus.

You don’t see the obstacle until you slam into it.

Your face meets something solid and unyielding. Not a wall, walls don’t radiate heat or smell faintly of pine soap and gun oil.

You stumble back, earbuds tugging, and look up…way up.

König.

In full tactical gear, helmet tucked under one arm, mask in place, he looms like a damn eclipse. The uniform makes him look even bigger, if that’s possible, plates and pouches adding bulk to an already ridiculous frame.

Those pale eyes pin you in place.

“ Watch the road, not my colleagues.” He says, voice low but firm.

“ You put yourself in danger.”

You blink, music still blasting in one ear. “ What?”

He sighs and reaches down. Gloved fingers gently pluck both earbuds free. The sudden quiet is jarring. You hear your own heartbeat instead.

His face is closer now, head ducked to bring him level with you. You can see faint stubble shadowing the edge of the mask, the way his lashes catch the light. Dangerously close.

“ I said…” He repeats, slower.

“ Stop staring at distractions. Be attentive on the road.”

Heat floods your cheeks. “ I—I was just curious. It’s not every day the campus looks like a war zone.”

His gaze flicks over your shoulder to the perimeter. You follow it and notice several soldiers watching, smirking, whispering to each other.

One makes an exaggerated heart shape with his hands. Another elbows his buddy, grinning.

König groans, a deep, suffering sound. “ Idioten.”

He turns back to you, expression unreadable behind the mask but eyes softer. “ Surprise inspection. Report came in…possibly the suspect with explosives on campus.”

A cold shiver races down your spine. “ Seriously?”

“ Ja.” His voice drops even lower.

“ Do not spread it. No panic.”

You nod quickly, throat tight.

His massive hand settles on your shoulder in careful, but the weight of it still makes you feel tiny. Warmth seeps through your jacket.

“ Go back to the dorm. Rest. I’ll follow when the shift ends.”

The touch lingers a second longer than strictly necessary before he lifts it away. You swallow hard.

“ Okay.” You manage.

“ Be careful.”

One corner of his eye crinkles, almost a smile. “ Always am.”

You turn to go, shoving your earbuds in your pocket this time.

Every step feels hyper-aware.

You can feel his stare on your back like a physical thing, intense and unwavering. You don’t dare look behind you, but you know he’s still watching until you round the corner.

By the time you reach the dorm, your heart is racing again for entirely different reasons than fear of bombs.

You flop face-first onto your bed and groan into the pillow.

This man is going to be the death of you. And the slowest, most infuriatingly delicious death it’s ever been.

…

You’ve been here six weeks now, and somehow you’ve survived living with a human mountain who wears a mask to bed and could probably deadlift the entire dorm building.

Six weeks of slow, maddening adjustment.

You and König have settled into a rhythm that feels almost…domestic. He grunts a greeting when he gets back from whatever classified hell his task force drags him through.

You tease him about leaving his giant boots in the walkway like landmines. He deadpans back that if you trip then he’ll catch you then watches with thinly veiled amusement as you turn red and mutter something about not needing rescuing.

He feeds you. Constantly.

Every few days there’s a foil-wrapped parcel on the table with a sticky note in sharp block letters: Eat. You skipped lunch again.

Sometimes it’s grilled chicken and vegetables portioned like he’s prepping for deployment.

Sometimes it’s those ridiculous plant-based burgers you’re secretly addicted to now.

Once it was a whole box of those fancy chocolate truffles you mentioned liking in passing.

You still don’t know how he remembered.

Your parents call every Sunday like clockwork.

“ Is everything okay, sweetheart? Is your roommate treating you well?”

You roll your eyes and assure them, again, that König isn’t some creep. He’s quiet, tidy, terrifying to everyone else but oddly respectful to you.

They sound relieved every time, as if the word “soldier” is a magical shield against all bad things.

If only they knew how often you lie awake wondering why your stomach flips whenever he brushes past you in the narrow kitchenette.

The tension is unbearable and delicious. You’re twenty-three. He’s…older. Noticeably. You try not to think about the exact math, because it feels forbidden in a way that makes your skin too tight.

He’s your roommate. Your friend, maybe. Nothing more.

Except for that one evening last week.

You’re sprawled on the couch in oversized sweats, picking at the takeout Thai he brought home “because women always want to eat.”

His words. Delivered with that dry, accented certainty that makes you want to both laugh and climb him like a tree.

