#ficitonalmen

One night, you stayed late.

You waited for him to finish his workout, locker number logged, path memorized. You had the fake notebook in your bag. The copy was perfect. Pages, weight, binding, all exact.

You timed your approach. Locker 36. He always showered after upper body. Ten, maybe twelve minutes but this time, he was faster.

A whisper of breath behind you. A shadow over your shoulder.

Then fingers closed like a vice around your wrist.

Your breath caught.

„You‘re not very good at this.“ His voice was low. Dangerous. Too calm.

You didn’t flinch. Instead, you turned your head, lips curling like the brat you were trained to be.

“Aren’t I? Maybe I don‘t want to.”

He said nothing. Just stared. His glasses fogged slightly with heat, his chest still slick from exertion, skin flushed and glowing with discipline you’d never touch.

He was a full head taller than you, and he looked down at you like a judgment, like a line of scripture meant to cleanse.

But he didn’t let go. So you leaned in. Slow. Measured. Until the scent of sweat and soap filled your lungs and your free hand drifted up his chest. You traced his sternum, finger brushing the line where pectorals met torso. Light. Deliberate. “God, you really are real, huh?” you murmured, tone mocking. “Sweat and muscles and everything.”

He didn’t stop you. His jaw tensed. But your wrist was still pinned.

So you pushed. “Tell me, prosecutor… do you always restrain strange women in wet locker rooms, or am I special?”

That’s when something shifted. He didn’t snap. Didn’t raise his voice. He let your wrist go. And then, wordlessly, he walked you backward into the lockers.

Metal pressed cold against your back. His arm blocked your left side, the other still hovering in the space where he’d held you.

And you… You reached up and took his glasses off. Delicate. Respectful. Almost tender. His eyes blinked, bare now. Less sharp. More human.

You tilted your head and whispered—“You’re really beautiful. Sad you’re a freak.”

Then, still smiling, you leaned in and kissed his cheek. Soft. Warm. Perfectly cruel. You slid the glasses back into his hand, then stepped past him, brushing your shoulder against his chest as you passed. “See you, Teru.”

He didn’t follow you. Didn’t speak.

But in the mirror near the exit, you caught his reflection, eyes still fixed on the spot where you’d touched him, mouth slightly open, fingers curled tight around the frames.

And you knew.

You crossed a line. You just weren’t sure which one of you would burn for it first.

You tell yourself it’s the job. Of course it’s the job. The surveillance. The objective.

You have to watch him, clock his schedule, track the notebook. That’s what you were told to do. But somewhere in the second week, you stopped reporting every movement.

Somewhere in the third, you started waiting for him in places you weren’t assigned to.

And now?

Now you sit in your unmarked car, eyes locked on the fourth-floor gym window, breath fogging faintly against the glass, and you whisper: “Come on, Teru…”

He’s late. That alone makes your skin itch.

Because Teru Mikami is never late. He eats at 06:15. Commutes by 07:00. Courts from 08:00–12:00. Lunch. Return. Gym. Home. Repeat.

Order. Perfection. Control.

But something changed after that night in the locker room. He doesn’t look at mirrors anymore. He leaves the gym five minutes earlier. And worst of all, he doesn’t even try to catch you tailing him.

He’s pretending you don’t exist. It’s working too well.

You bite your lip, heartbeat rising.

You’ve seen him in every mundane form a man can take: sweating at the bench press, wiping condensation from his glasses, scribbling at his desk so fast the pen nearly breaks.

And somewhere in all that watching, you lost the upper hand.

It’s maddening. Because he should have turned you in. He should have reacted. But he didn’t. He let you go.

And somehow that makes it worse. You’ve touched his skin. You’ve tasted the heat on his cheek. You’ve seen his eyes without the barrier of glass, and you know now, without question. He is beautiful in a way that shouldn’t be legal.

But more than that, he is dangerous. And you want to see what happens when he finally stops pretending he doesn’t see you.

You want him to snap. You want him to grab you like he did that night, but this time not let go.

You shouldn’t be thinking about his hands about what they’d feel like around your throat, or on your hips, or buried in your hair while he whispers things that sound like scripture and sin at once.

You shouldn’t be clenching your thighs at the thought of it. You shouldn’t be wet. Not for a fucking Kira acolyte.

But here you are. Still watching. Still waiting.

And the moment you see that tall figure in a black coat step through the gym doors, your breath leaves you.

Because this time? This time, he looks directly at your car as he passes.

Not long. Not accusing. Just… knowing.

And you know exactly what that look means.

Soon.

Three days later you were waiting for your train. You had no reason to look back. No reason to doubt your footing, no reason to pause when the train hissed into the station—But you did.

Your neck prickled the second you stepped onto the platform.

And when your eyes found him, there he was.

Immaculately dressed, briefcase in hand, framed by the soft flicker of subway lights like a noir painting. His glasses gleamed. His mouth was neutral. But his gaze?

You’d only seen it once before. That one night two weeks ago, when you trailed too close. When your heel scraped against the sidewalk and Mikami Teru turned, deadpan, unbothered and locked eyes with you for one long, terrifying second.

He hadn’t chased you. He hadn’t reported you. He hadn’t said a word.

And that made it worse.

Because now, with him twenty steps away on the same goddamn platform, your heart tried to climb up your throat.

You turned quickly—too quickly. The train wasn’t there yet. A minute or two, maybe. Long enough. You walked to the far end of the platform, not looking back.

Not running. You didn’t run…Until you heard his steps.

One-two. Then faster. Your jaw clenched. „Fuck.“

You reached for the phone in your coat pocket, fingers brushing cold metal instead.

Then his voice came. Right behind you. Too close. Too calm.

“You’ve been very sloppy lately.”

Your hand froze.

The scent of paper, subtle cologne, and something sharper, like ozone before lightning, hit your senses. You didn’t dare move.

“You watch me every day, but you don’t pray. You don’t write. You don’t even believe.” His breath kissed the shell of your ear as he leaned in. “So what are you, then?”

Your lips curled despite yourself.

“A fan,” you offered, dry and dangerous. “You’re very handsome, Teru.”

A pause.

His breath didn’t catch. But something behind you shifted. The briefcase? His stance? “You’re not funny,” he murmured. “But you are… persistent.” His hand landed on your hip. Gentle. Too gentle.

“Why did you try to switch my notebook?”

Your mouth went dry. You turned your head slightly, eyes narrowing. “You saw that?”

“I let you think I didn’t.”

You laughed once, too loud, too tight. “You’re full of shit.”

He turned you. Fast.

Your back hit the cold tile wall. His palm was braced just beside your head. And that goddamn calm was still on his face, but his eyes, sharp behind glass, burned. “You think you’re untouchable. You’re not.”

You swallowed. You shouldn’t feel heat licking at your stomach. You shouldn’t lean into the danger.

But your lips parted. “Then touch me.”

And there it was. A flicker of real amusement crossed his face, small and terrifying. His free hand ghosted down your side, brushing your thigh through your coat. The pressure was feather-light. Teasing. Measured.

“You’re not very righteous, are you?”

You grinned. “Never claimed to be.”

“No.” His voice dropped. “But you want to be punished like one.”

Your thighs pressed together instinctively. Fuck.

“You’re trembling.”

“I’m cold.”

“You’re aroused.”

Your laugh turned breathless. His leg slid between yours. That fast. Pressed in. Pinning you. The train howled down the tunnel, still far enough that the crowd hadn’t noticed the two of you tucked in the far alcove.

His hand slipped to your jaw, lifting your chin. Eyes searching yours. “When the train comes,” he murmured, “you’ll follow me. No talking. No running. If you behave, I’ll let you keep your clothes on while I make you confess.”

You blinked up at him, heart hammering. “And if I don’t behave?”

That same calm smile. Too patient. Too assured. “Then I’ll make you come before we even leave the train.”

The train roared in. Doors screamed open. He stepped back smooth, composed and held out his hand without looking at you.

You hesitated only one second.

Then took it. And the second your fingers slide against his palm, you feel it—Control. Not yours. His.

He doesn’t sit like you expected. He stands. Back straight. Shoulders sharp. That same terrifying stillness stretched over bone and purpose.

He tugs you forward. You stumble, just a half-step, and he catches you in the crook of his arm.

One arm stays out, braced on the overhead bar, anchoring you both like a steel frame. The other snakes around your back, firm and close, drawing you against his side like you belong there.

You freeze.

He’s looking down at you. Right at you. Into you.

And your breath stalls. Your mouth parts. Because for all the games, all the tailing and touching and flirting, this wasn’t planned.

You didn’t come here to see him. You didn’t even know he’d be on this platform. You just needed to clear your head.

And now? You’re trapped in the storm you created.

His chest rises with the motion of the train. He smells like black tea and sweat and fabric softener. His suit brushes your coat. His jaw is close enough to rest your forehead on.

You look up, almost involuntarily.

He’s already watching you. Like you’re one of his handwritten prayers and he’s trying to figure out what god made you this way.

The train brakes. Abruptly. The momentum sends you forward with a soft gasp. And he grabs your waist, strong and immediate, right before your arms fly up in reflex and wrap around his torso.

Fuck.

You freeze again, flush blooming hot across your neck. His chest is warm under your hands. His coat parts at the bottom, and your palms flatten against his shirt.

“Sorry,” you breathe, soft and automatic, but your eyes don’t drop.

You hold his gaze. He doesn’t blink.

And then: “No.” One word. Heavy. Sure.

You swallow. “No…?”

“Don’t apologize.“

His hand stays on your waist. His thumb moves slightly—just enough to brush where your ribs meet your hip.

His eyes drop once to your lips. Then back to your eyes.

“You didn’t come here looking for me,” he murmurs, voice like dark velvet, “but now that you’ve found me, don’t act like you’re afraid of what you wanted.”

Your heartbeat pounds against your ears.

He leans closer, not enough to kiss you, but enough that his breath grazes your skin when he whispers—“You’ve been watching me. Wishing. Obsessing.” He pauses. “Now you’re in my arms.”

The train speeds again. But you’re still. Locked to him like gravity.

“You can walk away,” he says calmly. “You can let go.”

His words say choice.

But his hand never moves. Neither do you.

Not even when the lights flicker and the train dives into the tunnel.

Because somewhere in your chest, beneath the nerves and the heat and the endless, electric ache. You don’t want to let go. Not anymore.

The train rumbles under your feet, smooth and heavy, the hum of motion wrapping around your bodies like a second skin.

You haven’t moved. Neither has he. Your arms are still around his torso, fists clenched into the fabric of his coat like you meant to be there. His hand rests at your waist, anchored, firm, unmoving. A claim disguised as support.

His breathing is steady. His jawline cuts clean and still beneath the station’s fluorescent flicker.

His heart? You can’t hear it. Can’t feel it. Too calm. Too quiet. Too composed. It gnaws at you.

So finally, voice low, you ask: “Why are you so calm?”

A simple question. But it tastes like salt on your tongue. Because you’re not calm. You haven’t been calm since the night he touched you in that locker room. Since the moment he looked at you like he could see through everything you’d ever hidden. And now he’s holding you like it means nothing. Like he’s done this before. Like you’re the one unraveling, not him.

You feel his gaze shift again. Lower. And then—His mouth is right beside your ear.

His lips don’t touch you. But his voice: “Because I’ve already decided what I’ll do with you.”

A breath catches in your throat. He pulls back just enough to see your face. His expression is unreadable. But his eyes? Hungry. Controlled. Certain. “I’ve known for a while.”

You blink. “Known what?”

He tilts his head slightly, like he’s disappointed you don’t already understand. “That you want to be caught.” His fingers press just slightly firmer into your waist. “That you don’t know how to stop. That you were waiting for me to do this. Just like now.”

You should snap back. Should say something sharp and cocky and bratty to wrest control back from this spiraling tension. But you don’t.

Because he’s right. And you know it. And now he knows you know it. His voice drops lower. Softer. Deadlier. “I’m calm because I’m patient. And because I have you now.”

Your chest rises. Your hands clench harder in his coat. He doesn’t break eye contact. Not for the next stop. Not when the crowd shifts and a woman bumps your shoulder. Not when the lights flicker again and the train screams into another bend.

You’re the one who finally looks away. And when you do, he leans in again. Just behind your ear. His lips not touching your skin, but closer this time. Almost reverent. “You should be more afraid of me.” A pause. “But I think it’s too late for that.”

The train starts to slow.

That deep screech of brakes curls under your skin like a warning bell. Doors hiss. Wind pushes through. Bodies shift around you, voices murmuring in waves.

But Mikami doesn’t move. Not until the last second. His hand, still heavy at your waist, slides down, and he takes your hand. Deliberate. Warm. Certain. His palm swallows yours, long fingers curling smoothly around your knuckles.

You blink. You don’t move. He starts to walk. Tugging you gently. You hesitate. For just a second. You look at your joined hands like they’re foreign. They shouldn’t feel this natural.

You didn’t plan to follow him. You didn’t plan any of this. You were supposed to be observing, controlling, keeping distance. Not being led out of a subway car by the man you were meant to expose. But when your fingers twitch with the urge to pull away, he intervenes.

He threads his fingers between yours. Slowly. Firmly. Completely. A locked grip. His hand around yours like prayer around purpose.

And then you look up. His eye contact is immaculate. Deadly still. Softly terrifying. Not angry. Not even possessive. Just… decided. “You’re coming with me.” Not a question.

He says it like gravity. Like law. You want to be clever. You want to throw something sharp at him, cut the tension with a joke, a smirk, a tug of war. But your hand is in his, and your mouth won’t move.

He watches you. He always watches you. And he doesn’t let go. Not as you step out onto the platform. Not as he guides you up the stairs, never once looking away. Not even when the crowd thickens and the cool night air cuts across your cheeks.

You don’t know where you’re going until the street shifts. Quiet. Clean. High-end. Office buildings blend into stone apartments and polished iron gates. He moves with purpose, never checking back, never slowing. And you follow. Hand in hand.

Because somewhere deep in your chest, even through the rush of fear and the taste of guilt, you want to know what he looks like in his space. What books he keeps beside his bed. What his hands feel like when he’s not holding back. You want the full obsession. And now? You’re in it.

The elevator ride is silent. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just… quiet. You stand beside him, your hand still in his. His grip hasn’t loosened once. He doesn’t look at you. Not because he’s avoiding you, because he doesn’t have to. He already knows exactly what you’re thinking.

The doors open. A quiet hallway. One apartment at the end. He unlocks it without ceremony, steps inside, and only then he lets go. Just long enough to take your coat.

His fingertips brush the inside of your wrist. You shiver, but not from cold. The apartment is everything you expected: clean, minimal, almost surgical in its order. White walls, dark wood, not a single object out of place. A stack of books. A legal brief. One single framed photograph, his mother, probably.

He shuts the door. And locks it. The sound is soft. Final.

He doesn’t offer you tea. Doesn’t ask you to sit. He just turns to face you fully, dark eyes raking over your figure once—slowly—and says, in that low, controlled voice: “You came willingly.”

Your throat is dry. You nod once. You don’t speak. His gaze drops to your hands. “You’re not trembling anymore.”

“I’m used to you now,” you breathe, trying for strength.

He steps forward once. Close. Not touching. “You’re not.”

That shuts you up. The silence is suffocating.

He lifts one hand and cups your cheek. Just one hand. Just that. But your knees nearly give. His thumb brushes your skin, slow, reverent. His eyes stay locked on yours. “You know what I am,” he says softly. “And you came anyway.”

You swallow. “I wanted—”

“No,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “You needed.”

He’s right. You don’t respond. You can’t. You stand there, still in your boots, coat draped over his armchair, heart beating so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

He touches your mouth. His finger. Just his thumb, brushing the edge of your lips like he’s testing how real you are.

“You watched me,” he whispers. “Day after day. Until you couldn’t take it anymore.” He leans in. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just closer. “So tell me—” His mouth is near your jaw now, almost grazing skin. “Did you come here for punishment…” A breath. “Or permission?”

Your stomach drops. Your hands twitch at your sides. He watches you. Waiting. And when you don’t answer fast enough, he steps even closer, his chest brushing yours now. His mouth beside your ear. “Take your shoes off.”

Simple. Soft. Not up for discussion. You bend down automatically, pulse roaring in your ears, and when you look back up he’s unbuttoning his sleeves. Calm. Patient. Precise.

His voice stays low. “Everything that happens from here on out,” he murmurs, “you don’t get to pretend you didn’t want.”

Your breath catches. Because he’s right again. You did this. And now? He’s going to take you apart for it.

You stand in his apartment, breath held, shoes off, coat gone, your body still tense like it hasn’t caught up to the room.

And he doesn’t say anything else. He just walks past you. Unhurried. Measured. He moves to a high-backed armchair by the window. Dark velvet. Monastic.

He sits. Spreads his legs a little. Hands folded loosely in his lap. And watches you. He doesn’t tell you to undress. He doesn’t move toward you.

He just looks. You shift your weight. Try not to fidget. His eyes stay locked on yours. He blinks once. Slowly. You realize your pulse is thudding in your ears like gunfire.

The silence presses in. And then he lifts a hand. Not high. Just enough to gesture you forward. “Come here.” Soft. Final.

You walk slowly. When you stop in front of him, he reaches up. And touches your hand. Just your hand. His fingers slide along your knuckles, so gently it’s maddening. A ghost of pressure. Reverent. Intentional. Then up past your wrist, to the soft skin of your forearm. Still featherlight. Still quiet. He’s watching your face the entire time. When his hand reaches your neck, he doesn’t grip.

He just rests it there. A warm palm against your throat. Calm. Measuring your breath. “You’re shaking again.”

You try to speak. Can’t. His thumb brushes the underside of your jaw. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”

Your eyes flutter. Still, he doesn’t kiss you. He just leans in slightly, still seated, one hand on your throat, the other resting on the arm of the chair. His breath grazes your cheek. “I don’t need to ask if you’re comfortable.” A pause. “You wouldn’t be here if you were.”

That hits somewhere deep. You swallow, lips parted. You want to move. You want to do something but you don’t know what.

He tilts your face with his thumb, studying you. Then, just above a whisper: “Take off your shirt.”

It’s not a demand. It’s truth. Like he already knows you will.

Like this moment was already written. Your hands move before your thoughts catch up. And when the fabric slips from your shoulders, you hear him exhale, just once. Controlled. Almost silent. He doesn’t touch your skin. He just watches you stand in front of him, bared, tense, obedient, exposed under nothing but his gaze.

“Beautiful.” One word. Like a sentence passed. A judgment made. Then his fingers return to your jaw. Not rough. Not possessive. Just his. And you feel yourself coming undone. From nothing but his voice. His silence. His certainty.

And that awful, aching fact that he hasn’t even kissed you yet.

His thumb leaves your jaw. He leans back in the armchair, hands folded again, and speaks without a hint of hesitation. “Strip.”