“ Thanks for dinner again.” You say, mouth full of pad thai.

“ Seriously, I’m gonna start thinking I’m your girlfriend or something with all this spoiling.”

The words tumble out before your brain catches up.

You freeze.

He freezes in mid-reach for his water bottle and his massive frame suddenly statue-still. Even behind the mask you can feel the shift in the air, thick and electric.

Silence stretches like a rubber band pulled too tight.

Your laugh comes out high and panicked. “ Kidding! Obviously. I mean, you’d have to actually take me on a date first, old man. Buy me flowers or whatever ancient ritual you Austrians do.”

His eyes narrow, but the crinkle at the corners gives him away. “ Old man?”

“ Yeah. You probably listened to vinyl records in your crib.”

He huffs in half laugh, half warning. “ Careful, Maus. Keep teasing and I will stop bringing food.”

“ You wouldn’t dare.”

He leans forward, elbows on knees, voice dropping dangerously low. “ Try me.”

You swallow hard, heat pooling low in your belly. The moment hangs, heavy and sweet, until you both look away at the exact same second like cowards.

There are other moments you pretend don’t happen.

Like the nights you jolt awake to low, ragged sounds from his room. The panting and muffled groans that make your imagination run filthy laps.

You press a pillow over your head and curse him for not using headphones, whatever porn he’s watching. You refuse to acknowledge the ache between your thighs or the way you have to change your own sheets the next morning.

Worse: your favorite black lace panties have vanished.

Then the red ones. You’ve torn apart your laundry basket twice. You’re convinced they’ve fallen behind the dryer or something equally mortifying.

The idea that König might have found them or seen them, touched them makes you want to die on the spot. You’ve rehearsed asking him a dozen times “Hey, random question, have you seen any…women’s underwear lying around?” and every version ends with you spontaneously combusting.

So you say nothing. You buy new ones and pray.

Tonight you’re at the kitchen counter, stress-eating cereal straight from the box because exams are trying to murder you.

The door clicks open at 23:40, later than usual. König ducks inside, gear bag slung over one shoulder, moving quiet despite his size.

He pauses when he sees you. “ Still up?”

“ The brain won’t shut off.” You mumble around a mouthful of frosted flakes.

He drops the bag, pulls two protein bars from his pocket, and slides one across the counter to you without a word. You stare at it, then at him.

“ I’m already eating cereal at midnight. This is not a protein emergency.”

“ Eat anyway.” He says.

“ You’re cranky when you’re hungry.”

“ I am not cranky.”

He arches a brow.

You tear open the bar and take an aggressive bite. “ Happy, dad?”

The eye crinkle again. “ Very.”

He moves to the fridge, back to you, and you allow yourself one quick glance at the way his shirt pulls across his shoulders.

Six weeks in and the tension hasn’t eased, it’s worse. Thicker. Like the air before a storm.

You wonder if he feels it too.

You wonder if he hears you some nights, the same way you hear him.

You wonder how long you can both keep pretending this is just friendly roommate banter.

Because it’s not.

And you’re running out of excuses to ignore it.

…

You’re crammed into your favorite cheap eatery just off campus, the one with the greasy tables and the best bulgogi bowls in a ten-mile radius.

It’s lunch break, and your friends are in full post-quiz autopsy mode, arguing over whether the professor wanted “afferent” or “efferent” for question twelve.

You’re half-listening, half-daydreaming about a nap, chopsticks hovering over your rice.

The sliding door whooshes open.

Conversation dies instantly.

Four pairs of eyes swing to you like you’re the main character in a K-drama.

You feel it before you see him: Brent Kim, club president, 4.0 GPA, literal walking Pinterest board, strolling up to the counter in a cream sweater that probably costs more than your tuition. Dark hair perfectly tousled, and a smile bright enough to power the city grid.

Your mouth drops open. A fly could homestead in there.

“ Close it.” Maya hisses, kicking you under the table.

“Before something nests.”

You snap your jaw shut, but your stare stays glued. Brent orders in a smooth, polite voice and then turns. His gaze sweeps the room, lands on you, and that smile widens.

Oh God.

He walks straight to your table.

Your friends turn into vibrating chihuahuas trying not to squeal. Someone’s foot is rapidly tapping Morse code into your shin: SAY YES TO WHATEVER HE ASKS.

“ Hey…” Brent says, stopping beside your chair. Up close he smells like cedar and winter air.