Your stomach tightens. But you don’t move. Not immediately. His eyes lift to yours, expectant. “Until there’s only lace between you and obedience.” Your breath hitches—just barely. Your fingers move to your waistband. You peel your clothes off one by one. The sound of fabric slipping from skin feels loud in the still apartment. Shirt. Pants. Socks. Nothing left but lace, a soft black set that clings to your hips and chest in sheer confession.

You stand in front of him. Back straight. Chin up. Bratty. Bold. Unapologetic. You fold your hands behind your back and tilt your head slightly, a quiet smirk pulling at your lips. “Satisfied?”

He exhales. Almost a laugh. Almost. His eyes drink you in, long legs, the swell of your chest, the cut of your collarbone. But he doesn’t rise. “Interesting,” he murmurs. “You look like you’re trying to win something.”

You don’t answer. You step forward instead. Slowly. Deliberately. He doesn’t move. Even when you reach him, knees between his, your skin almost brushing his thighs, he just looks up at you. Waiting. You reach for his face.

And once again—You take his glasses off.

He lets you. Your fingers are soft on the frame. You slide them from his face with care, as if they’re more fragile than he is.

You lean down just enough to whisper: “I like your face bare.”

A beat of silence. His lips twitch, just barely. Not a smile. Approval. His voice is soft, low, dark honey: “Well…” His hand slides to your hip. Just his palm, warm and sure, fingers splayed where your skin meets lace. “I do like you bare more too.”

His thumb brushes the edge of the fabric. His eyes never leave yours. “But not just like this.”

You blink. “No?”

His other hand lifts. Fingers ghost up the center of your chest, never touching, just tracing the air above your sternum. “I want you bare of noise. Bare of ego. Bare of that little look you keep giving me like you’re still in control.”

Your breath catches.

“Because you’re not.” His hand finally cups your cheek again. “Not in this room. Not with me.”

You exhale shakily, lips parted, heat blooming low and dangerous in your stomach. “Then what do you want me to do?”

A pause. His gaze softens. Just a little. “Kneel.”

You kneel without a word. It’s not obedience. It’s a challenge. Your hands brace lightly on the inside of his knees, fingers curling up the strong lines of his thighs just enough to tease, not enough to touch. Your posture isn’t shy. It’s defiant. Chin up. Eyes burning. The lace clings to your chest like a second heartbeat. You look at him like you’re still trying to win.

He doesn’t blink. He leans forward slowly, shoulders sharp, gaze locked, one knee shifting further apart until your arms stretch with the distance. Your hands slide a little higher. You feel the muscle shift under his slacks.

You smirk. His voice is low. Smooth. Too calm. “You’re not good at being patient.”

You hum. “Maybe you’re just too slow.”

He exhales through his nose. Amused. Dangerous. He starts unbuttoning his shirt. Not rushed. Not to tempt you. Just deliberate. One button. Two. Three. You can see his chest now, strong, tight, still damp with heat from earlier. The cut of his abs, the dip between muscle and bone. Controlled perfection.

You lick your lips. Not subtle. He shifts forward in the chair, just slightly, bringing his body closer to your face, his shirt now hanging open, sleeves still cuffed.

He leans in, not enough to touch. Just close enough for your breath to hitch. And then he speaks—“I’m going to fuck that behaviour out of you.”

Your heart stops.

“But not yet.”

His hand lifts to your cheek again—soft. Too soft. “First,” he murmurs, “I’m going to make you say amen.”

Your brows flick up. “You want me to pray?”

“No,” he says simply. “I want you to beg.”

You laugh once. Short. Cocky. “You think I’ll beg for you?”

He smiles now, quiet. Calculated. Like you just gave him permission. “Not for me.” A pause. His thumb strokes your lower lip. “For what I’ll give you.”

Your breath stalls. “And when I do?”

“Then,” he says softly, “I’ll give you more.” He tilts your chin up, barely an inch. His voice drops lower, silk and steel. “I’ll touch you where you’re already aching. I’ll say your name like it’s a verse. And I won’t stop until you forget why you followed me in the first place.”

You swallow hard. Your thighs press together on instinct. He sees it. And still—he doesn’t kiss you.

Just watches. Still unbuttoned. Still in control. Waiting for you to crack. Your nails drag slow and deliberate up the inside of his thighs not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to tease. You smirk up at him from your knees. And he smirks back. But only with his eyes. His mouth doesn’t move. Just that glint—dark, dangerous, knowing. Like he’s letting you play. For now.

“Come here.” A whisper.

You rise. Before you can say a word, he hooks one finger inside the waistband of your lace panties. Not tight. Just enough to pull you closer. You stumble slightly, palms catching his chest.

He doesn’t break eye contact. He shifts in the chair just enough to part his legs wider, guiding you over him.

And you straddle him. Face to face. Too close. His hand settles on the small of your back. His chest brushes yours. The open shirt frames the contact like it’s something sacred.

You both breathe in the same tight space. You can feel his breath on your cheek. Your lace grazes his skin. Your thighs press to his sides.

And then his voice. Low. Filthy. Like blasphemy whispered in a church. “You don’t even realize how easy you’d come on my thigh right now.”

Your breath catches. His other hand grazes your hip, thumb sliding just beneath the lace. “I wouldn’t even have to fuck you.” He leans forward, nose almost against yours. “Just let you grind on me until you cry. Until you beg. Until you can’t remember your own name—only mine.”

You inhale sharply. And smile. Your nose brushes his. Soft. Mocking. Teasing. “That’s cute,” you murmur. “You practice that in the mirror, prosecutor?”

His jaw flexes. But he doesn’t lose composure. His hand drifts up your back. Barely there. Possessive.

“No,” he breathes. “You make it too easy.”

You snort, head tilted, still mocking, still holding yourself like you’re in charge. But you feel the tension in his thighs beneath yours. You feel the slow shift of his hips. And you know he’s done letting you get away with this. His mouth ghosts along your jaw. Not kissing. Just there. “Say it again.”

You blink. “Say what?”

His hand grips the nape of your neck. Gentle but firm.

“Call me cute again.” A beat. “See what I do to you.”

You reach up. Your fingertips trail along his cheek, one slow stroke of your nail over smooth, warm skin. Delicate. Dangerous. He doesn’t flinch. You smile as your touch glides past his jaw, brushing a single, loose strand of dark hair back behind his ear.

He lets you. Lets you move like you own the moment. Even when you lean in again, nose brushing his with that same defiant softness.

“You,” you murmur, “in fact… are very cute.” Your fingers skim down, slow across his temple. “But,” you whisper, “you’re also very hot.” Still, he doesn’t speak. He watches. Like a priest watches a confession he’s already condemned. You press your chest to his, shift your hips just a little more snug in his lap.

His jaw tightens. Your lips ghost his ear. “And you are very, very hard, Teru Mikami.”

Silence. A beat. And then he moves. It’s subtle. Barely anything. But he rolls his hips up just once, slow and measured. The hard line of him presses right between your thighs, thick through the fabric. You gasp quiet, involuntary.

„That‘s your doing.“ he murmurs. Still calm. Still deadly. His hands slide to your hips. Secure. Contained. Firm. “You act like this isn’t what you wanted.” His voice curls around your ear. “You’re grinding on my lap and calling me cute. You followed me for weeks. Watched every move I made. And now you’re in lace and shaking on top of me.”

His hands grip tighter. “You’re not in control anymore.”

Then his nose brushes your jaw. His breath fans your throat. “So here’s what happens next.”

Your breath stalls.

“You’ll grind again. Just once. And if you moan—if I feel anything—I’ll pull this lace off you, with my teeth or my hands, I don’t care which. And I’ll make you pray loud enough for your god to leave the room.”

You go completely still. He waits. Smirking? No. Just watching. Like he already knows you will.

You hum sweet, fake innocence and lift your hand from his thigh. It hovers over the hard plane of his chest, barely brushing the heat there.

He doesn’t react. So you push more. You grab the loose edges of his shirt, open halfway already and start undoing the rest of the buttons. Slow. One. Then another. Your hips roll down against his, slow and deliberate, one long grind of your soaked lace dragging across the thick press of him beneath his slacks.

You feel him twitch. Your smile sharpens. “You know, Teru…” Your voice is low. Lazy. So unbothered it hurts. “I like you.” You flick open another button. His shirt spreads wider. You see the sharp lines of his chest, the cut down his stomach. “But your little god complex?” Your eyes flick up. Hold his. And you roll your hips again. Slower. Crueler. “It’s getting a little annoying.”

A pause. You drag your finger along his sternum. “A little boring.” You say it like you mean it. Like your cunt isn’t soaked for him. Like you’re not on fire. Like you’re not daring him to lose control.

He still hasn’t moved. But something in his eyes shifts. The stillness turns to silence. The patience goes razor-sharp. His breath is even. His shirt is open now, his chest bare, skin hot beneath your fingertips. You watch his throat move as he swallows once.

His hands slide up your back. Smooth. Slow. You expect force. But he doesn’t grab. He just lifts his head. And says, dangerously soft: “Say that again.”

You raise a brow. Lean in. Your lips brush his ear. “Which part?That I like you…” You kiss just beneath his jaw. “…or that your god complex is pathetic?”

Silence. Thick. Charged. Final. He grabs your wrists. Suddenly. Hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to show you how easily he could. He holds your arms behind your back, both in one hand. And the other? It slips under your thigh. Lifts. Spreads.

Your lace presses tighter to him now, your core lined up perfectly with the hard line of his cock. Your breath stutters.

He leans in. Too close. Too calm. Too far gone. “You can either worship me…” His hips roll once. “…or beg me not to make you.”

You shift. Slowly. Deliberately. You reach down and take his big, clean, strong hand that’s been holding your wrists, your waist, your goddamn composure hostage. You guide it to your stomach. Palm facing in. You let it hover there. No pressure. Just heat. Then, gently, you twist his forearm, guiding it down between your legs. The heel of his palm meets the soaked lace. And you sit on it.

You grind down slow, pressing yourself to him, soaking the creases of his palm. The fabric doesn’t hide anything now, heat, wetness, want. His breath catches, a real sound, just once. His hand twitches beneath you. But he doesn’t pull back.

So you lean in. Your nose brushes his jaw. “I’ll worship you,” you whisper. You kiss it. Soft. Barely there. “I can also beg you…” You lick a slow line along his neck. “…if you want me to.” You feel his fingers shift—his palm tightening slightly, the edge of one finger pressing deeper against the thin lace.

“I can do everything you want me to do.” Your hands rise to his face cupping both sides, gentle and wicked. You tilt his head, kiss the other side of his throat, slower this time and breathe against his skin. “You just have to talk to me, baby.”

The word baby hits the air like a sin. You feel him go still beneath you. His body’s hot. Tight. Coiled. You lean back just slightly, still holding his face, and whisper—“I can also leave you here.”

One kiss on his nose. A teasing peck. Sickly sweet. “With your boner.” Your thumb brushes his cheekbone. “Desperate.” Your palm presses gently to his throat. “Leaking.”

Your lips graze his. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just a whisper of what’s waiting. His palm twitches. Hard. You gasp genuine, breath catching as one thick finger presses just slightly more into the drenched lace. His eyes flicker. Just once.

And when he speaks, it’s quiet. Dangerous. Fucking final. “Strip.”

“No. Do it yourself.” You say it like a dare. Like you’re still the one in charge. Your grin is slow, feline, lethal.

Mikami doesn’t blink. He doesn’t sigh, doesn’t smile, doesn’t say a word. His hand moves. One flick. His fingers slide behind your back with effortless precision and your bra snaps open like it had been waiting to fall apart in his hands. The straps slide down your arms. He still hasn’t touched your skin properly. Not once. You peel the loose fabric off, slow and smug, and toss it onto the coffee table, right next to his glasses. That little altar you built for everything you’ve stripped away.

And then you kiss him. Soft. Your mouth brushes his like a reward. But he doesn’t kiss you back. Not even a twitch. You tilt your head, lips curving into a crooked smirk, and guide his face again, twist it gently, reverently, like he’s something holy.

You kiss his neck. Open-mouthed. Wet. Filthy. You mouth at his throat like you’re trying to make it bruise. Then your lips brush his ear. And you whisper: “Go on.” A pause. Your breath hot against him. “Fuck me like you mean it, Mikami.”

That breaks something. But not loudly. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t curse. He just moves. Fast. Exact. His hand wraps around your waist. And he stands. With you. You gasp, arms catching his shoulders as he lifts you like nothing, your legs instinctively wrapping around his torso.

You’re off the ground. His hands grip your ass, fingers digging in, still calm but unrelenting.

“You want to know what I mean?” he murmurs. His voice brushes the shell of your ear, warm and deadly. He starts walking. Down the hall. His apartment still dead quiet, except for the soft thud of your bodies, the breath he exhales through his nose like he’s holding in a flood. “I mean to make you cum until you beg me to stop—then beg me not to.”

His mouth finally touches your skin. Not your lips. Your shoulder. One slow, open-mouthed kiss. Then another—lower now. Across your collarbone. “I mean to fuck that bratty behaviour out of you so completely, you forget how to smirk.”

You moan quiet and helpless. You reach for his face again but this time he turns it away.

“No.” His voice is sharp now. Still low. Still in control. But it cuts. “You don’t get to kiss me until I say so.”

You clench around nothing. Fuck. He kicks the bedroom door open. The bed is pristine. Like everything else.

Until now. He drops you to it, not rough. Not gentle. Just inevitable. You barely land before he climbs over you, hands spreading your thighs, and finally his eyes drop to your soaked panties. “You really thought you were leading this?”

You start to answer. But his hand slides up your thigh. And this time he doesn’t stop. His hands glide slow over your thighs spreading them, steady, reverent. Fingertips ghost up over your hipbones, his eyes tracking every movement like he’s engraving them in memory. Then, low “Up.”

A single word. You smirk. Your hips lift. And he slides your panties down slow, peeling the soaked lace from your skin with almost obscene care. He holds them in one hand for a moment. Not staring. Not mocking. Just… weighing. Then he drops them gently to the floor, like the removal of a final boundary.

He kneels between your legs. Settles there, formal, focused. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, tugging you down the bed with practiced strength until your legs hang over the edge, wrapped loose around his hips. He looks at you. Dark eyes. Slight flush. Breath too even.

And you—You look at him with wide, mocking eyes. Puppy-eyed. Like you don’t already have his sanity curled around your little finger. You reach down to one hand grazing his hand still resting at your thigh. You trace the knuckles. Then you thread your fingers through his. Soft. Intimate. Intentional.

And you tug. His body leans forward, just enough. Just close. “I don’t care what you say,” you whisper. He blinks. And that’s all the permission you need. Your other hand slides around the back of his neck, fingers threading into the perfect strands of his hair. And then you grip. Hard. Not playful. Claiming.

You pull him down. “If I want to kiss you,” you breathe, your nose brushing his “I’m kissing you.”

And you do. You press your mouth to his, slow at first. Soft. Almost sweet. And he doesn’t move. Not for a second. But you feel it, the way his chest tightens. The way his shoulders lock. The way his breath catches like he’s trying not to shatter.

And then he kisses you back. Hard. His mouth opens against yours, heat, pressure, need. His hand grips your jaw. Your fingers fist tighter in his hair. Teeth scrape. Tongues tangle.

It’s not gentle. It’s not chaste. It’s weeks of control breaking at the seam. You moan into his mouth, gasping when his body presses flush to yours, the heat of his cock still caught in his slacks grinding against your bare core. “Fuck,” you breathe, lips brushing his.

And for the first time, he smiles. Just barely. But it’s there. His hand moves, down your chest, slow and burning and he whispers against your mouth: “You’ll regret that.”

You grin back. “Then make it worth it.”

Your body’s warm under his, open, needy, trembling. His mouth is still on yours. You try to lift your arms, to grab him again, but he pins them. One hand snakes up, capturing both wrists and pressing them to the mattress above your head.

Not rough. Just enough to remind you: You gave him control. You moan into his mouth. And he swallows it. His lips move lower, kissing down your jaw, your throat, hot breath curling over your collarbones. His free hand trails down your side, over the curve of your waist, slow, light, barely there. You arch into him, thighs trembling, but he doesn’t touch where you want it.

Not yet. You gasp. He doesn’t answer. His mouth finds the top of your breast. Kisses. Doesn’t bite. Just soft open-mouthed heat that makes you squirm. His hand moves lower. Across your stomach. To your hip. You breathe harder. Your legs shift open. He drags two fingers just above your slit. You whine.

He doesn’t push in. Instead, he circles the heat of you—lazy, precise, maddening. You bite your lip. “You like that, yeah?” he whispers, voice low against your skin. You whimper. Nod. “Say it.”

You twist your wrists beneath his grip. He holds tighter. Your voice breaks. “Yes—fuck, I like it—”

He exhales. Smirks against your throat. His fingers ghost over your entrance, dipping in just barely, just enough to feel how soaked you are. Then he pulls back again.

You whine, louder now, frustrated.He kisses your lips again, deeper this time, slow and drowning and when he pulls away, your eyes flutter open to find him watching you. Smug. Calm. So patient it hurts. “Then you’ll beg for more.”

You’re writhing now, hips rocking, desperate for friction as Mikami slides his fingers just close enough to ruin you. Every moan is swallowed in his mouth, every twitch of your body met with maddening stillness.

His fingers dip in once, shallow, teasing your entrance, and then retreat again. You cry out in frustration.

“God, you’re—” Your voice cracks. His lips brush your cheek. He whispers against it—“Almost ready for me.”

Your whole body clenches. But you don’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, breathless and shaking, you glare up at him and smirk. “You’re lucky you’re so strong, Mikami…”

He raises a brow. That perfect composure still intact.

“Otherwise I’d palm you through your pretty little slacks and make you come untouched.”

That gets him. He chuckles. A real sound, low, quiet, deep in his chest. “You would, yeah?”

You grin.

And then he lets go. Your wrists drop to the mattress, your chest rising hard and fast, but before you can grab him he pulls back. Kneels upright between your legs.

Towering. You watch. His hands move to his belt. He unfastens it without hurry, without ceremony. Then the button. The zipper. And then he shoves his slacks and briefs down in one clean movement.

Thick. Heavy. Gorgeous. Hard enough to make you forget your name. You stare eyes wide, lips parting. Your head tips back against the pillows in genuine, helpless awe. “Oh fuck—” It slips out of you in a whisper. Honest. Ruined.

He laughs again—quiet and smug, like he was waiting for that reaction. “Too much?” he teases softly.

You shake your head and then he leans forward. Not entering you yet. Just grinding that thick, hot length right against your soaked cunt. You gasp. Moan. Grind back without meaning to.

“Do you need prep, sweetheart?” he breathes at your jaw.

His lips brush your skin. His cock drags slow over your folds, wet with your slick, heavy with promise. “Or can you take it like that?”

You moan into his neck. He rolls his hips again, not inside. Still not inside. Just enough pressure to make your thighs shake. And then his voice again. Lower. Closer. Deadly soft. “Be good.”

“Tell me. How do you want it?”

Your hands rise not to his shoulders, not to his hair. But down. Between your bodies. Your fingers wrap around his cock, hot, thick, perfect in your palm. And for the first time, his breath hitches. A sharp little intake. Not loud, but real.

The sound of a man whose control just cracked at the seam. Your grip is steady, your thumb dragging slow over the head, spreading your slick back along the shaft.

He watches you. Watches your hand. Watches your face. You grin, too sweet. Too smug. And lean up, your mouth brushing the curve of his ear.

“I bet you’re vocal.” A whisper. A command wrapped in honey. “Cute moans.” You lick the shell of his ear. “If not…” You kiss the corner of his jaw, slow and cruel. “I’ll be so disappointed.”

You feel his cock twitch in your hand. You guide him lower. Right to your entrance. Soaking. Ready. Bare. His hips shift forward—slow, careful.

And then you press him between your thighs. And he slides in. Your lips part. Eyes roll back. The stretch is so deep, so slow, you choke on a moan, fingernails curling into his back as your walls try to adjust.

And him? His mouth opens. Not a sound at first, just breathless, like he’s never felt anything like you. Then a soft, deep grunt escapes him. Not loud. But so raw.

His eyes are locked on yours, burning, reverent, devouring every twitch in your face as he sinks deeper inch by inch, until he’s fully inside. He doesn’t move. Just stays there. Filling you. Stretching you. Letting your body shake around him.

And then he whispers: “You wanted it like this…” A kiss at your throat. “Now be good—”

Another shallow thrust, just enough to make your breath catch. “And let me hear you beg next.”

His hips still. Buried deep.

Your walls clench around him, fluttering, desperate for movement. He leans down again, hands bracing on either side of your face. Eyes dark. Breath hot. Lips just over yours. “You want me vocal, hm?” You nod, dazed, your hand sliding up his chest. He kisses you hard. Slow. Filthy. Tongue deep, pulling a whimper from your throat before he pulls away.

Then he speaks. Voice low. Reverent. Almost cruel. “Then listen when I fall apart…”

His hands slide down. Gripping your waist. Hard. He draws back. And then slams into you. Once. Your body jolts. You gasp. He does it again. And again.

And suddenly the rhythm is brutal. Unrelenting. He pounds into you with calculated force, your legs flung wide around him, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing sharp in the bedroom.

“Fucking God—” he gasps, voice breaking as your cunt clamps down around him. “You feel like sin. Like a fucking—” He moans—loud, rough, needy. You claw at his shoulders, barely breathing as he pistons his hips into you.

Your eyes roll back again. He leans over, growling into your neck: “So tight—so wet—you wanted this—wanted me to ruin you—fuck—” You’re whining now, half-crying from how deep he hits, how full you feel.

Your head falls back. Your voice is ragged. “Fuck—please—!”

His hands slide under your ass, lifting your hips just slightly, angling deeper. You scream. For real this time. He groans. Louder. “That’s it,” he pants. “Fucking take it—look at you—fucking coming undone on my me—You like that? Hm? You like hearing me fall apart?”

You nod desperately, mouth open, no sound. He kisses your jaw again, sloppy, breathless. And with every thrust, his moans grow louder, dirtier, utterly wrecked by the way you tighten, squirm, arch up into him. He’s losing control. And this time?

He’s letting you hear all of it. Your legs are shaking.

He’s deep inside, panting against your neck, both of you soaked in sweat, tangled in sheets and sound. But Mikami’s not done.

Not even close. “Turn over.” His voice is low, not asking. A growl, broken on the edge of restraint.

You don’t even hesitate, you roll, stomach flat to the bed, thighs still spread wide, ass lifting instinctively like your body’s been trained just for this. You hear him groan behind you—dark and desperate. “Fuck…”

The mattress dips. His hands find your hips hard. Bruising. He drags you back to the edge of the bed like he owns you. Your cheek presses to the sheets. You whimper, grinding back against him once, just once and then he slams into you. Deep. Brutal. You choke on a moan.

He moans too, a real sound, loud and broken, echoing through the room as his hips snap into yours with reckless rhythm. “You feel—you feel so fucking good like this—” His voice is wrecked now. Not smooth. Not composed.

Just raw. His hand tangles in your hair. He pulls. Not enough to hurt—just to claim. Just to make you arch. “Look at you,” he groans, thrusting harder. “On your knees for me. Spread out. Ruined.” You cry out again, high, wrecked, the pressure building in your belly too fast, too sharp.

“You sound so pretty like this…”

His other hand slides around your front, between your thighs, pressing tight circles against your clit. You scream into the sheets.

“That’s it—fuck, give it to me—let me feel you fall apart—”

You’re gone. You come with a sob, body convulsing around his cock, clenching so tight he curses under his breath—louder, dirtier than before.

“Fuck—yes—yes—just like that—” He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, chasing his own high, panting, moaning, hips slamming hard against your ass, his rhythm falling apart.

And then—“Where do you want it?” he grits, barely able to speak. “Inside? Over your back? Say it, sweetheart—say it.”

His thrusts are falling apart. Deep. Hard. Desperate. His moans are wrecked now, nothing calm left, nothing patient. You can feel the way he’s fighting it, trying to hold on, to stay composed even while you’re trembling beneath him, your body clenching, already fucked senseless.

You glance back, breath still broken. You smirk. And you push back into his hips once, slow and mean. “Pull out.”

He groans, high in his throat, like it hurts. “W-What?”

You twist your head, eyes glittering. “I want to feel it.”

A pause. A stutter in his breath. “I want it all over me, come—” You arch again, grinding into him. “Be a good boy and give it to me.”

That’s what breaks him. He snarls, a real sound, unfiltered, dragged out of his lungs like you ripped it from his chest.

He pulls out in one desperate motion,thick and swollen, slick with you. And then he comes, without touching himself again.

“F-Fuck—look at you—look at you—”

You do. You crane your neck just enough to see it—his face breaking, mouth open, head tilted back. Hot ropes of it painting your back, your thighs, your hips, dripping down your skin as his voice pours out in helpless moans.

“Fuck—fuck—fucking perfect—” He strokes through it, body shuddering, breath stuttering, spilling everything he’s held in all over you.

And you? You just lie there, smug, aching, full of aftershocks, as the last drops hit your lower back and the heat of it makes you smirk into the sheets. He collapses to his knees behind you, hands bracing on either side of your hips.

The only sounds are panting. Breathing. The echo of him falling apart. You murmur into the quiet: “Told you I’d be disappointed if you weren’t vocal.”

He laughs—hoarse. Shaky. Completely undone. “I hate you.”

You smirk. “No. You do not.”

You let the silence sit. His cum’s still warm on your back, slowly cooling across your skin, staining his perfect sheets with messy proof. He’s slumped behind you, chest heaving, hair mussed, face dazed.

You flip over. Fast. And Mikami’s eyes snap open, wide. Horrified. His gaze drops instantly to the bed, where his cum now smears in hot white streaks across the sheets. His mouth opens. Closes.

He looks like his soul just left his body. You push yourself up on your forearms, slow and smirking. “Wow,” you murmur, fake-innocent, “Teru Mikami… defiled by his own orgasm.”

He glares. You just grin wider. Your eyes drop between his legs. He’s still hard. Still flushed. Still twitching. You tilt your head.

“Still hard, huh?” And before he can say a word you grab him. One hand, soft but sure, wrapping around the base of his cock.

His whole body jolts. “Shit—stop—!” His voice is broken, moaning, trembling on the edge of pain and pleasure. Your grip tightens just slightly. You pull him closer by it, like a leash.

“Mikami…” Your voice is silk. Dangerous. “You didn’t say I couldn’t.” He braces one arm on the mattress, other hand grabbing your wrist lightly, as if he doesn’t even know what to do with himself. “I—I just came—”

You stroke him once. Slow. He gasps. “Fuck—don’t—”

You sit up further, licking a line up his neck. “Did I say you could breathe yet?”

His breath stutters. His cock twitches in your hand again, too sensitive, too full, already threatening to get harder again. You kiss his throat. “C’mon, pretty boy.” A stroke. He groans. “You said I could worship you.”

Your lips ghost over his ear. “That means round two is mine.”

You pump him once, just once. Firm. Too slow.

And Mikami breaks. His hand flies to your wrist grabbing it tight. His head tilts back, mouth open, moaning like you’ve got him bound to the edge of hell.

“I—I can’t—fuck—please—I’m too sensitive—”

His voice is wrecked not the calm, smug bastard you knew. This is desperation. This is raw.

You blink. Tilt your head. And smile.

“Wow, baby, that‘s the first time you show emotions…” You pump again. He shudders. Leftover cum slides down the shaft, dripping into your palm. You lift your hand slowly. Let him watch. Then you lick it.

Your tongue drags across your own skin, collecting the taste, your eyes never leaving his. He stares. Chest rising hard. Pupils blown. Lips parted. He looks like he could come again just from that.

And then you lean forward, lips just beside his ear. Voice velvet-sweet: “Lay down.”

Not a question. Not even a command. A sentence. Inevitable. Final. He stares at you. Still holding your wrist. Still twitching in your hand. And after a second, he obeys.

His body sinks back into the ruined sheets, muscles taut, throat working. He looks up at you. Waiting.

You don’t straddle him. You don’t pin him down. You just roll onto your side. One arm bent beneath your head, the other stretching out, fingers light and teasing as you let your nail drag slowly over the skin of his stomach.

Down. Over the soft rise and fall of his breath. Lower. Across his hipbones. He flinches. Not from pain. From how deeply sensitive he still is. His cock twitches once on the sheets, still half-hard, still wet, still desperate for peace.

He doesn’t move. He just stares at you. Eyes wide. Chest rising too fast. Hair mussed and sticking to his temples. Mouth parted like he’s still trying to process what you just did to him.

You smile. Not cruel. Just… victorious. “Not so smug now, huh?” Your voice is soft. Mocking. Your nail traces back up to his ribs, barely touching him.

He breathes in sharply. Still no words. You glance down, watch his abs twitch under your fingertips. And when your eyes find his again, he’s just looking. Quiet. Devoured. Like you’ve rewritten everything he thought he knew about power.

And the worst part? You didn’t even fuck him again. You just watched. And he let you. Because now?

He’s yours. And he knows it.

He’s still staring. Chest rising like he just ran a marathon in silence. One arm limp on the bed, the other bent, hand twitching near your shoulder like he wants to reach but isn’t sure he’s allowed.

You smile lazily. And don’t say a word. Your fingertips trail up his ribs again, light as dust. You watch the way his stomach tightens, the way his jaw clenches with effort just to stay still.

And then he moves. His hand finds your waist. Slow. Almost careful. He slides it up, palm warm, wide fingers brushing your ribs, then resting lightly just beneath your breast. Not groping. Not gripping. Just… holding.

And when he finally speaks his voice is wrecked. “Can I touch you now?” So soft. So real you almost forget to tease.

Almost.

You brush his hair back from his forehead, nails scraping lightly through damp strands. “Now you ask?”

You kiss the corner of his jaw just a brush of lips. “You should’ve begged sooner, Teru.” He groans softly, almost smiling. Almost. Your hand slides down his chest.

You shift a little closer. Your nose brushes his. “You’ll worship me tomorrow,” you whisper against his mouth. Then you kiss his jaw. Final. “If you behave.”

He breathes out like he might lose it again. But this time, he doesn’t reach. He just pulls you closer. Wraps one arm around your back. Presses his forehead to yours.

And lets you win. For now.

The sun hasn‘t fully risen yet.

Just that dull grey glow pressing against the curtains, filtering light across ruined sheets, dried sweat, and a man who refuses to loosen his grip on you. Mikami is asleep, but his arm is still locked around your waist, tight.

Possessive. Bruising. You shift a little. He grumbles softly. You smile. His face is finally peaceful, even if his body isn’t. Hair a mess. Lips parted. Jaw slack.

You brush a hand over his cheek. Soft. Dangerous. “Mikami.” A hum. Deep in his chest. Low and rough, like he’s trying to respond without waking up.

His grip tightens slightly, like his body’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets up for even a second.

You lean in. Nose brushing his. Mouth curved into a smirk that shouldn’t feel fond, but somehow does.

“We still have unfinished business, y’know.”

No answer. You tap his jaw with your fingertip. He blinks, one eye opening, barely.

“What am I supposed to tell my boss?”

That stirs something. He shifts but doesn’t let go, just breathes deeper, head nuzzling into your collarbone. Then, voice half-asleep, half-smirking: “Tell him you watched me cum on your back…” Another breath. Slower. “…moaning like a teenager.”

You snort. He doesn’t laugh. Just smiles faintly against your skin. “You’re disgusting,” you whisper.

“Mhh, but you liked it,” he replies, almost too quiet to catch.

That shuts you up. For a moment. His thumb rubs absent over your side, lazy and warm. You stare at the ceiling, fingers trailing over the top of his spine.

“You gonna let me get dressed eventually?”

“Mm.”

You wait. “That’s not an answer.”

“No,” he mutters into your neck.

You chuckle. But deep inside, something soft tightens. Because maybe, just maybe, you don’t want to get dressed yet either.

The bed is a mess, sheets ruined, your body sticky with memory, the taste of him still ghosting your tongue.

He stirs beside you after a while, a lazy, muscled stretch, breath through his nose, hand gliding over your waist as he murmurs something soft against your shoulder.

Then he gets up. No clothes. No shame.

Just naked, half-asleep Mikami, quietly padding into the kitchen to grab water like this is a Sunday morning and not the middle of a goddamn intelligence breach.

You exhale. You sit up, the headboard cool against your back, your skin bare, thighs parted slightly where you let them fall.

The air is warm. The silence golden.

Until your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen. Your stomach drops.

BOSS (SPK – ENCRYPTED CALL)

Fuck.

You answer it. Of course you do.

“Hey.” You clear your throat. “Yeah, I—no, he hasn’t made a move. Still doing his usual circuit. No signs of deviation.”

From the doorway, Mikami reappears.

Two glasses in hand. Still naked. Still looking at you like he never stopped touching you.

His eyes flick to the Death Note on the side table.

Then to you. Still naked. Still on the phone. And you see it click. His mouth curves, just slightly. Then he walks back to the bed. You meet his gaze. And you spread your legs. Just a little.

He sets one glass down. Then the other. And climbs onto the mattress.

Kneels between your thighs. One hand comes up, fingers under your chin, gripping your jaw. Your phone trembles slightly as you hold it out, just far enough that the speaker won’t catch the wet sound of his lips brushing yours.

“I think I’ll keep shadowing him from afar,” you say, voice calm, steady, perfect.

And then he kisses you. Hard. Open-mouthed. Slow.

Every time your boss talks? He kisses you again. You breathe through it, a masterclass in deception. Your lips part, but not for the man in your earpiece.

“No,” you murmur, voice a little breathy, “he hasn’t noticed me yet.”

Another kiss. This time his teeth graze your lower lip.

You grip the phone tighter. “Right. I’ll stay another few days. Routine intel.”

Kiss. Tongue. He’s smiling against your mouth now.

Then he lays down, his head settling warm and heavy on your bare stomach. He exhales like he belongs there. You tangle your fingers into his hair. He closes his eyes as your hand glides gently over his cheek.

“I’ll call in again tomorrow,” you finish softly.

Your boss says something final. You don’t hear it. Because Mikami opens his eyes, lips brushing just above your navel, and whispers “Liar.”

You hang up. “Your fault.”

The silence after the call is deafening. Mikami doesn’t move.

He’s still lying between your legs, head resting on your stomach, one arm heavy over your waist. It’s not gentle. It’s not even affectionate.

It’s like he’s making sure you don’t leave.

Your fingers drift through his hair again. He exhales slowly, almost like he doesn’t want to admit it. “You lied well.”

You snort dry, bitter. “That’s not the point.”

No answer.

You keep staring at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t be here.” Still no reaction. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

His breath brushes your skin. “But it did.”

You tense under him. “That doesn’t make it less fucked up.”

He lifts his head slowly, just enough to look at you. His hair’s messy. His eyes are clearer than they should be for a man who just came undone. “So what, you’re going to walk out of here and pretend it meant nothing?”

You blink at him. “It can’t mean anything.”

He holds your gaze. “Then why are you still touching me?”

Your jaw clenches. You yank your hand back from his hair.

“Because I don’t know what else to do.” You sit up slightly, “I’m going to have to send a report. I’m going to have to explain why my intel hasn’t changed. Why the man they suspect of being connected to Kira hasn’t made a move.”

Mikami doesn’t flinch.

“What am I supposed to write? That I was too busy letting him fuck me to do my job?”

He speaks low. Controlled. “Write what keeps you safe.”

You stare at him. “You think this is just about me?”

“It should be.”

“It’s not. If they think I’ve been compromised—”

He cuts in. “You have.” You freeze. His words hit hard. “So have I.”

You search his face for sarcasm. There’s none. Just honesty. Too much of it.

“Then what happens now?”

He doesn’t blink. “Now, you stay.”

“That’s not an answer Teru.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

Your breath stutters. You lie back down, stare up at the ceiling. His head returns to your stomach like it never left. “This changes everything.”

“Yes.” A beat of silence. Then, quieter—“But I don’t want to go back.”

Your fingers find his hair again. This time, slower. Uncertain. “Neither do I.”

The silence sits heavy. Too heavy. Your hand’s still in his hair, but you’re not moving anymore. Not breathing steady. Not resting. Just… there. Still. Too still.

He shifts slightly, eyes closed, head on your stomach but it’s not relaxed anymore. His brows twitch, faint. You move.

You reach out, off the edge of the bed, and grab the nearest thing, his shirt, crumpled from last night. Your own is still somewhere in the living room. You pull it over your bare chest slowly, arms sliding through sleeves like armor.

And that’s when he stirs. His voice is soft. Uncertain. “…What are you doing?”

You hesitate. Then, too quietly: “I’m feeling unwell.”

His head lifts. The blanket slides lower on his hips, revealing skin, still warm and marked where your nails raked him.

His voice stays level. But sharper now. “No. Hey.” He sits up, one hand bracing beside you. His hair falls into his eyes. “Look at me.”

You don’t. So he says it anyway. Calm. Steady. “I didn’t sleep with you because I wanted something out of it.”

That hits. You close your eyes. The shirt clings to your skin in places still sticky with dried sweat and regret. He watches you for a second.

Waits. Then says it again, quieter this time, like it matters more now that you’re trying to run from it. “I didn’t use you.”

You whisper, still not looking at him. “But I used you.”

The words feel thick in your mouth. Sharp. Final. He exhales slow, like he doesn’t want to break the moment but can’t let you sit in that lie. “You came here to watch me. To report on me. To build a case.” A pause. His eyes don’t leave your face. “You didn’t come here to touch me.” He leans in slightly. His hand reaches, stops an inch from your thigh.“But you did.”