“ Didn’t expect to see you here.”

You manage a brilliant “Hi” that comes out more like a squeak.

He chuckles in low and warm.

“ Quick question…are you free this Sunday? It’s the club’s founding anniversary. All members are supposed to show, but I figured I’d personally remind my favorite bio major.”

Your brain short-circuits. Favorite?

Your friends are making frantic hand gestures: nodding heads, thumbs up, one of them literally mouthing GO.

You clear your throat. “ I…yeah. I’ll be there.”

“ Perfect.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small, embossed card, a thick cream stock with gold lettering.

A ticket.

“ You’ll need this at the door. Security’s tight this year.”

He holds it out. You reach and your fingers brush his.

Electricity shoots straight up your arm, down your spine, pools hot in your stomach. It’s barely a second of contact, but your entire nervous system files a dramatic incident report.

Your friends lose the battle. A chorus of stifled squeaks erupts.

Brent’s smile turns knowing. “ Looking forward to seeing you there.”

He nods to your friends, grabs his takeout from the counter, and leaves while the door sliding shut behind him like the end of a movie scene.

The second he’s gone, chaos.

“ OH MY GOD YOU TOUCHED HIM.”

“ HE SAID FAVORITE.”

“ YOU’RE GOING ON A DATE.”

“ It’s not a date!” You protest, face nuclear.

“ It’s a club thing!”

“ With a personal invitation and actual finger contact.” Maya counters.

“ That’s a date, babe.”

You hide behind your bulgogi, grinning like an idiot despite yourself.

Forty feet away, at a corner booth half-hidden by a fake ficus, four very large men in civilian clothes sit in tense silence.

König’s metal spoon is bent at a forty-five-degree angle in his fist.

Soap is biting his lip so hard to keep from laughing that it’s turning white. Ghost watches the scene like he’s observing wildlife. Price just looks tired.

“ Aw, look at that…” Soap whispers, voice syrupy.

“ Proper college romance. Finger brushin’, blushin’, the works. Makes ye miss uni, doesn’t it?”

Ghost grunts. “ Nobody would’ve dated your weird ass in uni.”

Soap gasps, hand to chest. “ Excuse me, Lt. Spooky is calling me weird? You wear a skull mask to Tesco.”

“ Both of you shut it.” Price mutters, rubbing his temple.

Then, quieter. “ Didn’t think König’s type was…college girl.”

Ghost snorts. “ Don’t know what the fuck he ate to start fancying a student. They’re all headaches and drama.”

Soap leans in, eyes dancing. “ Maybe she makes his soldier stand at ease, if you catch my—”

Ghost kicks him under the table. Soap wheezes.

König’s voice is low, dangerously even. “ I don’t like her. She can flirt with whoever. I don’t give a fuck.”

Soap finally loses it then a choked giggle escapes.

“ Right. That’s why you’ve been nicking her knickers like a bloody magpie. Wanking into them every morning, sniffing them like they’re laced with coke—”

“ Shut. Up.” König’s growl could peel paint.

Soap raises both hands, still grinning. “ Just sayin’. And remember that time you made her a protein shake with your own special—”

Ghost mutters. “ It gave me nightmares for weeks.”

“ Milk mixture for breakfast?” Soap finishes cheerfully.

“ Real romantic, big guy.”

König’s jaw flexes under the mask. The spoon is now a pretzel.

Price sighs heavily. “ Let the man sort his own mess. She’s an adult. He wants to court her properly, fine.”

He fixes König with a hard stare. “ But if you do something stupid like more bodily fluid cuisine…I’ll smash your skull myself.”

Soap leans back, folding his arms. “ My professional advice? Make a move before the pretty boy snatches her. College lads move fast.”

Ghost kicks him again. “ Don’t listen to this idiot. Whatever you do next will already be creepy as fuck after the panty theft and the…milk incident.”

König stares at the bent spoon like it personally betrayed him. His food is untouched.

Across the restaurant, you’re still being grilled by your friends, laughing and blushing and replaying that finger brush in your head on loop.

You have no idea that six weeks of stolen glances, late-night groceries, and carefully portioned meals have built something far more complicated than friendship on the other side of the room.

Or that the man currently mutilating cutlery has memorized the way you blush, the sound of your laugh, the exact shade of every missing pair of underwear now hidden in his locker.

Sunday is four days away, and König’s grip on the ruined spoon finally snaps it clean in half.