You swallow. Hard.

“So did I.”

You finally look at him. Eyes glassy. Guard gone. And he adds, almost a whisper: “So maybe we both got used. Or maybe we both just wanted something real. Even for a night.”

Your eyes meet his.

And you feel it breaking in your chest, slow and quiet, like paper tearing. You don’t speak. You can’t. Your lashes flutter once. Twice. And then your eyes begin to well up.

You inhale too sharp, too fast and the breath doesn’t go anywhere. It just gets stuck behind everything you’re too afraid to say.

Mikami sees it instantly. His face changes. He shifts on the bed, moving without hesitation.

The blanket falls down his hips as he kneels in front of you, naked but for the sheet pooled around his waist, chest bare, muscles flexing with the motion. You catch a glimpse of his v-line, sharp and defined under soft morning light, but that’s not what matters.

It’s his face. Worried. Unmasked. Real.

His hands reach up, big and warm and careful. Both palms cup your cheeks. Thumbs brushing just under your eyes. “Hey…”

You blink again, and a tear slips out. His thumbs catch it. He leans closer, nose almost brushing yours. “Look at me.”

You do. Barely. Your throat works around a sound you don’t want to let out. But he doesn’t let go. “Whatever this is… whatever you think you’ve ruined—” His voice cracks, just slightly. “You haven’t.”

Your lip trembles. Your hands finally move, reaching up, covering his where they hold your face. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.” His forehead touches yours, slow and careful.

You exhale and this time it breaks you. You fall forward into him. And he catches you like he’s been waiting.

His thumbs brush one more tear off your cheek. And then he moves. Without a word, he takes your thighs gently and closes them with both hands, shifting your legs together before tugging them to the side, making space for your body to move.

You don’t resist. You just sit there, heart in your throat, breath shaky, still clutching his shirt around you like it can hold everything in. Then his hands slide up your sides. Warm. Slow. Not possessive. Not greedy. Just steady.

He pulls you forward, into him, arms wrapping around you as if you’ll break into pieces if he lets go. Your knees slide across the bed. And then you’re there. In his lap. In his arms. Pressed against his bare chest. One hand holds the back of your head. The other curls tight around your waist. And then—his voice.

Low. Close. “Don’t cry.”

It’s not a command. Not cold or sharp like you’re used to hearing from him. It’s almost pleading. Like it’s hurting him too. You bury your face in his shoulder, knuckles pressed to his collarbone. Your whole body trembles once. His arms tighten.

“You’re allowed to fall apart. Just… not alone.”

Your fingers grip his back. You nod, barely. Because for the first time, you’re not running. You’re just here. In his lap. In his hold. Letting yourself be touched like you’re something fragile, not just useful. And Mikami holds you like he means it.

Like this is not a mistake.

You’re curled into him. Pressed into his chest, shirt half-buttoned, breath uneven. And Mikami who once looked untouchable behind courtroom steel and courtroom silence is holding you like you’re glass.

Not a word leaves his mouth for a while. Only his hand stroking softly up and down your back. Not asking for anything. Not expecting. Just letting you fall apart in peace.

“Is it fear or regret?” His voice barely breaks the quiet.

You shift in his arms. “Both.”

A beat. His chin rests against your hair. “You don’t need to explain. But you can, if you want.”

Your fingers curl into the fabric of his blanket over his lap. You stay there a moment, pressed against his sternum, heartbeat slow under your ear.

“I feel like I broke something I can’t fix.”

“What?”

“My purpose. My rules. The way I’m supposed to be.”

He pulls you in a little closer. “You didn’t break anything.”

“I compromised the whole mission.”

He leans back slightly, not far, just enough to tilt your chin up with a knuckle beneath it. Your eyes are wet again.

And his…His are steady. Not judging. Just there. “I know you didn’t come here to fall in love with your target.”

Your breath stumbles. You don’t deny it.

He smiles just barely. It’s not smug. It’s sad. “But I didn’t expect to fall for my observer either.”

Your lips part. Your voice breaks when you whisper: “Why are you being kind to me?”

He brushes his thumb under your eye again, collecting the wetness there. “Because you look like you need someone to be. Because you look like you never let anyone.”

You nod. Barely. Then, still curled in his lap: “I don’t know what to do now.”

His arms wrap back around you. Tighter. Warmer. “Then don’t do anything.”

“What if I’m making it worse?”

“Then I’ll stay here until it gets better.”

You blink. Look up at him. That calm, sincere look on his face. Not cold. Not manipulative. Just… him.

“You’d really do that?”

He leans in and presses his forehead to yours. Breath warm. Still shirtless. Still beautiful. Still dangerous in ways that don’t scare you anymore.

“Yes. As long as you’ll let me.”

You’re still in his lap, arms around his neck, his wrapped tight around your waist.

But the warmth? It doesn’t stop the fear.

Not all of it. You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes still glassy, lip trembling just a little. And then, soft. Barely a whisper: “I’m scared that you’ll hurt me.”

Mikami stills. His jaw flexes once. But his hands and his hold doesn’t change. Just tighter. More present. His voice is low when he answers. Measured. “I would never do that.”

You swallow hard, shaking your head once, not because you don’t believe him but because that’s not all of it.

“But you have the second notebook.”

He’s silent.

You go on. “You are a threat. To everyone. To the people I work with. To strangers. To… to me.”

His breath catches just for a second. But he doesn’t look away. He lets it land. You expect him to pull back. To go cold. To turn distant like he always does when people say things he doesn’t want to hear.

But he doesn’t. He just looks at you. Tired. Sad. Something close to ashamed. “I know what I am to the world.”

You blink.

“I’ve accepted it. I chose it. I don’t ask for forgiveness.” He touches your jaw gently. Thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “But I would never write your name.”

You exhale. A slow, shuddering sound. “You don’t even need a reason.”

“I do now.”

You stare at him. Hard. He meets your gaze. And when he speaks again, his voice is lower. Firmer.

“You’re not a name in a file to me anymore.”

You hesitate. Your fingers grip his shoulder a little tighter. “And if they order me to take you out?”

His hand finds your waist again. Warm. Steady.

“Then I hope you lie.”

Your eyes well up again. But this time, you don’t pull away.

Because you’re not sure who’s more dangerous now—

him, or what you feel for him.

That did something to you, didn’t it?

The Masterlist has more trouble for you. If you want a different kind, Requests are open.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ © ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛɢʜᴏᴜʟ

“Oh, I’ve been wanting to do this,” you snap, shoving a finger into his chest. “You act like the world owes you something just for breathing. Newsflash—being ancient doesn’t make you wise. Just old and insufferable.”

“You think you’re cute when you talk like this?”

You lean in close. “I know I am.”

He steps forward. You match it. Toe to toe. Breath to breath. Your bodies don’t touch, but the heat between them is nuclear.

“You don’t shut up.”

“You don’t listen.”

“I should end you.”

“You can’t.” You tilt your head. “That’s the part that really gets you, huh?”

He laughs once—sharp, mirthless. “You think I won’t snap you in half?”

You hum, running your fingers slowly up his sternum. “You haven’t yet.” wild-eyed and seething, toe to toe with him. “Do you ever stop being a psychotic, smug, tattooed—thing?”

He shrugs, totally unfazed. “Only when I’m inside you. You’re real quiet then.“

You blink. Then smile. The worst kind of smile.

“Oh, I was quiet?” you hum, stepping close enough that your breath touches his collarbone. “That wasn’t me begging, baby. That was me mocking how fast you were about to come.”

His jaw clenches. Just a flicker—but you catch it. And you pounce.

You run your hand up his chest, slow and casual like you’re not actively trying to set him on fire. “You hate that I talk back, huh? Hate that I don’t bow. That I touch you like you’re mine.”

“Don’t push me,” he growls, grabbing your wrist—but not moving it. Not really.

You smile wider. “Why not?”

“Because I will pin you down and shut that brat mouth so thoroughly you’ll forget how to argue.”

“Oh, now that sounds familiar…” you coo, stepping around him like a vulture, dragging your nails across his back. “Funny. That’s exactly what you did last time… Missionary, remember? How sweet of you.”

His head snaps toward you. “You said that just to piss me off.”

“I said it,” you purr, coming back around to his front, “because it’s true. You like looking me in the eye when I talk shit while you fuck me.”

You cup his jaw, gently. Deliberately.

“So we can keep arguing.”

Sukuna twitches like he’s two seconds from exploding.

“I swear,” he growls, voice low and ruined, “I will spawn my other set of arms just to hold down every cocky limb you’ve got and fuck the fight out of you.”

You moan quiet and fake and theatrical. And then your fingers slide to his sides. Lower. You hover them just above the faint raised scars, where the other two arms emerge when he goes full beast.

His breath catches.

You drag your fingers in a slow, sensual circle over them. Then down. Then up again. Featherlight.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, honey.”

He grabs your chin—hard. His face is inches from yours. He’s breathing heavy now, and not from anger. From restraint. His mouth parts once, twice, but nothing comes out.

You lean in, smug, sweet.

“Four hands,” you whisper, brushing your lips against his, “and still not enough to handle me.”

The room feels hot. Charged. Like lightning could strike from the ceiling.

“I could rip your soul out right now,” he mutters, low and hoarse.

You smile. “You won’t.”

His grip falters.

“I should leave you here,” he growls. “Make you wait.”

You laugh—light and dangerous, brushing your nose against his cheek. “You’re gonna kiss me instead.”

And he does. Not gently. Not sweet.

It’s all tongue, frustration, teeth clashing against yours, his hands bunching the back of your shirt like he wants to destroy it. Like he wants to destroy you.

But still your hands never leave the scars. Not for a second.

And the second he pulls away, breathing ragged, his voice gone wrecked—

You say it again. “Missionary.”

He exhales like you just stabbed him in the chest.

“You are so lucky I’m in love with you.”

“Yeah,” you whisper, tracing his scars again. “I am.”

He’s still breathing hard. So are you.

Your shirt is crumpled where his fists clung to it, his spit’s still on your tongue, and his kiss still burns like a bruise under your lips but you’re not backing down. Not even an inch.

“Missionary,” you whisper again, a soft lilt now. Like a lullaby designed to provoke murder.

Sukuna’s jaw tics. His hands curl at his sides, claws twitching like he’s fighting the urge to shred something—preferably clothing. Maybe the wall. Possibly you. For fun.

“You are so goddamn lucky,” he says, voice shot to hell, “that I don’t toss you through this wall and fuck you so deep you forget how to form vowels.”

You hum like that’s a bedtime story. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“It’s a warning.”

“Mm. I don’t do well with those.” Your fingers crawl back to the scars again—those raised, reverent places where his other arms live. “You keep giving me reasons to misbehave.”

“Touch those again and I will use them.”

“I’m counting on it.”

The tension snarls. You can feel it wrap around your throat—coiling like a noose, like a fuse. His aura shimmers off him in waves, and you know he’s this close to losing the last thread of patience he pretends to have.

So you tilt your head. You bring your fingers just under his jaw, tracing the underside of his throat, slow like molasses.

“C’mon, Sukuna,” you murmur, “you gonna pin me down again? Gag me? Hold me open with all four hands and tell me I should’ve known better?”

His eyes blaze. You know that look.

“You want it so bad,” you whisper, nose brushing his again, “but you’re scared you’ll make it too good and I’ll never shut the fuck up about it.”

A silence drops. Thick. Cold and hot at the same time. And then he lunges. Not to fuck. Not yet. To grab. One hand on your throat. Not choking—yet. Just holding. Testing the fit of your neck in his palm.

His other hand claws into your hip and yanks you forward until your bodies slam together.

“Do you want to be ruined?” he asks, low and guttural, his lips grazing your cheek. “Like truly. Completely. No dignity left. Just drooling and sobbing and begging me to stop.”

You smile like a goddamn devil. “You think I’d beg you to stop?”

Sukuna’s breath hitches. That’s the thing about you. You never mean to get under his skin—not really. But you live there now. Like a parasite with great legs and a worse attitude.

He exhales through his nose. “You’re not scared of me.”

“No baby,” you say, softly.

He stares at you. There’s something else beneath all the filth. Something wild. Terrified. A man with too many hands and too few people who can touch him without flinching.

“You should be,” he growls, but it comes out broken.

You just lean in, lips brushing the corner of his mouth, whispering like a secret you’re never taking back:

“Four hands. One attitude. Guess we’re both fucked.”

His mouth collides with yours again—but it’s different this time.

It’s desperate.

Like kissing is the only way he remembers he’s still here, and not some raging god spiraling through hell. His teeth catch your lower lip, then he sucks it between his like he’s punishing it. You groan, finally, and he grunts in reply—dragging you into him by your neck.

You let him. For a second.

And then? You laugh against his mouth.

He pulls back, panting. “What?”

You grin, breathless. “Still missionary.”

And this time— He actually growls.

You tilt your head at him, sweetly. “What, out of insults already?”

Sukuna exhales through his teeth. “You are not fucking normal.”

“Neither are you. We match.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

You lean in, lips brushing his again, wicked and airy.

“You’re the one hard right now.”

His nostrils flare. His pupils twitch. He lifts one hand to cup your jaw, the other wrapping tight around your waist—and pulls you in like he might actually devour you this time. No grace. Just hunger. Rage. Need.

But you’re still not done. Still smiling.

Still gliding your fingers down his ribs, over his scars like they’re your favorite parts of him. Like you’ve already memorized every ridge. Every threat.

“You gonna grow those extra arms or just keep talkin’ about it?” you breathe, mouth right against his, all heat and venom. “Don’t be shy, big guy.”

Sukuna stills. You feel his body tense, coil—like a snake about to strike. And then you feel it.

A third hand.

Touching your side. Just below your ribs.

Still human-warm, but wrong. Slicker. Stronger. Thicker fingers that curl like they’ve waited all day to feel you squirm.

Your eyes go wide—and then you laugh. Loud. Giddy. Unbothered. Delighted. “Well, well, well…”

Sukuna’s smirk is damn near lethal.

The fourth hand slithers into place around your throat before you can blink—tight, hot, thumb resting on your pulse like it’s claiming territory.

“Fucking warned you,” he growls, voice so low it buzzes against your lips.

You can’t stop laughing. “Oh my god,” you gasp, breathless. “You really pulled the freak card.”

He squeezes your throat just enough to make your knees buckle, and you gasp, eyes rolling back for half a second before he lets go—slowly. Teasingly. Just enough pressure to feel it, not enough to hurt.

The third hand slides lower, palm flattening over your stomach now. Exploring. Teasing.

The top two hands? One still fists your shirt. The other cups your face with surprising gentleness, like he wants to ruin you soft. You shudder under him. But not in fear. He sees it. Feels it. And smirks wider.

“I should tie you to this wall,” he says, voice half a purr, half a threat. “One arm for each wrist. One for that mouth. And one for—”

Your fingers cover his lips.

“No spoilers,” you whisper, eyes gleaming. “I want to be surprised.”

His tongue flicks out to lick your fingers.

You gasp and he laughs, finally, devil-deep and satisfied.

“You’re a menace,” he says.

“You’re obsessed with me.”

Another hand cups the back of your thigh. Lifts. Pins.

You hiss, more breath than sound, but he hears it.

“I could fuck you right here,” he says, mouth dragging along your jaw. “Up against this wall. No warmup. Just all four arms holding you wide open, writhing, drooling.”

You moan. Accidentally. He grins against your neck. “That’s what I thought.”

But you’re still not backing down. You whisper, teeth sharp, voice barely audible:

“Still missionary, though.”

His whole body goes rigid. All four hands tighten in different places. His breath catches—growls—and he bites your collarbone. Not enough to break skin. Just enough to warn.

“You little shit,” he whispers, hot and close.

You smile. “Prove me wrong, then.”

You’re pinned.

One thigh hoisted against the wall.

One hand wrapped around your throat.

One cupping your ass, fingers digging in like they’re claiming it.

The fourth? Cruising slow and low along your inner thigh, the promise of filth curling closer with every second.

You’re barely breathing now—partly from the grip on your throat, mostly from the way he’s staring at you like he wants to break something inside you. Something soft.

“You’re not even fighting me anymore,” Sukuna murmurs, gaze dragging down your face to your lips, then to your chest. “What happened, brat?”

You try to smirk. Fail.

Because he ruts against you—slow and heavy, hips rolling into yours with dangerous precision, like he’s testing how far he can go without you losing your damn mind.

Your head tips back with a moan that’s barely masked.

“Hmm,” he hums, one of his hands sliding up under your shirt now, trailing over bare skin. “Thought you had all that attitude, baby. Where’d it go?”

You gasp, fingers gripping his shoulders as another hand—you’ve lost track of which one now—grabs your jaw and makes you look at him.

“I’m waiting,” he says, low and sharp. “Say something. C’mon. One more smartass comment. I dare you.“

So you whisper— “…Still missionary.”

He slams his hips into you so hard your breath flies out in a noise between a whimper and a laugh, and then all four hands tighten—one on your throat, one hauling your thigh higher, one up your shirt now, playing with your nipple through your bra, and the last sneaking between your thighs, palm pressing right against the heat of you through your pants.

“You just don’t shut the fuck up,” he growls, voice guttural, ruined, desperate now. “And you think that makes you powerful?”

You’re panting. Wet. Nearly trembling. But your smile stays. Smug. Addicted.

“I think,” you whisper, “you love it.”

Sukuna bares his teeth—grinning like a predator—but his hands never stop. One drags your shirt up, baring your stomach, then higher, watching goosebumps ripple across your skin.

“You like being pinned?” he asks.

“Obviously.”

“You like my hands?”

“Which one?”

He laughs. Low. Sick. Like it hurts. “Oh you’re so fucked.”

The fourth hand—the one between your thighs—starts grinding against you now. Slow at first. Then firmer. Then circling, dragging obscene pressure where you need it most, making your hips buck without permission.

“You’re soaking through,” he mutters, breath ghosting your neck. “All talk until I touch you, huh?”

You moan, soft and strangled. He doesn’t let up.

“You’re gonna come like this?” he taunts. “Dry. Clothes on. Four hands holding you in place. Not even fucked yet.”

You try to snap back. Something, anything—

But he tightens the hand at your throat and you whimper.

“Oh yeah,” he purrs, “there’s the brat breaking.”

You claw at his chest now, nails dragging down his tattoos, desperate to ground yourself but it only fuels him.

One hand wraps in your hair, yanking your head back.

“You gonna beg?” he asks. “Say please?”

You stare at him. Breathless. Eyes wide. “No.”

He grins. “Then I’m not stopping.”

And he doesn’t. Not for a while.

Not until your hips stutter and your mouth parts and your eyes glaze—and then you moan, loud and broken, hips grinding down against the pressure of his palm.

And Sukuna? He groans like it physically affects him.

Your back hits the mattress so hard the bed screams. Not that you hear it over your own laughter—full, wild, manic.

Sukuna is on you like a curse with a mission. Clothes? Ripped. Shirt? Gone. Pants? Shredded like paper under clawed hands. Your bra snaps and flies halfway across the room. Your underwear—barely survives the first yank before it’s just strips.

And still you’re laughing.

“You think this is funny?” Sukuna snarls, eyes glowing, crouched between your legs like the beast he is.

You throw your arms around his neck, yank him down, and whisper sweet as sin: “As I told you… you little bitch—” And moan. Loud. Like you planned it that way.

Your laugh follows—louder now, wrecked, breathless, as your legs hook around his waist and your hips roll up, lining him up perfectly. His cock drags through your slick folds like a fucking promise, heavy, thick, pulsing.

He growls. You grin.

And then he slams in.

All four hands grip something. He’s everywhere, and deep, and you scream like it’s an exorcism. “Yeah?” he snarls, hips crashing into you with brute force, breath hissing against your mouth. “You want missionary, you get it.”

His hands grab your legs, folding you up beneath him, knees pinned to your chest like he’s trying to bury you into the mattress and break something sacred.

You moan again louder, higher—because fuck, it hits so good.

“Look at me,” he growls. “You talk all that shit, now look at me while I ruin your fuckin’ life.”

And you do. Eyes locking. Mouth open. Drool slipping down the corner of your lips as your body jerks with every goddamn slam of his hips.

“You’re shaking,” he mutters, one hand sliding between your bodies, thumb pressing hard against your clit as he fucks you deeper.

“I’m coming, dumbass—” you cry out, laughing through it, stars exploding behind your eyes.

Your body convulses, legs spasming in his grip—and he doesn’t stop. Just drives in deeper. Harder. Like a punishment. Like a gift.

“You said missionary like it was an insult,” he spits, watching your tits bounce, your chest heaving, your mouth open in wrecked moans. “But this—this—is how I make you mine.”

One hand leaves your jaw, slides to your throat again—tight, warm.

“You love it,” he hisses.

You whimper, mouth twitching in a smile even as your eyes roll back. “I love… making you mad.”

His hips slam forward—your whole body jolts. He’s twitching inside you now, thick, stretched, relentless. Another hand leaves your wrist, slides under your thigh and lifts, changing the angle just enough to hit everything.

You scream, choking on air and pleasure and his name.

“Who’s the little bitch now?” he grunts.

“I still am,” you sob through a laugh. “You’re just my bitch.”

And he loses it. He bends down, presses his forehead to yours, teeth bared.

“Say it again.”

“My bitch.”

He snaps his hips—once, twice—cruel, fast, right against your sweet spot and suddenly you’re gasping, clawing at him, your whole body arching into a second orgasm you didn’t see coming. Your brain short-circuits. He fucks you through it. Won’t stop. You cry. Tears stream sideways down your temples.

He kisses them. “You gonna keep laughing now?” he pants, chest heaving, still moving inside you. “Or you done being a little shit?”

You try to laugh—but it comes out a sob.

And then quietly. Stupid. Soft. “…I love you, you fucking freak.”

He freezes. For just a second. And then leans in. Real close. Smirks. “I know.” And keeps fucking you.

He doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t pause.

Not when you say I love you, not when your body trembles beneath him, not when tears streak hot and shining from your temples down into your hair. He just fucks you harder.

“You don’t get to say that,” Sukuna grunts, hips crashing into yours with bruising rhythm. “Not after all that shit. Not after missionary. Not after ‘you little bitch.’”

You try to respond, but all that comes out is a half-scream, half-laugh—wrecked and wet and dizzy. Your body won’t stop convulsing. His cock drives in deep, so deep, over and over, hitting the same spot, splitting you open like he’s trying to brand it.

“You’re crying,” he mocks, panting. “Aw, what’s wrong, sweetheart? Can’t take it?”

One of his hands cups the back of your head like a lover. Another still clamps your thigh wide, shaking from how hard it’s being held open. One presses down on your stomach like he wants to feel himself move inside you. The fourth is still at your throat, controlling your breath.

“I can take it—” you gasp, barely able to speak.

He slams in again. You choke on a moan.

“Really?” he growls. “Because your pussy’s twitching like she’s about to give out.”

You let out a sobbing laugh. “You’re—fucking obsessed.”

And he smirks. “No shit.”

His mouth comes down—biting your neck, your shoulder, your mouth. He devours your lips like he owns them. Like he needs them to stay alive.

He’s losing it. You can feel it. His rhythm is messier, desperate, still brutal but shaky—like the tension he built in you is finally snapping back at him.

“Say it again,” he pants. “Say you love me while I’m splitting you in two.”

You can barely breathe. Barely see. But you do it.

“Sukuna,” you whisper, a broken, feral grin twisting your lips. “I love you—I fucking love you—”

He groans. Your whole body jerks when he slams in one last time—so deep you swear it hits your damn soul—and he stays there, grinding slow and hard, like he wants to fuse with you from the inside.

His cock throbs, twitching and then hot release floods you, thick and endless. You moan so loud it breaks into a sob, eyes fluttering shut, muscles spasming uncontrollably around him.

And Sukuna still doesn’t pull out. “You take it,” he breathes, hips still moving in little thrusts. “Fucking brat. You take all of it.”

Your legs twitch. Your voice is gone. The hand on your stomach slides down—over your soaked, ruined pussy—and pushes down on your clit again. You shriek. “S-Stop—” you hiccup-laugh, tears falling faster, voice cracked. “You’ll break me—”

“You’re not broken yet,” he growls, staring down at you, sweat dripping off his jaw. “So I’m not done.”

You scream again—sharp, feral—as your third orgasm rips through you with no warning.

He leans down, all four arms still holding you wide, mouth at your ear. And whispers “I love you too, baby.”

Then he fucks you through it again.

You don’t even remember the second time he came.

You think it happened somewhere between your fourth orgasm and the moment he shoved your thighs so far up, you saw stars. Maybe you blacked out for a second. Maybe your body just gave in. You’re not sure.

All you know is— He was loud.

So loud.

And when he finally spilled again inside you, it was with a growl that sounded like it came from the deepest part of his chest. Like it hurt. Like it healed something.

Then he collapsed on top of you.

Heavy. Breathless.

You could barely feel your legs. Your throat was sore. You were soaked, bruised, shaking, and still grinning like a lunatic even as your brain stopped functioning.

He moved.

Not away. No, no, never away.

He hovered up, looked at you. Really looked at you. Still inside, still catching his breath, all four hands trembling from the tension finally spilling out of him. You blinked at him—dry mouth, fucked-out, mascara ruined, cheeks wet with tears you didn’t remember shedding.

“…S’kuna?”

“Shh,” he said, eyes impossibly soft. “Don’t talk.”

He kissed you. Gently.

Just once. Then once more, right in the center of your forehead.

You flinched a little when he pulled out, groaning low as his release leaked from you, down your thigh, onto the sheets. You squirmed. He caught your hips with all four hands and stilled you.

“Don’t move,” he said, firm but quiet.

“Sukuna, I—”

“Shut up, brat. I got you.”

And then he was gone—only for a second.

When he came back, it was with a wet cloth, a clean towel, and the kind of focus you’d expect from a doctor. Not a war god with four arms and a reputation for eviscerating people who blink wrong.

He kneeled between your thighs like he hadn’t just ruined you. Like he hadn’t mocked you for crying and then kissed every single tear off your face.

And he cleaned you.

Gently. Unbearably gently.

He didn’t speak, just pressed the warm cloth to your inner thighs, wiping carefully where you were red and trembling and raw. Every few seconds, he’d pause just to look at you—like you might vanish if he blinked.

You groaned once when he dabbed between your legs too tenderly.

His thumb traced your hip. “I know.”

You exhaled, trying to sit up. He shoved you back down with two hands flat to your chest. “Lie down.”

“Sukuna—”

“I said lie down.” His voice dropped, but his gaze stayed soft. “You let me break you. Now let me fix you.”

That shouldn’t have made your chest ache.

But it did.

He kept going, cleaning every inch of you like a man possessed. Towel under your hips, cloth dragging slowly over sticky, sensitive skin. When he was satisfied, he tossed it aside, pulled a blanket up—and then slid in next to you.

Wrapped himself around you. Head on your shoulder. Legs tangled with yours. One hand on your stomach, one under your head, one gripping your thigh like a leash, and the fourth gently brushing your hair behind your ear.

He didn’t speak for a long time.

Then, quietly—like a secret he hated giving up: “…I meant it.”

You turned your head, dazed. “What?”

His mouth hovered over yours. “I love you too.”

You blinked.

And he smiled. Too sweet. Too soft. Like he might eat your heart just to make sure it never loved anyone else.

Then, whispered against your cheek: “You say ‘missionary’ one more time and I’m bending you over everything you own.”

You wheezed. But all you could do was nuzzle into him. Whimpering. Laughing. And when he felt your body relax completely under all four arms he pulled the blanket tighter.

And kissed your shoulder like it was the only thing that ever kept him sane.

You enjoyed yourself. I will not make you admit it.

The Masterlist is right here, pretty thing. If you still want more, Requests are open.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ © ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛɢʜᴏᴜʟ

You clicked your tongue. “King, huh? Little dramatic. He name himself that?”

“Classified,” Ghost said flatly, and handed you the file.

You skimmed it. Sparse. Skillset top tier. Austrian. Trained sniper. No known psychological instability, though judging by his history, maybe just very good at hiding it.

“No picture?” you asked, turning the file upside down.

“Wears a damn balaclava. Never takes it off.”

You blinked. “Wait. Never?”

Before Ghost could answer, the heavy door to the left swung open. And there he was.

He ducked through the doorway. Ducking. Through. The. Doorway.

You straightened without meaning to, your full 185cm still falling short by a good few inches. Broad. Black gear. Tall as hell. The balaclava covered everything but his blue eyes and even those were already scanning the room, methodical, calm.

Silent.

Ghost gave him a chin nod. “König.”

You stepped forward, file tucked under one arm, gaze curious, a smirk already playing at your mouth.

“I’m your boss,” you said, tone warm but commanding. “Congratulations on surviving long enough to meet me.”

He didn’t blink. “Danke. Good to be here.”

You tilted your head, lips curling slowly. “Oh, I expected a very deep voice with your experience… very cute.”

König shifted his weight a little, shoulders twitching slightly but he didn’t look away. “Most expect me to grunt and drag my knuckles,” he said. “I disappoint often.”

Your laugh was soft but genuine. Ghost side-eyed you.

“You’ll fit right in,” you murmured, eyes flicking down his massive frame. “Though I might need a ladder to punch you in the face.”

“I can crouch,” König offered, almost too quickly, and that glimmer in his eyes? Was that—was that teasing?

Ghost blinked. “Did you just flirt?”

“No,” König replied immediately.

“Yes,” you said at the same time, raising a brow at him with your best don’t bullshit me smile.

König gave the tiniest shrug of his mountain-wide shoulders. “You were being bratty. I thought it was fair.”

Soap, walking past, snorted. “He clocked you fast.”

You didn’t even flinch. “And he still lives. Which makes him charming and lucky.”

Ghost narrowed his eyes. “Hope you’re not another problem child. Got enough of those.”

“I’m disciplined,” König said calmly.

You took one step closer, just to test the waters. “Are you, now?”

“I follow orders,” König said. Then, after a beat, added, “If I like them.”

Your smirk faltered but just for a second. Ghost barked a laugh. “Well shit, we found someone who bites back.”

König’s voice dropped just slightly. “Only when needed.”

And that—that earned him your first real laugh.

“Well, König,” you purred, slapping the file shut and walking past him, just close enough for your arm to brush his, “Welcome to the circus. Try not to catch feelings.”

König’s voice followed you, dry, low, unmistakably amused: “Too late.”

You didn’t stop. But your ears? Burning. And Ghost?

“Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

The door clicked shut behind you, boots echoing faintly down the corridor. König stood motionless for a second, blinking after you.

“She’s… terrifying,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“She’s your superior,” Ghost deadpanned, folding his arms, eyeing him.

König’s head tilted. “Exactly.”

Soap passed by again, sipping from a protein shake, eyebrows raised. “Mate, I think you just got flirted with and threatened in the same sentence. That’s rare. Congrats.”

“I think I liked it,” König admitted.

Ghost groaned. “Fuckin’ hell. Another simp.”

“I’m not a simp,” König replied coolly, though his ears under the mask were suspiciously pink. “She’s just—commanding.”

“Understatement of the year,” Roach muttered, walking in and glancing between them like he’d just caught a whiff of gossip. “She make you blush already?”

König crossed his arms, voice going calm again. “I don’t blush.”

“You fumbled one sentence, and she almost folded you like a paper crane,” Ghost said. “She’s good at that. Turns men into puddles with one compliment and a death threat.”

“I was polite,” König said.

“You flirted.”

“She flirted first.”

There was a moment of silence. Ghost squinted at him.

“…You’re bold for a new guy.”

König cocked his head. “Why? Because I didn’t roll over the moment you glared at me?”

Ghost’s expression didn’t change. But the silence stretched. Soap looked like he was thriving in it.

“Look at that,” Soap muttered, biting into a protein bar. “Big lad’s got teeth.”

König didn’t flinch under the stare. “If you’re trying to intimidate me,” he said, voice level, “you might want to wear something scarier than a balaclava that looks like it came from a Halloween aisle.”

Soap choked. Roach stopped mid-step. Ghost slowly turned his head. “…You just insulted my mask?” His tone was low.

“Yes,” König replied, absolutely unapologetic. “It’s a little dramatic. Very…‘ghost of midlife crisis.’”

Soap wheezed, smacking a hand on the wall. Roach straight-up had to sit down. Ghost blinked once. “You do realize I outrank you.”

“I do,” König nodded. “And I still said it. That’s the joke.”

Another pause.

Then Ghost leaned back against the wall, shrugged slowly. “I’ll allow it. That was good.”

“Danke.”

Roach, from the floor, mumbled, “What the fuck is this dynamic already…”

Soap pointed with his protein bar. “He’s like—a cross between a brick wall and a stand-up comic. It’s terrifying.”

“Wait until you see him spar,” Ghost muttered. “He wrestled a man unconscious during the interview.”

König shrugged modestly. “He was annoying.”

“You scare HR.”

“I scare everyone,” König replied, and for a second, his tone was matter-of-fact. Not boastful. Just… true.

That shut everyone up for a beat. But only for a beat.

Soap leaned toward him. “So what’s the verdict on our lovely commander?”

König turned his head slowly.

There was something almost wickedly amused in his voice when he said, low and playful:

“I think she’s gonna kill me or marry me.”

Roach groaned. “She’s gonna both, mate. Same day. Back-to-back.”

Ghost muttered, walking away: “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

König stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, heart still hammering from that first stare-down.

Under the mask, he grinned.

The door swung open with a heavy thunk of boots and cold air trailing in. Keegan.

All black layers, subtle bulk under his tac vest, tactical gloves still half-off. His hood was down, mask rolled up just above his nose, jaw locked in habitual annoyance. 193cm of built-in “don’t talk to me unless it’s mission critical.” He paused two steps in. Then squinted.

“…Whoa. What the hell.”

His sharp eyes flicked up because for once, he actually had to look up. König leaned casually near the lockers, arms folded like a fucking bouncer at a rave. Dead still. Balaclava. Quiet confidence. Friendly murder-eyes.

Keegan blinked slowly, then cut his stare to the rest of the room. “New guy?” he asked, still frowning, like someone had just introduced a bear to the barracks.

Soap was still eating, still delighted. “Yep.”

“Codename König,” Ghost offered without looking up, clearly still nursing his pride. Keegan rubbed his temple like someone had just added another migraine to the pile. “Jesus Christ, what is she collecting now, Goliaths?”

König gave a small nod. “Hallo.”

Keegan’s eyes narrowed at the accent. “He talks?”

“Better than Ghost,” Soap said helpfully.

Ghost flipped him off. Keegan sighed, muttering under his breath, “This is why I drink alone.”

But then he stepped further in, gaze sliding to König again. Measured. Tactical. Standard Keegan read-on-a-threat body language. “You been briefed?”

“Yes.”

“You clear on the hierarchy?”

“Yes.”

“Then you’ll want to head that way,” Keegan said, jerking a thumb toward the hall. “To her office.”

König’s gaze lingered for a second. “She said she’d find me later.”

Keegan snorted. “Yeah, well. She always says that. Then forgets and sends Soap.”

“Rude,” Soap muttered, full mouth.

Keegan smirked slightly, finally cracking something close to amusement. “You’re big enough to handle her yourself, right?”

König blinked once.

Ghost coughed, totally fake. “Careful with your phrasing, mate.”

Roach groaned. “Oh my god.”

Keegan, not missing a beat: “That was intentional.”

König, quiet, dry: “I am trained for high-pressure situations, yes.”

That got a real laugh from Ghost. “Oh, he’s gonna survive just fine.”

Keegan raised both brows. “Alright then. You get chewed out, you don’t cry to me.”

König tilted his head, tone smooth. “I don’t cry. I sulk in dignified silence.”

Soap snorted again. “Fucking hell, I like him.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Ghost warned.

König finally pushed off the wall, stepping past Keegan with that calm, heavy-footed confidence that somehow didn’t lose an ounce of control. And just before he reached the door to your office, he turned his head slightly—just enough to let his words float behind him: “…If I’m not back in ten minutes, assume she’s made me her favorite.”

Keegan muttered something about “goddamn rookies with charm,” but nobody could stop the grin spreading across Roach’s face as König opened the door and stepped into your office.

Click. The door shut behind him with that signature heaviness, like the whole room recognized something had just changed.

You didn’t look up at first. Just leaned back in your chair, fingers tapping a slow, idle rhythm on the desk.

König stood in the middle of your office, still and tall. Too tall. His presence pressed into the room like heat. Like gravity. You didn’t need to look to feel the way he filled the space.

So, of course, you took your time. Then, casually, “So. They didn’t exaggerate.”

His voice came, low and easy. “About what?”

You looked up with that half-lidded stare you wore so well, eyes dark, bored, teasing. “The size. The mystery. The ‘please keep him away from civilians’ note on your profile.”

König’s head tilted just slightly. “Was that a problem?”

You smiled. Slow. Dangerous. “Problem? No. I like problems.”

A pause. You stood, purposeful, slow. Uncoiling from your chair with deliberate precision, boots clicking on the tile as you stepped around the desk. He didn’t move. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t blink. God, you hated that it made your stomach dip.

You circled halfway toward him and stopped just short of his chest, close enough to feel the heat off him, to make him drop his gaze if he wanted to be polite.

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. He was still looking down at you. Sharp blue eyes behind that damn balaclava. Like he wasn’t trying to read you—he already had.

You tipped your chin up, cool and velvet. “Why the mask?”