…

You float back to the dorm on a cloud of giddy stupidity, the gold-embossed ticket clutched between your fingers like it’s made of glass.

Brent’s cologne still clings faintly to the card in clean, expensive and perfect. You press it to your nose once in the elevator, then feel like an idiot and shove it into your pocket before anyone sees.

The dorm is quiet when you push the door open. No towering shadow, no low Austrian greeting. König must still be on shift.

You kick off your shoes, drop your bag on the couch, and collapse backward with a happy sigh, replaying the finger-brush moment for the hundredth time.

Your gaze lands on the coffee table.

His comic book. The one he’s been nursing for weeks that sits there and spine cracked open like he just set it down.

Curiosity wins. You reach for it.

The cover looks innocent enough: stylized art, bold colors. You flip to the dog-eared page.

Your brain blue-screens.

A woman bent over a desk, skirt flipped up.

A man behind her, a massive, hooded, unmistakably dominant, is thrusting so hard the speech bubbles are just a string of filthy German curses and broken English pleas.

Explicit doesn’t cover it.

You see everything: thick cock stretching her open, her mouth wide in a scream, sweat flying off both of them.

You yelp, hurl the book across the room like it’s radioactive, then frantically cross yourself even though you haven’t been to church since high school.

“ Sorry, sorry, sorry—”

The bedroom door creaks open.

König fills the frame, arms crossed, mask in place, those icy eyes locked on you. He’s in a black t-shirt and tactical pants, sleeves stretched around biceps that look illegally large.

Day off, apparently and he’s barefoot, silent as a ghost.

You swallow. “ When…when did you get back?”

“ Day off.” He says simply, voice gravel-rough.

You stand too fast, nearly tripping. “ Cool, cool. I’m just…gonna head to my room—”

You don’t make it two steps.

“ Enjoy your little lunch date with the college boy?” He asks, tone dripping sarcasm.

You freeze. Turn slowly. “ How did you—”

“ I saw you.” He cuts in, starting toward you with deliberate steps.

“ At the restaurant. You and your giggling friends. Him handing you that pretty ticket like a good little prince.”

You back up instinctively. “ I didn’t see you.”

He chuckles, dark and humorless. “ No. You were too busy blushing at that pathetic boy.”

Your spine hits the sink counter. Trapped. He keeps coming until he’s looming, one hand planting on the cabinet beside your head, caging you in. He has to bend to bring his face close then the heat radiates off him.

“ What’s your problem?” You demand, voice shakier than you want.

“ Why are you insulting Brent?”

König mutters something harsh in German like Scheiße, probably then switches back.

“ Don’t like what I saw. Wanted to walk over, grab him by the neck, throw him across the room.”

His mask brushes your temple as he leans closer. You feel his breath through the fabric, warm and unsteady.

“ I’m jealous.” He growls.

“ I'm possessive. Don’t like sharing what’s mine.”

“ I’m not yours.” You shoot back, but it sounds weak even to you.

He laughs, low and dangerous. “ The moment you walked into this dorm, Maus? You were mine.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut in a hot, coiling need twisting low in your belly. You shove at his chest, but it’s like pushing a brick wall.

He doesn’t budge. Instead he presses forward, pinning you harder against the sink.

You gasp.

Something huge and impossibly hard grinds against your stomach, long, thick and throbbing through his pants.

Your thighs clench involuntarily.

“ I've been trying to control it.” He whispers, voice ragged now.

“ Every night I hear you through the wall. Every time you bend over in those little shorts. Every time you laugh at my notes. I stroke myself raw thinking about you…how tight you’d be, how you’d cry my name while I split you open.”

Your breath hitches. A soft, embarrassing sound escapes your throat.

He hears it. His gloved hand catches your chin, thumb pressing into your lower lip.

“ I want to fuck you so deep you forget that boy’s name exists.” He murmurs against your ear.

“ I want to bend you over this counter right now, shove your panties aside, and bury every inch inside you until you’re dripping down my balls.”

“ I want to feel you clench around me while you beg…louder than you do in your sleep when you touch yourself thinking no one hears.”

You’re soaking through your underwear. Your hips twitch forward without permission, seeking friction against that massive bulge.

“ I want to ruin you for anyone else.” He continues, filthy and relentless.

“ Fill you up again and again until the only thing you remember is how good my cock stretches you. Until you’re addicted to the way I wreck this pretty little pussy.”