He blinked, but it was slow. Deliberate. “Comfort. And habit.”

You let the silence hang for a beat, then leaned in just a little more. “Why no name?”

That made him pause—but only slightly. “It’s easier that way,” he said, voice still calm. “For them.”

You smirked, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “For them? Or for you?”

Another beat of silence. His head tilted again. “…Both.”

You stared at him. Up at him. Your scar twitched faintly as your expression shifted so subtle, but König saw it. He missed nothing.

“Scared someone might get attached?” you asked softly.

“Maybe,” he said.

“And what happens if you get attached?”

This time, he didn’t answer. But he didn’t look away either. You watched him like you were dissecting something under a microscope, dark eyes narrowed. Waiting for the flicker, the slip, the tell. It didn’t come.

Goddamn it.

You stepped even closer. He still didn’t flinch. Not even when you were right in front of him, the top of your head barely level with his collarbone. Close enough to smell the heat off his gear.

Close enough that your voice was a murmur, thick with silk and warning.

“You’re very brave,” you whispered, “for someone who still hasn’t earned a callsign from me.”

König finally let out a small breath something between a chuckle and a sigh, deep in his chest. “I thought you liked problems,” he said.

You smiled. “I do.”

Then you turned—smooth, all command—and walked back to your desk. “Now sit down before I start giving you orders you won’t like.”

König moved only when you weren’t looking. And fuck, he was grinning under that mask. You were halfway lowering yourself into your chair again when he spoke, voice steady, thick with accent but sharp-edged with something else.

“No. I’d rather stand, ma’am.”

You paused. One brow lifted. Slowly, you leaned back in the chair instead, arms resting along the sides like a throne, looking up at him from your seat with a smirk that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Okay. Fine.” Your voice was velvet again, smooth and low, but unmistakably teasing. “Then stand… mysterious man.”

König stayed exactly where he was, still as stone, like being six-foot-eight gave him some kind of moral high ground.

You let your gaze drag over him—his stance, his posture, the way he didn’t fidget, didn’t break eye contact. It was… irritating. And a little hot.

You exhaled, flicking a paperclip across the desk. “You’ll stay by my side next mission.”

That made his shoulders shift, the faintest tilt of his head. “Personal request?”

“More like tactical,” you said, tapping your nails on the wood. “You’re a walking wall. Might as well use you.”

König’s voice was quieter this time. “I’m honored.”

You raised a brow again. “Don’t get cocky. I still don’t trust you.”

“I know.”

You blinked. That answer had come quick. Sharp. You tilted your head. “But you’re okay with that?”

“Trust isn’t earned by standing in your office,” he said simply. “It’s earned when I take a bullet you didn’t see coming.”

You stared at him. The silence stretched. Damn. Okay, that was a good answer. You looked away first. Not far. Just enough to grab the mission file at your elbow and toss it across the desk toward him.

He caught it with one hand—like it weighed nothing.

“Mission briefing’s at 0500. If you’re late, I’ll assume you got lost and I’ll send Soap to find you with a fucking leash.”

König nodded, tucking the file under his arm. Then, right as he turned, his voice dropped low. “What do I get if I’m early?”

You stopped mid-reach for your coffee. Looked up. He was still facing the door. Didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. You stared at his back.

And for one second, just one—Your face went warm. “…Then maybe I’ll give you a callsign,” you said slowly.

“I thought I already had one.”

Your voice dipped. “Not from me, you don’t.”

Another pause. Then, softly mischief hidden under gravel— “I’ll earn it.”

And with that, he was gone. You sat there, alone again in the quiet hum of the office, staring at the empty space where he’d stood. Your tongue clicked against the back of your teeth. “Motherfucker,” you muttered under your breath.

Zero-four-fifty-eight.

The briefing room was dark, save for the soft glow of the overhead fluorescents flickering awake. The long table sat empty, chairs pulled back, files stacked at the center.

And König? Was already there. Not sitting. No—he stood posted by the door like some cursed decoration no one ordered: massive, still, balaclava in place, eyes barely visible beneath the soft pre-dawn light. Arms folded, weight shifted lazily against the wall.

Not moving. Not making a sound. Just waiting.

Then the door opened. You walked in, flipping open your file with one hand, muttering about coffee and morons and how no one ever reads intel reports— And then you saw him.

Not heard. Not felt. Saw. König, right beside the door, still as death. You jolted back with a sharp inhale, hand flying to your chest, slapping your folder to your thigh. “Jesus—fuck—!”

He didn’t move. Just chuckled—deep and unhurried, like he was genuinely delighted with himself.

“That will not be the last time you scream because of me,” he said low, voice laced with playfulness and just enough threat to make it sting.

You stared at him, breath caught halfway between rage and embarrassment. “Fuck you.”

“Not before the mission,” he replied casually, like he was discussing the weather. Your jaw dropped slightly, and he was already turning to face the rest of the room like nothing had happened.

God. Damn. It. You shook your head, storming toward the head of the table as the door creaked again behind you.

“Ghost,” you snapped. “König’s being a menace.”

Ghost walked in holding a mug. “So… standard operating procedure, then.”

Soap and Roach filtered in behind, already snickering. Keegan slid into a chair and muttered, “Told you. Big bastard’s got game.”

“Yeah,” Ghost added. “But if she actually sleeps with him, we all die. Just saying.”

You clapped the folder down on the table and leveled a glare at them all. “Anyone else want to die before deployment?”

They went quiet. You exhaled. Then you pointed toward the map board. “Alright. Eyes front. König, come here.”

He moved silently beside you, casting a literal shadow over the desk. You didn’t look at him, but you could feel the smug dripping off that six-foot-eight shithead like heat from a furnace.

And still, voice cool as ever, you said: “You pull that scare shit again before I’ve had coffee, I’m cutting you from the mission and replacing you with a fucking Roomba.”

König leaned just slightly closer. “And you think that would stop me?”

You looked up at him. He was grinning under the mask again. You knew it. And, worse, he knew you knew it. You held the stare for just a second too long—then cleared your throat and turned back to the board. “Let’s get this over with.”

God help you. You’d never get rid of him now.

Night still clung to the sky like damp cloth when the transport rolled out. Three teams, tight comms, blacked-out gear. The op was clean—recon, breach, extraction. At least on paper. But you knew better. They always got messy.

Team assignments were simple:

You and König — lead and suppress. Soap and Keegan — mid-range flank and chaos. Ghost and Roach — overwatch and extraction timing.

Split across the ridge in a staggered triangle, the forest around you was too quiet—tree branches skeletal in the moonlight, the wind crawling like it had bad intentions.

“Comms check,” you said.

“Keegan here. Copy.”

“Ghost in position.”

“Roach. Copy.”

“Soap alive and ready to be annoying.”

You rolled your eyes. “König?”

“Ready, ma’am.”

You glanced at him, massive shadow beside you, one knee in the mud, rifle held like it weighed nothing. God, he really was a wall with a gun. “Alright,” you muttered, half to yourself. “Move in.”

You and König peeled off left. Through the underbrush. Fast. Quiet. Efficient. Your boots made no sound. Neither did his. Until you whispered, “You’re surprisingly quiet for someone that big.”

König didn’t miss a beat. “Years of sneaking snacks past curfew.”

You snorted, then bit it back. “Focus.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You hated the way he said that, mock-respectful, but with a voice like black velvet. Bastard. You reached the outpost perimeter, spotting two tangos at the gate. One breath. “On my mark,” you whispered. But before you could count—Thk-thk.

Two bodies dropped. You blinked, spun your head toward him. “I said on my mark.”

König was already moving ahead. “They weren’t looking at you. They were looking at me.”

“I’ll shoot you next,” you hissed.

“You’d miss,” he said calmly.

“Try me, tower boy.”

You cleared the outer building together. Smooth. Perfect formation. Until everything went to shit at the extraction point.

“Contact—!” Ghost barked over comms. “We’re compromised!”

“Eyes on hostiles, five o’clock!” Keegan snapped.

“Roach took one—he’s still mobile, we’re good!”

Your team scattered, dodging suppressive fire from the ridge.

“Fall back, new evac point!” you shouted into the radio.

But the gunfire didn’t stop. A shot cracked near your head—too close—and your foot slipped as you darted behind broken concrete.

And then a hand grabbed your arm, dragging you backward with one brutal pull. You collided with a wall of warmth. He pinned you behind a downed slab, one arm around your back, his body shielding yours as bullets clanged off stone.

His voice dropped by your ear. “You’re welcome.”

You shoved at his chest. “I had it under control.”

“You slipped,” he said.

“I slid.”

“You fell like a baby deer.”

You glared. “Fuck you, König.”

His chuckle was hot in your ear. “You say that a lot.”

You realized how close he was and how much of him pressed into you. His forearm was braced beside your head, his body blanketing yours, weight solid and burning through your gear.

“You’re heavy,” you muttered.

“I’m protecting you.”

“I don’t need—”

“I know.”

Silence. Heavy breathing. Gunfire fading.

And then… His voice, a low murmur just for you:

“You smell like gunpowder and something sweet.”

You blinked. “Are you sniffing me right now?”

“I could be dying. Let me enjoy something.”

You stared at him. Then you shoved him off. “Get up before I shoot you for real.”

He moved, slow and smug. You swore you heard him grin.

It was near 03:00 am when you dragged yourself back to base. The mission was a success—barely. Your shoulder throbbed from shrapnel, your boots were soaked in someone else’s blood, and your tactical vest was hanging open like a ripped jacket in a bar fight.

You marched straight through the front corridor of the bunker, not bothering to say a word to the boys still unloading gear behind you.

They knew better. You were headed to your office first. Then the med bay. Then, hopefully, death.

You reached for the door.

And— He was already there. Leaning beside it, shoulder on the wall. Just standing. Big as sin, relaxed as ever. Still geared up, mask on, arms folded, eyes glinting in the low hallway light.

He didn’t speak. He just waited. And when you saw him—when your brain finally registered the sheer audacity—you snapped.

You stopped short, let your hands fall to your hips, and growled out: “Do it again and I’ll break your fucking nose.”

König tilted his head. “What, stand near doors?”

“Breathe.”

He chuckled. “You keep threatening me, Liebling. I’m starting to think you like me.”

You stepped in closer. Dirt and sweat on your skin. Fury burning beneath your calm.

“Try me again, then.”

He leaned down, just enough that his voice curled against your ear like silk-wrapped danger. “Promise?”

Your breath caught. Just a second. Just one goddamn second where your brain stuttered because his voice was so low, so hot, so unfairly close to your pulse point.

You shoved him. Hard. But he didn’t budge. He just rocked slightly and made an amused sound behind the balaclava like a man indulging a favorite threat.

“Didn’t say no,” he murmured.

“You think you’re cute,” you snapped.

“I think I’m winning.”

“You think I won’t kill you.”

He shrugged. “At least I’ll die close to you.”

You groaned and shoved past him toward the door, but he shifted—just enough to accidentally block your path again.

“König.”

“Ma’am.”

You glared. And the worst part? The actual worst? He was clearly holding back a smile under that mask. You could feel it radiating off of him. You stepped into his space again, close enough that your chest nearly brushed his vest.

“You want to keep playing this game?” you asked, voice like sugar laced with battery acid. “You sure? I’ll make you beg.”

König leaned just slightly forward—just enough to let the top of his head tilt against yours. Barely touching. Not even enough contact to count. Just there. Just present.

“I’m very patient,” he said. “And you’re very… worth the wait.”

Your heart betrayed you. Just slightly. Your lips twitched. You pushed past him again, this time with more force, and yanked your office door open. “You need to go before I put a bullet through your kneecap just to see what noise you make.”

He stood behind you. Didn’t move. Didn’t push. Just quietly said: “If I scream, you’ll owe me another apology.”

You slammed the door in his face. And—unfortunately for you—his laugh echoed through it.

You’d fallen asleep on your office couch, wrapped in your tactical jacket and regret. Your neck ached. Your back was a war crime. And your entire body was stuck somewhere between adrenaline withdrawal and what the hell did I just dream about and why was he in it.

One hour. One hour of sleep. Your eyes were swollen, your hair was an angry knot, and your mouth tasted like paperwork and sarcasm. But none of that mattered now.

You needed a shower. You needed it with the burning power of ten suns. So you opened the door. And, of course. Of course. He was standing there.

Back leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, massive form relaxed and quiet, like he’d slept standing up, like a goddamn monster in a fairytale guarding the tower.

You blinked blearily. He looked down at you, blue eyes glinting with amusement beneath that damned balaclava.

“Just wanted to check if you’re alive.”

You flinched and instinctively slammed the door shut—Then reopened it a second later, jabbing a finger at him like a feral raccoon in a hoodie. “FUCK—” you breathed. “Why. Are. You. Always. There.”

König blinked innocently. “It’s called being attentive.”

“It’s called being a walking jumpscare.”

You ran a hand down your face, stepping out and letting the door shut behind you with a click. You looked like hell. He looked the same as always, fresh gear, rested shoulders, and enough smug restraint to make a saint punch a wall.

You trudged past him, muttering, “I hate you and you’ve only been here a week.”

He started walking next to you, relaxed pace keeping up with your half-dead march to the dorms.

“I grow on people,” he said lightly.

“Like fungus.”

“Exactly.”

You groaned. “I need a shower. A hot one. Scalding.”

“Want me to stand outside your door while you do that, too?”

You stopped walking. Turned your head slowly.

“You say that like it’s a joke,” you said flatly.

“It is a joke,” he said, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Unless you want it not to be.”

You stared at him. Then turned back toward the hallway, walking faster. “You’re a menace. A chaotic, six-foot-eight cryptid.”

He shrugged behind you. “You keep talking to me, though.”

“Because I can’t escape you!”

“Sounds like a personal problem.”

You flipped him off over your shoulder. He caught up easily, matching your steps again. “Want coffee?” he offered.

You hesitated. Looked at him suspiciously. “…Actual coffee or whatever war crime you drink that smells like burnt leather?”

He didn’t answer.

You groaned again. “Forget it.”

“I’ll wait outside the dorm,” he said calmly. “In case you pass out in the shower.”

“I hate you,” you growled again, unlocking your door.

“You’re very dramatic for someone who fell asleep with a mission folder on her chest,” he said behind you, and you were about to slam the door again— But before it closed, he added quietly: “Take your time, Liebling. I’ll be here.”

Click. Door shut. And you stood there, soaked in sweat, grime, and a very unfortunate flutter behind your ribs. You whispered under your breath: “…He’s going to be the death of me.”

You stepped out of the shower still wrapped in a towel and bare feet padding across cold tile, hair damp and dripping against your shoulders. Another towel hung loose around your neck as you scrubbed at it, grumbling under your breath.

You were clean. You were sore.

And, most importantly, you were finally— “You look less deadly now.”

You jumped—again—and nearly lost the towel around your chest.

He was there. Standing just inside the dorm hallway. Holding two mugs of coffee. Like this was normal. Like you were the intruder.

His voice dropped, amused and smooth: “Still dangerous. Just… softer.”

You blinked, stunned. “Did you—how—did you walk in here?!”

“I knocked,” he said innocently, like that made it fine. “Twice. You didn’t answer.”

You squinted at him. “Because I was in the shower.”

König tilted his head slightly. “Exactly. You could’ve slipped.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again. “Are you—are you serious?”

“Deadly serious,” he said, like that was a pun, and handed you the coffee like you weren’t standing there half-naked and dripping. You took it out of pure shock.

“Your shampoo smells nice,” he added, almost absentmindedly.

You stared. He was close. Too close. His eyes dropped—not inappropriately, just enough to take in the towel and your bare collarbone, and then he met your gaze again with something unreadable.

You cleared your throat and backed up a step. “Wh—can you stop?!”

“Stop what?” he said, that dangerous lilt in his voice like he was winding you up on purpose.

“This. Everything. Standing around, saying shit, sniffing me—”

“I said it smells nice,” König offered. “I like jasmine.”

“That wasn’t—wait, how do you know it’s jasmine?!”

He held up a hand. “I’m trained in scent profiling.”

“You are not—oh my god—”

You turned away, muttering into your coffee, cheeks burning hotter than the mug. “I have rules about dorm space, König.”

“Rules?” he echoed innocently.

You waved one hand vaguely behind you. “Rule one: No one walks in when I’m wet and barely dressed. Rule two: No emotionally confusing compliments before I’ve had caffeine.”

There was a pause. Then, deadpan: “So if I compliment you after caffeine…”

You turned back, towel slipping slightly off your shoulder, your stare sharp. He was still holding his coffee. Still taller than the doorframe. Still entirely too amused.

“…You’ll wish you hadn’t,” you muttered.

And he just grinned behind the mask. Didn’t say a word. Just stood there. And sipped his coffee. Like he hadn’t just barged into your space, stolen your peace, and then handed it back warm in a mug.

You disappeared into the bedroom with a muttered curse and your mug of coffee, König still parked in your doorway like the world’s most smug bodyguard.

You tugged on black slacks tight fit, high waist, snug through the thigh and then dragged a fitted black turtleneck over your head. The fabric clung like a second skin, soft and minimal. No armor. No weapons. Just you. Your hair was still wet, dark strands sticking to your neck. You hadn’t touched makeup. Your skin glowed.

You stepped back out, towel over your shoulder, sipping your coffee with the expression of someone trying to move on from the absurdity of the last ten minutes.

But König? He didn’t move. Still there, leaning slightly against the inside wall, long limbs relaxed, coffee in hand. Eyes on you. Only you.

And when he spoke, it was low. Slow. “You look good like this.”

Your steps faltered. You glanced at him. He wasn’t teasing. Not this time. His eyes didn’t drift, didn’t linger on your body like a dog in heat. He just watched your face. Unblinking. Certain.

You snorted softly, trying to shake the weight of it, trying to keep your tone light. “I would compliment you too, but the only thing I see is a fucking muscle mountain and two sea-blue eyes staring into my soul.”

König took one quiet step forward. His voice dipped—warmer now, almost velvet over gravel. “And you don’t mind watching me like this.”

You froze. That damn eye contact didn’t waver. Didn’t blink. Didn’t budge.

You swallowed. Your cheeks flared with heat. He saw it. He definitely saw it. He took another step. Closer now. Close enough to feel. Like his presence alone pulled the air tighter. And then, voice low and amused, as if he’d been waiting to say it: “Oh… now you get shy, Boss?”

You blinked up at him. Jaw tensed. Face on fire. “I’m not shy,” you muttered.

“You’re blushing,” he said, tone like silk-wrapped laughter.

“It’s residual heat from the shower,” you snapped.

“It’s cute.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet…” He leaned in just slightly. Not touching. But close. Close enough that your breath caught again. “You’re still not telling me to leave.”

Silence. Thick. Electric. The mug in your hand suddenly felt too hot. You held his stare—barely. Then, with every ounce of bravado you could drag back up from your gut, you said:

“…I’m rethinking the kneecap plan.”