His thumb slips into your mouth, just the tip, and you suck on it helplessly while your eyes flutter.

He groans, the sound tortured.

“ Say you’re mine…” He demands, voice cracking with restraint.

“ Say it, and I’ll give you everything you’ve been dreaming about.”

You’re trembling, heart hammering, body on fire. The comic book lies forgotten on the floor, and you’ve never wanted anything more in your life.

…

You stare up into those piercing blue eyes, heart hammering so loud you’re sure he can hear it. The air between you crackles, thick with everything you’ve both been pretending wasn’t there for weeks.

His thumb is still pressed against your lower lip, waiting.

You make the mistake.

A tiny, breathless “Yes” slips out.

The second it leaves your mouth, his eyes darken, pupils blown wide. A low, animal growl rumbles from his chest.

Then you’re airborne.

One massive arm hooks under your thighs, the other across your back, and he hoists you onto his shoulder like you weigh nothing.

You squeak in half protest and half thrill as blood rushes to your head. His stride eats the distance to his bedroom in three steps.

The door bangs open as he tosses you onto the mattress. You bounce once, twice, hair fanning across his dark sheets.

The room smells like him, gun oil, pine soap, and something darker. Your eyes dart around. The tactical gear neatly stacked, protein powder on the dresser, and—

You gasp.

One of your missing black lace panties is draped over the back of his desk chair like a trophy, the crotch darkened with dried stains.

König follows your gaze.

“ I haven’t washed that one.” He says, voice rough with satisfaction.

He plucks the fabric from the chair, holding it up between two thick fingers. The evidence is unmistakable, crusted and almost dry cum streaking the center.

“ It still smells like you. And me.”

“ You…you stole my panties?” Your voice cracks, equal parts horror and filthy arousal.

He chuckles, deep and unapologetic, tossing the ruined lace aside.

“ Not sorry, Maus. I need your scent. It gets hard just walking past the laundry room.”

He crawls onto the bed, a massive frame caging you in. “ Addicted.”

Your brain flashes to the comic book on the living room floor. “ That…that comic—”

“ I needed something to look at while I pictured you.” He admits without shame, lowering himself until his weight pins you deliciously.

“ Better visuals when I fuck my fist thinking of this tight little body.”

Before you can form a reply, his hands fist the front of your uniform blouse. Fabric rips like paper. Buttons ping across the room. Cool air hits your skin and you gasp as your bra is exposed.

“ Scheiße.” He groans, eyes devouring you.

“ Perfect.”

His huge palms cover your breasts completely and your chest looks tiny in his grip. He squeezes, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak hard and aching.

Then his mouth descends. Hot, wet suction on one nipple, teeth grazing just enough to sting. You arch with a sharp moan, fingers tangling in the fabric of his mask.

He switches sides, biting down harder, marking you. By the time he pulls away, both nipples are swollen, shining with his saliva, throbbing in time with your pulse.

He doesn’t stop there.

König moves down your body like a predator, shoving your skirt up to your waist. Your panties are soaked as he rips those too, the sound obscene.

You’re bare to him now, trembling.

He spreads your thighs wide, settling between them like he belongs there. A deep, guttural groan vibrates against your skin as he buries his face against your slick folds.

“ Fuck, you smell better than the panties.” He rasps.

He inhales deeply, nose dragging through your slit. The vibration of his groan shoots straight to your clit. You jerk, hips bucking, but his hands pin you flat.

“ Stay still.” He orders, voice muffled against you.

One thick finger traces your entrance, gathering wetness. You whimper when he pushes inside slowly at first, letting you feel the stretch.

He pulls out, stares at the faint red streak on his finger.

“ Blood?” His tone is reverent, almost awed.

“ You’re a virgin?”

You nod, biting your lip.

A dark, possessive sound tears from his throat. “ Mine. Only mine.”

He thrusts the finger back in but this time hard. No gentleness. His digit is huge, stretching you open with brutal rhythm.

You cry out, back bowing. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles that make stars burst behind your eyes.

“ Taking my finger so well.” He growls.

“ I can’t wait to feel this cunt choke my cock.”

The heat coils tighter, unbearable. “ König…I’m—”

“ Cum.” He commands.

“ Explode on my hand. Show me how you fall apart.”

You do.

The orgasm slams through you, thighs shaking violently as you clench around his finger. He keeps thrusting through it, drawing it out until you’re sobbing his name.

When you finally sag, boneless, he withdraws slowly. His finger glistens with your release and that trace of blood. He brings it to his mask, slipping it underneath.

You hear the wet sound of him sucking it clean, eyes rolling back in pleasure. Then he pulls it out, shiny with his saliva, and presses it to your lips.

“ Suck.”

You obey without thinking, tongue swirling around the thick digit, tasting yourself in tangy, musky, mixed with him. His gaze is molten, fixed on your mouth as you hollow your cheeks and suck obediently.

“ Good girl.” He praises, voice hoarse.

“ Clean every drop.”

You do, until his finger is spotless. He withdraws it with a wet pop, eyes never leaving yours.

“ This is just the start, Maus.” He murmurs, settling his hips between your thighs so you feel exactly how hard he is massive, burning against your sensitive skin.

“ By the time I’m done, you’ll never think of that boy again.”

…

König drops his massive body beside you on the mattress, the frame groaning under his weight. He’s still fully clothed except for the gloves tossed aside, mask in place, chest heaving from the restraint he’s barely holding onto.

Those piercing blue eyes lock onto yours, dark with hunger.

“ Straddle me.” He orders, voice low and rough.

“ Take me out.”

You huff, half-hearted protest bubbling up. “ You’re so bossy—”

His glare sharpens, one brow arching above the mask. The look says try me.

You swallow the rest of your complaint and climb over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips. He spreads his thick thighs wider, giving you room, watching like a predator as your trembling fingers fumble with his zipper.

The second you reach inside, your hand closes around heat and steel. You pull him free and nearly whimper.

He’s enormous. It's angry red, veiny, easily ten inches and thicker than your wrist.

Your fingers don’t even meet around the shaft. Pre-cum beads at the slit, slick and glistening.

König groans, hips twitching. “ Lube it, Maus. Use that pretty mouth.”

You stare at the monster in your hand. “ I can’t…it’s too big. I’ll choke.”

He chuckles, dark and filthy. “ Don’t deepthroat, Liebling. Just the tip. Suck like you mean it. Use your hands for the rest.”

You gulp, leaning down. Even the head stretches your lips wide, salty and hot against your tongue. You swirl around the crown, slurping messily, cheeks hollowing. Both hands pump what you can’t fit in which is most of him.

König’s head falls back, throat working on a growl. “ Fuck…genau so. Good girl.”

You lose yourself in the rhythm. The sucking, stroking and spit dripping down his length until huge hands suddenly grip your ass, lifting you like you’re weightless.

You squeak around his cock as he positions you higher, tip nudging insistently at your soaked entrance.

“ W-wait—” You gasp, pulling off with a wet pop.

“ It won’t fit!”

“ It will.” He rasps, holding the base steady.

“ Your greedy little cunt will take every inch. Sink down. Now.”

You bite your lip hard enough to sting, hands braced on his chest. Slowly and agonizingly, you lower yourself.

The stretch burns. Your walls flutter and resist, then yield in tiny increments. You hiss, eyes watering as the broad head breaches you. König curses in German, fingers digging into your hips.

“ Scheiße, so tight…mein Gott.”

He slaps your ass sharply. The sting makes you clench, and another inch slides in. You moan despite the ache.

Deeper and deeper. Until your ass meets his thighs and you’re impossibly full, his cock seated so deep you feel it in your throat.

Both of you moan in raw, broken sounds.

“ Look…” He laughs breathlessly, pressing a palm to your lower belly. A visible bulge distends your skin where he’s buried.

“ Taking me like a perfect little slut. My cock’s rearranging your insides.”

The degradation sends heat spiraling through you. You lift experimentally, whimpering at the drag on how your walls cling to every vein. Then sink again. Pain melts into dizzying pleasure.

Soon you’re riding him in earnest, slow rolls turning to desperate bounces. His hands guide your hips, but he lets you set the pace, eyes glued to where you’re joined.

“ Faster…” He growls.

“ Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me how much you need it.”

You do. You are chasing the friction, breasts bouncing, and moans spilling freely. The bulge appears and disappears with every thrust.

Suddenly he surges up, flipping you beneath him in one fluid move. Your legs are hooked over his broad shoulders, folding you nearly in half.

He looms above, massive and overwhelming.

“ Zu klein für mich.” He murmurs, voice thick with awe and possession. (Too small for me)

“ Seht nur, wie ich diese winzige Muschi dehne.” (Just look how I'm stretching this tiny pussy)

He starts moving in deep, punishing strokes that punch the air from your lungs. The bulge drives deeper; you feel him everywhere.