He chuckled—real, low, soft. “Noted.”

But he didn’t move back. Didn’t break eye contact. Just stood there like gravity.

And you? You stayed right where you were. Maybe for one second too long. Maybe on purpose. Your words landed like a pin pulled from a grenade.

“Get on your knees.”

He didn’t ask. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t say a single word. König just moved. Big hands set his coffee down on the low shelf beside him. And then, without a trace of hesitation, he dropped.

Down. Six-foot-eight of armored muscle and cool control—kneeling. Right in front of you. Still tall. Still solid. Still holding your gaze like it was something sacred. Like he wanted to be here. Not one drop of submission in his expression.

Only focus. Intensity. Devotion.

You inhaled—slow, steady—but the air still caught halfway. He was looking up at you like you were gravity itself. So you stepped closer. Set your mug aside. And with your voice low, velvet over steel, you reminded him:

“Remember, I’m still your boss.”

König’s voice was softer this time. But deeper. Reverent. “I do, ma’am.”

Your breath hitched—just barely—but he heard it. You moved one step closer, until your boots were between his knees. Until he had to tilt his chin up to see you. Still no hesitation in his eyes. Still that same quiet weight behind his stare. And maybe that’s what did it—what split something in you.

Because this wasn’t about rank. Or dominance. Or how good you looked in black. This was about him letting you see something no one else did. So you said it, voice steady, quiet, close: “You’re soft around me.”

His breath deepened but he didn’t look away.

“You let me see the real you,” you said, more softly now. “Not the ghost they wrote about in your file.”

König’s jaw tensed just a little. But still, he didn’t blink. Didn’t break.

You tilted your head, scar catching the light. “You hide it from everyone else.”.

His voice came low, like thunder in velvet. “You never asked me to hide from you.”

That stopped your heart for a beat. He stayed on his knees, shoulders broad, arms relaxed at his thighs, eyes still on yours. Like he was waiting. For a touch. A command. Or maybe just the next breath.

And this time? You didn’t move back. You leaned in, just a little and whispered— “Good.”

The silence between you wasn’t quiet—it was deafening. His knees still met the floor. His eyes still met yours. His body was still still.

But his eyes—His eyes were yearning. There was no grin now. No teasing edge. Just raw, barely hidden ache in the sea-glass blue of them. Like he’d been waiting for something. Like he didn’t expect to be seen.

So you moved. You reached out, fingertips brushing the side of his mask, testing. Waiting for him to pull away.

He didn’t. You let your palm settle against his cheek.

And his eyes closed. Not tight. Not shut out. Just relieved. Like he hadn’t been touched in years. Like he hadn’t let himself be touched.

Your hand stayed there, gentle but certain. Your thumb traced a faint arc near the edge of the fabric, where warm skin must’ve met the edge of that barrier he wore like armor.

He exhaled but not like he was calming down. No. It was the sound of something breaking open. His eyes opened again, and this time they were darker.

Hurting. Still locked to yours. Still brave. But beneath the soldier, beneath the size and steel— You saw a man begging not to be pushed away.

And so your voice came soft, low, velvet with no threat. “I want to see the real you.”

He didn’t move. You leaned in slightly, hand still resting on his cheek, thumb ghosting along the edge of fabric. A whisper of touch.

“I want to know your name.”

His eyes widened just slightly.

“Your features.”

And that was what made his breath hitch. Chest tightening beneath the heavy gear. He swallowed hard, and for the first time, looked away. Just for a second. Just long enough for your heart to squeeze in your chest.

And then, voice barely above a breath: “I can’t.”

Your throat closed for a beat. Not angry. Not disappointed. Just understanding. Your fingers curled slightly at his jaw. He looked back up at you—ashamed, almost. And you shook your head once. Soft. Gentle.

“Then let me keep touching you like this until you can.”

That did it. His eyes closed again and this time, his forehead dropped against your stomach, broad shoulders rising with a breath that nearly shattered him. Still kneeling. Still your wall of a man. But letting you hold him in that moment.

And God, did he need it.

The air was thick with something heavier than heat. You stood still, hand still cupping the side of his masked face—while König knelt in front of you, his chest rising and falling like he was holding back something that threatened to shake him to the core.

And then his hands shot out. Not rough. Not impulsive. Reflexive. They hovered, shaking just slightly before landing, firm and reverent on the outside of your calves. His fingers didn’t roam. Didn’t grip. Just rested. One large palm on each leg, sliding slowly upward—only to your thighs.

Not a millimeter more. Not one. Just enough to ground himself. Just enough to be sure you were real. His head remained low, pressing gently into your stomach again—his entire frame trembling like a machine coming undone one screw at a time.

And you let him. Your hand moved instinctively, slowly sliding around the back of his head—palm cupping the crown beneath the mask, fingers slipping into the edge where fabric met hair.

He didn’t flinch. He leaned into it. That’s when you felt it: The tiniest shake in his breath.

Not a sob. Not quite. Just the weight of holding back for too fucking long. And so you pulled him in closer. Pressed your hand firm to the back of his head and wrapped your other arm over his broad shoulders.

Held him. Tightly. Quietly. Without saying a word. His fingers tightened—barely—on your thighs. Just for a second. Just to hold on. His voice came after a long stretch of silence, muffled into your abdomen like it hurt to say:

“I didn’t think I’d ever find a place I could do this.”

Your heart cracked, silent and sudden. You rested your cheek atop his head and whispered—“Don’t move. Just breathe.”

And he did. He stayed right there. Kneeling. Clinging. Letting you hold the parts of him no one else ever got close to. Your hand lingered, still cupping the back of his head, fingers brushing along the seam of the balaclava where it met his neck.

He was still kneeling. Still breathing slow and shallow into your stomach. But as your fingertips ghosted over the fabric at his nape, you felt the tiniest shiver ripple through him.

And then—His hand shot up. Not hard. But firm—his large palm wrapping around your wrist, halting your movement. “Don’t.”

His voice cracked. Not much. Just enough. His eyes—when he looked up—were glassy with fear he didn’t want to admit. Yearning. Shame. Vulnerability carved so deep it might never heal. You didn’t fight the grip.

You just stayed where you were, soft voice pouring through the silence like balm. “You don’t have to open up for me.” Your fingers relaxed inside his grip. “But let me do one thing.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. But after a long pause—he let go. His hand slipped back down. And he nodded. Once.

Almost imperceptibly. You moved gently, hand gliding up to the edge of his mask. You rolled it slowly—not all the way. Not up to his eyes.

Just enough. Just his neck. His jaw. His lips. You held your breath as the black fabric gave way to pale, scarred skin. The texture beneath your fingers told you stories his file never did. His neck bore faint burns and one ragged scar curling behind his ear. His jaw was sharp, masculine, kissed with brownish stubble.

And then his mouth. Soft. Full. Slightly uneven.

A large, diagonal scar slashed straight through the center of his bottom lip. Brutal. Raw. But it fit—like a reminder of survival carved into beauty.

You swallowed. He was still staring up at you, like he expected you to flinch. To look away. To regret asking.

But all you did was exhale. And whisper— “You are beautiful.”

His breath hitched. Visibly. The corner of his mouth twitched like it didn’t know how to accept those words. His eyes said everything he couldn’t. A silent scream for comfort he’d never been given.

So you let your thumb hover just under his jaw. Tracing the line there. Gentle. Delicate. You leaned down. He didn’t move. Didn’t stop you.

And when you pressed your lips softly—carefully—against his, you felt every ounce of restraint leave his body in a single, shuddering breath.

He didn’t kiss back like a soldier. He kissed back like a man who hadn’t been kissed in a long, long time. Tender. Grateful. Almost afraid.

You lingered there, lips brushing over the scar, over the softness and when you finally pulled back, he stayed right there, eyes closed, still kneeling. His breath was shallow when he pulled away from the kiss.

The air between you still buzzed—something electric, something sacred. You were still kneeling above him, your hand still gently curled against his jaw where the balaclava had been pulled up.

His lips parted. Voice low. Almost broken.

“Alexander.”

Your eyes flew open. You blinked once. Twice. And then your face softened—not with surprise, but something deeper. Something warm and steady and safe.

You smiled. Bright. Brave. Teasing.

“Mhm… I’ll go by Alex.”

It worked—he laughed. Not a snort. Not a chuckle. A real, quiet, soft laugh that cracked the ice around his chest and spilled into your bones.

“Oh wow,” you said, mock-gasping. “Pretty teeth and a handsome laugh? What’s the matter with you? Something has to be wrong with you. Afraid of spiders or something?”

Another laugh, deeper this time. His hand reached back up—resting on your calf, steady now.

“Well,” he murmured, “I hate spiders and I also have bad anxiety.”

You leaned in one last time and pressed a kiss to his lips—shorter, lighter but just as real. And when you pulled back, you gently reached for the edge of the mask again. His breath caught but not from fear. From trust. You rolled it down slowly. Covered him again.

Not because he was hiding. But because you’d already seen him.

And he knew now—you’d keep it safe. You cupped his jaw once more over the fabric, thumb brushing the seam softly.

Then—stepping back—you straightened.

“Stand up, big boy.” Your voice was velvet-wrapped steel. Steady. Sure. Commanding.

But your eyes held nothing but security.

Safety.

The thing he’d never had before. And he rose without a word. Still tall. Still lethal. But different now. Because for the first time he wasn’t standing alone.

Later that day, the air was thick with heat and dusk light, low sun casting orange streaks across the concrete training ground.

Boots scuffed against matting. Gloves thudded into chest pads. The clang of weapons training echoed faintly from the next building, but here? Here, it was your command that owned the space.

You stood dead center on the sparring mat, clipboard tucked under one arm, sleeves of your black turtleneck pushed up. The wind teased your damp hair gently across your cheek, still loose from earlier. You hadn’t slept properly, but no one dared say you didn’t look damn ready.

“Split and rotate. Three pairs. Two rounds. Go.”

Soap groaned as he stretched his back. “Boss, didn’t we do these drills this morning?”

You didn’t look up from your notes. “You want König to fold you again like a camping chair?”

“…no, ma’am.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Across the mat, König stood silent, leaned just slightly against the edge of the barrier wall, broad arms crossed over his chest. Black tank top. Black cargo pants. Combat boots. Black balaclava. Always.

The sweat from earlier glistened faintly at the edge of the fabric clinging to his collar. His muscles flexed with every breath—calm. Watchful. Smug. He looked at no one. Except you.

And you felt it. You turned his way, raised your chin just slightly. “With me.”

He didn’t speak. Just moved. Obedient. Quiet. Right to you. He took his place across from you, one foot forward. Arms still loose. Not posturing, not coiled. Just ready. And only for you.

You eyed him. “Stance.” He shifted. Wider. Grounded. You circled once—testing him, looking for weak spots that you knew damn well weren’t there.

“Trying to show off?” you asked softly.

“Only for you, Boss.”

Your eye twitched. Shit. “Try to take me down,” you said.

His eyes met yours through the mask. “That an order?”

“Yeah. Unless you’re scared.”

His head tilted—taunting. But playful. “You want me soft, or honest?”

“Don’t insult me.”

“Honest it is.”

And then he moved. Not rushed but direct. Fast. Brutal in his precision. You blocked once, ducked the second strike, but his arm hooked your waist with the third and pulled you just off-balance—

But you spun out. Pivoted hard. Threw him. He let it happen. His back slammed the mat with a heavy, controlled thud. Arms out, legs still loose. You stood over him, breath steady. Cool. Dominant. He stared up at you, black mask expressionless—but those sea-glass eyes? Smug. Like he wanted to be exactly here. Pinned.

You stepped one boot between his legs, standing right over him. “Trying to let me win, big guy?”

“Trying to make it look fair,” he said, voice low under the mask.

You crouched slightly, just enough to lean down, hand on your knee, eye-level with him.

“No one gets to see your face,” you murmured. “But I still know what it looks like under there when I have you like this.”

His breath hitched. One slow second. “You gonna pin me for real, Boss?”

Your fingers brushed the edge of his vest near his shoulder. And with a smirk: “Only if you disobey.”

He let out a soft breath. “You know I only follow your orders.”

Your gaze lingered. You straightened slowly. “Then get up.”

He did—fluid and silent—towering over you in seconds. The tank top clung to him, muscles flexing, and his eyes never left yours. Nobody around you saw what passed between you. But they felt it.

They saw König’s silence. And how his body shifted when your voice hit his ears. They didn’t understand. But he did. And you? You turned, smug as hell, knowing damn well he was watching you walk away.

Evening. The base had settled. Lights dimmed. Corridors empty. Even the wind outside had gone still, as if the whole damn world knew it was time to rest.

Your dorm was dimly lit, nothing but the warm hum of your desk lamp casting golden light across the walls. You sat on your bed, towel draped over the back of your neck, hair damp again, one leg folded under you.

You weren’t working. You weren’t thinking. You were remembering. His body on the mat. His voice in your ear. His name on your lips. You exhaled through your nose, slow and quiet.

Then— A knock. One. Single. Quiet. Like it wasn’t meant to wake you. Just… to ask. You already knew.

You moved across the room without a word, bare feet soft against the floor. You reached the door. Didn’t even check the peephole. You opened it. And there he stood.

Black hoodie this time. Hood up, tank top collar peeking beneath. Mask on. Hands in his pockets. Casual. And somehow soft.

His voice came quiet. Almost unsure. “Want company again?”

You didn’t answer right away. Just leaned against the doorframe slightly, one brow raised.

“You here to spar again?”

He shook his head. “No, ma’am.”

“Break into my dorm like a ghost again?”

A tiny huff of amusement behind the mask. “Only if you leave the door open.”

You stared at him a moment longer. Then stepped aside.

“Get in here, Alex.” He did. No hesitation. He slipped inside like he belonged. Like this was his second home. Like you were.

The door shut behind him with a soft click. He stayed near the entrance at first—massive, dark, quiet. You reached for your towel, drying the ends of your hair without turning.

“Still can’t sleep?”

“No,” he said softly.

“You usually prowl the halls looking like a myth after hours?”

“Only if I know which room you’re in.”

You paused. Then slowly turned, facing him fully. König was standing still—but his eyes… His eyes were on you. Nothing else.

You walked toward the bed, tossed the towel down. Sat. Legs crossed. “You staying on the floor again?”

“I will if you want me to.”

You glanced up at him. Then, softer: “Come here.”

He moved. Came to sit beside you on the bed—not touching, but close enough that his warmth bled into your skin. You leaned back onto your hands. He mirrored you.

Silence stretched. And then— His hand brushed your thigh. Like grounding wire. Your voice broke the quiet.

“Still following my orders?”

He nodded once. “Always.”

You leaned your head to the side, rested your shoulder against his. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stayed. And this time? He wasn’t waiting for permission to be close. Because he already had it.

You stood, stretched quietly, and padded toward the small bathroom. The soft light from your desk lamp cast your silhouette across the wall. Before you disappeared through the doorway, you murmured without looking back— “You can lay down.”

No hesitation in your tone. Just quiet trust. The door closed behind you. You brushed your teeth. Washed your face. Took a second to just breathe. You were still coming down, from earlier. From seeing his eyes under your hands. From hearing that voice say your name like it cost him something.

When you came back out into the room, the air felt different. Settled.

He was still there. Hoodie on. Mask up.

But now— He was seated against your headboard, long legs stretched out over the bed, ankles crossed. Arms resting loose over his lap. Waiting. Not awkward. Not impatient. Just present.

You didn’t say a word. Just walked toward him, barefoot. Dressed in nothing but an oversized black t-shirt that slipped off one shoulder and soft biker shorts that clung to your hips. Your hair hung loose—still faintly damp, curling slightly at the ends.

And when you reached the edge of the bed?

You climbed up. Straddled him. Knees sinking into either side of his thighs. Your hands gently resting against his chest as you settled into his lap. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Didn’t even reach for you.

Just watched you. And in the quiet, you reached forward and gently tugged down the edge of his hood, letting it fall behind his neck.

“What hair color do you have?”

Your voice was soft. Genuine. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“I would say…” his voice low, deep, amused in that quiet way, “a lightish brown.”

You smiled faintly. Your fingers brushed the top of his mask, just where the seam curled above his temple. You didn’t pull it. Didn’t push.

Just rested your hand there, palm against warm fabric. “So you match,” you whispered.

“Match?”

“Your name,” you said, gaze lowering to his covered mouth. “Alexander. It suits you.”

He shifted beneath you, barely. Like your words hit somewhere deeper than he expected. His voice came softer now, almost like confession. “I don’t usually let anyone this close.”

You leaned in slightly. Your thighs tightened around him, and your forehead dropped gently to his. The fabric of his mask touched your skin. “I know.”

His gloved hands rose just slightly, hovering—like he wanted to touch your hips. But he waited. So you reached down. Took one of his wrists. And gently placed his hand on your thigh.

His breath caught. And you whispered— “You can touch me, Alex. It’s okay.”

And for the first time in a long, long time— He did.

Just enough to feel. To hold. To be held back. And you stayed like that. Just breathing. In your bed. In his lap. Like it had always been allowed.

He sat against the headboard, hoodie loose around his frame, gloves discarded, mask still firmly on. That same all-black silhouette, that same quiet menace but something had changed.

Because you were sitting in his lap. Straddling him. Oversized shirt draped down your thighs. Hair curling softly around your shoulders. One of your hands resting against his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat under cotton and skin.

The room was dim. Still.

And König? He wasn’t looking through you. He was looking at you. And you—staring into those glinting sea-blue eyes framed in black fabric—asked softly: “Why the mask?”

His breath caught. Not visibly. But you felt it. The pause. The stillness in his hands on your thighs. The soft, absent pressure of his thumbs—brushing, slow, soothing—like he needed it to stay anchored.

He didn’t answer right away. Didn’t deflect. Didn’t joke. Just held you. Just looked at you.

And then finally— “Because I needed something between me and the world.”

His voice wasn’t broken. It was calm. Honest. Heavy with weight. You didn’t interrupt. He kept going, quiet and steady, like the words had been waiting in him for years.

“When I was younger, I was too big. Too quiet. Always too much of something. Couldn’t disappear. Couldn’t hide.”

A pause. “So I became someone they didn’t want to see.”

Your hand curled slightly over his chest. His thumbs never stopped tracing you, slow strokes over your thighs. Not suggestive. Just… present. Grounding.

“I made myself into something they’d fear.” His voice dropped. “And then I forgot how to be anything else.”

You let the silence hold. Let it breathe around the two of you like something sacred. Then you whispered: “And now?”

His gloved hands stilled. His eyes stayed on yours, voice lower than ever. “Now I only want one person to see past it.”

Your breath caught. But you didn’t pull back. Instead, you leaned in, resting your forehead gently against the thick fabric of his balaclava—right between his eyes.

“You don’t have to show me your face.” Your voice a whisper. “Just your truth.”