König buries his masked face in your neck, lips brushing your skin as he switches to German, words hot and filthy against your ear.

“ Du gehörst mir…so nass für mich…werde dich füllen bis es überläuft…kleine Schlampe nimmt jeden Zentimeter…” (You belong to me...so wet for me...I'll fill you until it overflows...little slut takes every inch.)

You don’t understand most of it, but the tone, it's possessive, degrading, adoring and pushes you higher. Your nails rake down his back through the shirt.

Another orgasm builds fast and brutal. “ König…please—”

“ Cum.” He snarls.

" Spritz in meinen ganze Schwanz, du verzweifeltes Mädchen!" (Cum all over my cock, you desperate girl)

You shatter.

Pleasure crashes through you in waves. You squirt hard, soaking his hips, the sheets. Your walls milk him relentlessly.

He roars your name muffled behind the mask and slams deep one last time. Heat floods you in thick, endless pulses.

There’s so much it overflows immediately, creamy white leaking around his buried length, dripping down your ass.

He doesn’t pull out right away. Instead he collapses carefully, rolling so you’re tucked against his hard chest, still impaled and full.

His hand strokes your hair, voice softening to a rumble.

“ Gut gemacht, Liebling…so perfect for me…took everything I gave you.”

Only then does he ease out in slow and gentle until both of you moaning at the lewd, wet sound. Cum gushes out after him.

His cock that is still half-hard, shiny with your mixed release rests heavy and twitching against your stomach.

He strokes your hair, blue eyes searching yours.

“ No event on Sunday.” He says quietly.

“ It's useless. You stay here.”

“ But I—”

He cuts you off with a low growl. “ I’ll fuck you until you can’t walk. Until that boy’s name is erased from your pretty head. Then I’ll spend all day making you come again and again. That’s your Sunday.”

You open your mouth to argue, out of habit, mostly but his stare pins you.

Intense. Possessive. Promising.

You swallow. Nod.

A slow, satisfied smile crinkles his eyes.

“ Braves Mädchen.” He presses a masked kiss to your forehead. (Good girl.)

“ I’ll make it memorable. Better than any pathetic invitation.”

You melt against him, sore and spent and secretly thrilled.

Sunday was never going to that club anyway.

…

Everything has flipped upside down in the best, most filthy way possible. Since that first night, the dorm has become a non-stop haze of sex.

You barely make it out the door for class without König pinning you against the wall, fingers or tongue or cock inside you until you’re late and wobbly-kneed.

You try to study at the desk when he crawls under it then spreads your thighs, and eats you out until your notes are smeared with desperate handprints.

He comes back from shift smelling like sweat and gunpowder, and you’re on him before he can drop his gear bag while riding him on the couch, the floor or in the shower wall.

Sunday arrives exactly as he promised: unforgettable.

You wake up naked where clothes are pointless when König is in the same postcode. He’s sprawled beside you, equally bare, that huge scarred body on full display.

The first time you really see all of him in daylight, you nearly drop the orange juice. His body is a map of violence and power while broad chest dusted with dark hair, abs carved deep, a thick happy trail leading straight to that monstrous cock that never seems to go fully soft around you.

Scars crisscross his skin: jagged ones across his ribs, a burn on his shoulder, a long surgical line down his thigh.

He catches you staring and shifts, suddenly awkward for a man who just fucked you senseless.

“ Not pretty.” He mutters, reaching for a shirt.

You stop him, fingers tracing a raised scar on his chest. “ Are you kidding? You look fucking hot. Like a war god or something.”

You press a kiss to one mark, then another. “ Never cover up around me again.”

Breakfast prep starts innocently enough. You’re on the kitchen counter in one of his oversized shirts where the only thing you’re allowed to wear while your legs spread while he stands between them slicing strawberries.

Then two thick fingers slide into your bare pussy without warning.

“ Guten Morgen, Liebling.” He murmurs against your neck, pumping lazily.

“ Already soaked for me.”

You whimper, gripping his shoulders as he works you open, thumb circling your clit until you’re shaking. By the time you come, clutching his wrist, breakfast is forgotten.

He lifts you effortlessly, sets you on his cock, and goes back to chopping vegetables while you ride him slow and greedy. You roll your hips, chasing friction, while he calmly slices bell peppers one-handed.

The sizzle of eggs, bacon, and hotdogs fills the air. When the scent of frying fat hits, you both lose patience then you slam down hard as he thrusts up brutally, and you come together with muffled groans against each other’s skin.

His release painting your insides as the bacon pops in the pan.

The rest of the day is pure debauchery.

Clothes never make a reappearance. You drift around the dorm naked, his cum drying on your thighs, breasts marked with fresh bites.

Every time you pass him. When he's reading reports on the couch or cleaning his gear at the table while his cock is hard and swinging heavy between his legs like a permanent invitation.

You take it often.

You drop to your knees while he’s reviewing mission briefs, deepthroating as much of that monster as you can in which is still only half.

He threads fingers through your hair, abs flexing, voice calm as he turns pages and praises you in German.

“ So ein braves kleines Ding…nimmst meinen Schwanz so tief…” (Such a good little thing...you take my cock so deep...)

Sunday afternoon, your phone rings.

You’re bouncing on his lap again, facing him, his mouth latched to one nipple.

The screen flashes MOM.

You freeze.

König reaches around you, grabs the phone, and holds it out. “ Answer.”

“ Are you insane?” You hiss.

“ They’ll hear—”

He thrusts up hard once, making you gasp. “ You’re too good at ignoring calls. Answer or I stop moving.”

You glare, but your hips are already rolling again.

You swipe accept.

“ Hi, Mom! Dad!”

Your mother’s voice is warm. “ Sweetheart! How’s school? Is everything okay with your roommate?”

You try to sound normal.

König chooses that moment to slam up particularly deep, the fat head of his cock knocking your cervix.

Your voice cracks on a moan. “ Everything’s g-great…oh!”

“ Baby? Are you okay?”

“ Y-yeah!” You squeak, clawing at König’s chest.

“ Just…stubbed my toe!”

König’s eyes glint with evil amusement. He flips you suddenly, pinning you face-down on the couch, one leg hooked over his forearm. He slides back in with one brutal thrust.

You whine involuntarily.

“ What was that?” Dad’s voice sharpens.

“ N-Nothing! Dropped my pen…keep going, Dad. It's the monthly allowance, right?”

Your parents keep talking about grades, allowance and reminders to eat vegetables. König leans over you, chest to your back, and starts a slow, grinding rhythm.

His masked mouth finds your ear.

“ Quiet, Schlampe.” He whispers in German.

“ Don’t want them knowing their precious daughter is getting fucked raw by her big bad roommate, hm?”

You bite the cushion to stifle another moan.

Your father launches into a lecture about budgeting your monthly allowance. König speeds up, pounding deeper, the wet slap of skin barely muffled.

He degrades you softly the whole time. König leans down, mouth at your ear, whispering pure filth in German while your parents talk about finances.

“ Du kleine Schlampe…nimmst meinen Schwanz so gut während du mit Daddy redest…so verdorben…” (You little slut...taking my cock so good while you talk to Daddy...so depraved...)

The coil snaps. You come hard, silent except for a choked whimper, walls fluttering around him. König pulls out just in time, hot stripes paint your lower back and ass then shoves back in to finish deep and flooding you again.

His huge hand clamps over your mouth, catching your muffled cry.

“ Braves Mädchen.” He breathes against your neck.

“ So gehorsam.” (So obedient.)

Your father is still mid-sentence about direct deposits when the aftershocks fade.

“ I…I have to go,” you manage, voice shaky.

“ Assignment due—”

“ Of course, honey.” Your mom says.

“ Just remember…stay safe. Keep your distance from that male roommate, okay? You’re too trusting sometimes.”

König outright laughs in a low, wicked rumble against your spine.

You end the call with trembling fingers. He plucks the phone away, tosses it onto the coffee table, and gives a lazy thrust that makes you gasp.

“ They have no idea…” He says, voice low and rough.

“ That their precious girl is getting fucked raw by her big bad roommate every day. Stuffed full of my cum while she lies to them.”

You swat his chest weakly. “ You’re evil.”

He chuckles, the sound rumbling through both of you as he starts a slow, lazy rhythm again.

“ Evil?” He leans down, mask brushing your lips.

“ No, Maus. Just keep what’s mine.”

You roll your eyes, but your legs wrap tighter around his waist, pulling him deeper.

Sunday isn’t even over yet, and you wouldn’t trade it for any club invitation in the world.