His hands tightened slightly at your thighs, trembling the tiniest bit. His masked face tilted into your touch. And you stayed there.

No kissing. No pushing. Just two people wrapped in heat and silence. Your hands cupping his face. His masked breath brushing yours.

The room was hushed. The kind of quiet you don’t get in barracks. The kind you make when everything finally stops.

You’d shifted in his lap slowly, one leg tucked to the side, your arms looped around his shoulders as you leaned your head against him, right at that place between his shoulder and jaw. Your body, warm and calm, pressed fully into his.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just held you. Both of his arms wrapped around your waist, big hands splayed across your back like he could keep the whole damn world from touching you. You could feel his heartbeat through the fabric.

Could feel the way his head leaned ever so slightly into you, like he needed the contact just to keep breathing evenly.

And for a long while you both said nothing. Just stayed. Tangled.

Your lips brushed near the edge of his covered neck as you murmured into the quiet: “You want to sleep with that mask on?”

The words weren’t teasing. They were gentle. Just a question. But the silence that followed was heavy. He didn’t answer at first. Didn’t shift. You thought maybe he would deflect. Say something dumb. Maybe say yes.

But then— “…No.” A whisper. Raw. Small. And then, after another breath— His arms stayed firm around you, his voice low, unsure: “Take it off.”

Your heart stilled. You pulled back just slightly, enough to look into his eyes. He was still masked. Still mostly shadow. But the trust in that gaze?

It wrecked you. He was giving you everything. Your hands lifted gently, thumbs grazing the edge of the mask just beneath his ears. “Are you sure?”

He nodded once. Not breaking eye contact. Not breathing.

And so— You curled your fingers into the fabric. And slowly—You began to lift. Your fingers curled into the edge of his balaclava—slow, careful, reverent. You already knew the shape of his jaw. You’d touched the scar that ran through his lips.

But this… this was different.

His breath held. Yours did, too. You peeled the fabric upward—inch by inch—watching the tension build in his throat, his chest, his eyes. Still, he let you. Let you strip back what no one else had ever earned.

And when the mask cleared his nose your breath hitched. His nose was slightly crooked, like it had been broken once—maybe twice—but it only added to him. Masculine. Bold. Lived-in. You kept going, slow, until the mask passed his brow, and then—softly, carefully—you tugged it back and off. And he just sat there.

Exposed. You took him in.

Tousled, silky brown hair parted down the middle. A little longer at the top, falling into soft curtain bangs that framed his strong face. The sides were shorter, pushed back from his ears, clean. His eyebrows darker than the rest of his hair—were sharp. Clean. Carved with precision.

And then you saw it—

The scar. A brutal, deep line that slashed across his forehead and cut straight through one brow, nearly into his right eye. Close. Too close. It made your chest ache. Made you wonder who gave it to him and if they were still breathing.

But it didn’t make you recoil. It didn’t make you pause. It made you ache. Because he was beautiful. So fucking beautiful.

Your eyes flew wide, voice breaking in awe: “My God…”

And that was when he panicked. You saw it happen. His pupils constricted. His back tensed beneath your thighs. His hands twitched like he was ready to grab the mask and disappear again. His mouth parted just slightly, like he wanted to apologize. To run.

But you grabbed his face before he could even flinch—hands cupping his cheeks, grounding him, your forehead pressing to his again, just like before.

“You look so beautiful.”

His breath shuddered—ragged and sharp. “Stop it.”

The words came like a reflex. Not angry. Just terrified. He couldn’t take it. He wanted to, but it burned. But you didn’t stop. Your thumbs slid over his cheekbones. Your lips barely brushing his brow where the scar split across the skin.

“You don’t have to believe it yet.” Your voice was soft. Sure. “I’ll say it until you do.”

He closed his eyes—finally. And let you hold him. Bare. Real. Loved. His eyes were still closed. Jaw tight. Chest rising and falling beneath you in uneven breaths, like he was bracing for impact—even now, even after everything. But you didn’t move away.

You leaned in slowly. Pressed a kiss to his forehead. Like you were sealing something there—keeping him.

His breath caught against your shoulder. Your hand slid through his tousled hair, curling into it gently, letting your nails scrape lightly across his scalp—slow, soothing, grounding.

And your other hand—You brought it to his jaw.

Cupped it. Felt the stubble there. The tension. The slight tremble under your thumb. He didn’t speak. Didn’t open his eyes.

But then he moved and kissed you. Mouth crashing to yours, rough, hot, like everything he’d been holding back ignited. You gasped against him, one hand fisting his hoodie as the other held tight to his jaw.

He kissed like someone starved. Like someone who had waited too long. But even in the intensity—there was control. He didn’t hurt. Didn’t push.

Just held your face between his hands now, kissing you like it broke something open inside him. And you let him. You gave it to him.

Your lips parted for him, matching the heat, the tension, the desperate pull between you. When he finally pulled back—barely, lips brushing yours—you could feel his breath against your mouth.

Hot. Shaky. His voice was hoarse. Low. “Tell me this is real.”

You whispered back without a second of doubt: “You can have this.”

His forehead rested against yours again. And his hands stayed on your face like you were everything he’d ever wanted to keep safe. His lips hovered against yours. Breath ragged. Forehead pressed to yours.

Your fingers still held his jaw like you were afraid to let go, and his hands—bare now—framed your face with so much care it made your chest ache. He didn’t speak. Didn’t kiss you again just yet.

Just looked at you. Like he couldn’t believe this was real. You leaned in one more time—kissed the corner of his scarred mouth.

And then, without a word, you slid off his lap—slowly, gently—and tugged at his hoodie. “Lie down.”

He followed. Without a sound. You laid back on the bed first, and he settled beside you—not stiff, not guarded. Just quiet. Present.

He turned on his side to face you, arm draped low over your waist, his body big and solid behind you. Protective. Steady. Like he finally could rest. You pulled him in closer—your hand still curled in his hair, your leg sliding slightly between his.

You felt him bury his face at the crook of your neck. You felt the slow exhale of his whole body softening.

And then, so low you almost didn’t hear it: “Thank you.”

You pressed a kiss to his temple. Just once. “Anytime,” you whispered, fingertips brushing his spine through the back of his hoodie.

And for the first time, he slept without nightmares.

Morning came soft and grey.

The rain tapped quietly against the windows—steady, rhythmic, almost like it was trying not to wake anyone. The world outside blurred behind fogged glass. And inside your room?

Warmth. Stillness. König lay beside you, one arm heavy around your waist, his mask still off—but his body completely relaxed. For the first time, he looked… peaceful. His lips, soft under the scar. His jaw slack. Brows gentle, not tight with whatever had haunted him before.

You watched him. Propped slightly on one elbow, blanket draped low on your hips, hair brushing his shoulder. Your fingers lightly traced the edge of his hoodie, the dip of his collarbone, the line of his jaw where fabric met skin.

He looked unreal. Like something carved out of the dreams of someone who never thought they deserved softness.

Then he stirred. Didn’t open his eyes. Didn’t shift much. Just murmured, voice deep and gravel-thick with sleep: “You starin’.”

You smirked. “Of course. It’s like breakfast in bed.”

His mouth curled slowly into the smallest smirk. Still not opening his eyes. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You leaned closer, lips brushing the edge of his ear. “Best view on base.”

He exhaled a low breath, voice dropping to that rough, amused tone that had already proven dangerous.

“Could give you somethin’ better than breakfast.”

You blinked. Then grinned.

“Oh yeah?”

“Mm.” He tugged you closer, his thigh sliding between yours beneath the blanket. Voice thick, sinful, still half-asleep:

“Could eat you so good, you’d forget what food even is.”

You snorted before you could stop it, a laugh breaking out into his chest.

“Jesus Christ, Alex—”

“You started it,” he mumbled, finally opening one eye. “You want soft or you want me?”

“God, you’re annoying.”

But you kissed his temple anyway. And he pulled you tighter into him, burying his face against your neck.

The rain kept falling. And you stayed in bed. Because nothing else in the world mattered right now. It whispered against the window in soft, steady streaks while the room stayed warm and heavy with the kind of stillness only shared sleep could create.

König lay sprawled in your bed, bare-faced, hoodie pushed up to his elbows, one hand resting behind his head, the other splayed lazily across your pillow. The morning light caught his features just enough to cast soft shadows over his scarred lips, sharpened cheekbones, and that brutal line splitting his brow.

He watched you. Quiet. Focused. Like a man who’d just woken up from a war and found peace standing barefoot in a black t-shirt across the room.

You pulled your pants on slowly, still sleepy, still flushed from the way he’d dragged you close earlier and whispered filth like it was his first language.

And he did not look away. His eyes dragged down your back. Your hips. The way your shirt slid just a little too high as you reached for your holster.

You caught him staring in the reflection of the mirror.

“Really?” you asked, arching a brow. “After everything last night, you’re still watching me like that?”

His lips quirked, smug, unhurried. “Of course I am.”

You turned, hands on your hips. König shifted just slightly, stretching. One arm tucked under his head, the other sliding across his stomach, his torso tense beneath the fabric of the hoodie now riding up just enough to show the dip of his waist and those fucking hip lines.

His eyes glinted with sleep and smug. “You’re really gonna leave me like this?”

You blinked. “Like what?”

And he said, slow, thick with accent, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth: “Hard. Starving. And completely in love with your ass in that shirt.”

You choked on your laugh, half-turning toward the door.

“Alex.”

He stretched again, that scar pulling faintly at his lips as he grinned full now. “Boss.”

“You’re not helping me focus.”

“I know.”

His voice dipped. Rough. “That’s why you’ll think about me all through the briefing.”

You grabbed your vest, shoulders tight from trying not to jump him again. He sat up, slow and casual, mask still folded on your nightstand.

His gaze softened just slightly. “Come back to me.”

You turned to him, hand on the doorknob. “Always.”

And then his voice came, low and loaded, as you cracked the door open: “If you don’t—I’m putting the mask back on.”

You froze. Glanced back. He smirked. You smirked harder. “Not a chance.”

And then you left. With his smile burned into your spine.

The rain hadn’t let up all morning.

It followed you down the hall, dripping from your shoulders, clinging to your sleeves as you walked back from the briefing with a half-scowl and mud still streaked along your boots.

Everyone had been too loud. Too slow. And none of them were him. You pushed the locker room door open, eyes already dragging along the rows of steel lockers and benches.

There. At the far end. König. Back turned. Mask on. Hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. Still rolling his wrists out after a spar, shirt sticking slightly to his back from the effort.

You leaned against the doorframe.

“Didn’t realize you were hiding in here.”

He stilled. Didn’t turn. “I wasn’t hiding.”

You hummed. Crossed your arms. “That mask back on for the squad, or for me?”

Now he turned. Slow. Deliberate. His eyes found yours through the balaclava, the rest of his face shrouded again in black. But you knew what was underneath.

That crooked nose. That scarred lip. Those lashes too long for someone that dangerous. He took two steps toward you.

Voice low. “Only for them.”

You didn’t move. Just held his stare. “Good.”

Silence stretched. You watched the twitch in his fingers, the tension in his jaw—even masked, you could read him like your own file.

And then he slowly reached up. Hooked two fingers into the seam of his mask. And lifted it. Only enough to reveal his mouth.

His scar. That jawline you’d kissed last night in the dark. His lips—soft, flushed, parted just slightly. Just for you. And when you stepped forward, you didn’t ask.

You kissed him. Once. Firm. Your hand curled at the back of his neck. His free hand found your waist. And for a moment, the only thing between you was heat and breath and the quiet sound of rain tapping against steel walls.

You pulled back just a little, brushing your nose against his.

“I like you better like this.”

His lips curved—just slightly. “Then keep looking at me like that.”

And with one last glance toward the door he pulled the mask back down. But the kiss? Stayed.

The sparring mat smelled like sweat, adrenaline, and impending chaos. Rain still hammered the roof above the training center, but inside—the storm was you.

You circled König slowly. Boots sliding, one hand loose at your hip, the other lifted slightly as you grinned across the mat at him.

He stood across from you, mask back on, black shirt clinging to his chest from warm-up drills, tension riding his shoulders. His stance was solid. Controlled.

Focused. Except on you. You licked your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and tilted your head. “You’re quiet today. What happened to the big, flirty brute from my bed this morning?”

His eyes locked on yours—sharp and unreadable. “Trying to stay professional,” he murmured.

“Oh?” you teased, stepping closer. “Where’s the guy who said he wanted to eat me for breakfast?”

His hands flexed at his sides. Still, he didn’t move. You smirked wider.

“Come on, Alex. You gonna kiss me again? Or just stand there like I don’t own you?”

And that did it. He stepped forward fast, closing the distance, hand catching your wrist, your bodies nearly colliding mid-breath. “You gonna keep teasing me like you’re not one second away from begging me to drop you on this mat?”

His voice was low. Rough. You gasped out a soft laugh, breath hot against his mask. “Ohhh, there you are.”

His grip on your wrist was tight but careful, tension humming under his skin, control on a knife’s edge. His eyes bore into you like they were mapping your heartbeat. “You’ve been staring since I walked in here,” he murmured.

You leaned closer. “Maybe I want you to take the mask off again.”

“Maybe I want to do it with the mask on.”

Your knees touched. The mat shifted under your boots. You both moved at once—hands, breath, tangled sparks ready to ignite—

And then— “Oi! Are you two about to fin’ brawl or fuck?”

You both froze. Your heads snapped around in unison.

At the doorway: Ghost. Keegan. Soap. All standing there. All watching. Ghost was stone-faced behind the mask but tilted his head like a judgmental crow.

Keegan was already turning away in disgust. “Nope. I’m out. If she starts moaning his callsign mid-grapple, I’m walking into traffic.”

Soap, meanwhile, was thriving. He grinned like a kid who caught his teachers kissing behind a storage shed. “Was this the warm-up or the foreplay?” You straightened, rolled your neck, and yanked your wrist from König’s hand, slowly. “Should I pin him for real now, or is that too aggressive for the children watching?”

Ghost muttered, “You already pinned him. We heard the rumor. Through three buildings.”

König, bless him, said nothing. Just stood there. Mask on. Eyes fixed on you like he was mentally undressing you anyway. Soap tossed you a towel. “Maybe finish sparring before the dry-humping, yeah?”

You caught it. Didn’t break eye contact with König as you wiped your brow and said, “Sure. But after that—I’m making him beg.”

And König? Voice low, taunting, delicious: “Only if you say ‘please.’”

Keegan made a gagging noise. Ghost turned on his heel. Soap just wheezed.

And you? You were already stalking toward König again. Because the match wasn’t over.

It was just starting.

The briefing room was dimly lit, rain still streaking down the high reinforced windows like the sky hadn’t taken a break all day. Thunder rolled somewhere in the distance, but inside?

It was quiet. Just the two of you. König sat beside you at the long metal table, his massive frame calm, posture textbook perfect—mask on, hands folded neatly, shoulders squared.

To anyone else, he looked unreadable. Untouchable. Untouched. But your hand? Your hand was resting on his thigh under the table.

Not moving. Not teasing. Just holding.

And he let you. Not a twitch. Not a breath too sharp. But his eyes? Locked on you. Yearning. Unmoving. Focused. Begging. Without a word. Like he needed the contact. Like that touch was the only thing tethering him before the storm.

And you didn’t even look at him.

You just sat there, legs crossed, flipping through the final deployment papers, palm firm on his leg—just above the knee, your thumb brushing slow little strokes every now and then.

You could feel the tension humming in him. The way his leg tensed when your pinky grazed the seam of his cargo pocket. The way his chest rose just a little deeper every time you pressed your hand just a bit firmer. Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t even blink.

Just stared at you like you were the last good thing before war. And then— The door slammed open. “Am I late or is everyone else pathetically early?” Soap. Of course.

You didn’t flinch. You smirked, hand still on König’s thigh, as you leaned back in your seat. Ghost walked in behind him, followed by Keegan and Roach, all trailing fresh from the armory. König sat up straighter. Didn’t touch your hand. Didn’t move it, either.

You looked up, perfectly collected.

“So, boys—”

You pulled your hand very slowly back from under the table, brushing your fingers along König’s thigh in a way that made his breath catch. No one heard it but you. “Here’s the op. We hit at dawn. Two points of entry. Ghost and Roach handle overwatch. Keegan’s breaching the northwest with Soap. König and I go in through the lower level.”

Soap dropped into a chair with a sigh. “Romantic.”

Keegan didn’t even look up. “If they start flirting on comms again, I swear—”

Ghost muttered, “They don’t flirt. They weaponize sexual tension.”

You smiled, all sweet professionalism, as you passed the files down the table. König was still beside you. Still silent. But his leg? Still buzzing under the ghost of your touch. And his eyes— Still on you. Burning. Begging. Without a word.

Later the inside of the transport rumbled like thunder—metal walls vibrating with the hum of engines, the low murmur of mission prep crackling faintly over comms.

You sat strapped into your seat, forearms resting on your knees, gloves flexing slightly as you scanned the flickering red light above the side door. Across from you—König. Full gear. Helmet on.

That signature black veil beneath it pulled tight around his face. The bleached stripes under his eyes made him look like something inhuman—ghostly, untouchable, lethal. His massive frame took up most of the bench, rifle resting against his leg, hands still. Everyone else around you was dead silent, focused.

But he wasn’t looking at the door. Wasn’t checking gear. He was staring at you. Eyes locked.

Heat building in that space between you like it had no business being there, not now, not minutes from a breach. But there it was. That tension. That charge. And when the red light flickered again, briefly lighting the inside of the cabin, you shifted just slightly in your seat.

Let your legs part. Just a little. Just enough to send a message.

His eyes followed. And then—over the quiet comm line, encrypted and on a private channel—you heard it:

“What are you going to do to me after?” His voice. Rough. Filtered through the comm, but unmistakably his. Your breath caught. You turned your head only slightly—just enough to meet that cold, focused stare through the veil. He looked like a monster. And sounded like a man about to fall apart.

Your comm clicked back on. “Whatever I want.” He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. “Be more specific.”

You leaned back in your seat, slowly crossing one leg over the other—still meeting his stare. “You want the promise now, or the punishment later?”

There was a pause. Then— “Both.”

Your pulse thudded in your ears. You wanted to move. You wanted to crawl across that goddamn bench and drag his masked face into your hands until he forgot the mission, the gear, the mask—everything.

But instead—You just smirked. And let the silence build again.

He stared at you like a man possessed. And as the red light turned solid— Mission Go.

You stood. He did too. Towering. Controlled.But as you passed him on the way to the ramp, his gloved hand just barely brushed your hip.

No one else saw it. No one else knew. But you? You smiled under your breath. Because tonight? He was yours. And you were going to make him beg.

The mission had started clean.

Split paths. Two-man cells. König stayed by your side as the others peeled off into the shadows of the ruined facility, voices crackling low over the comms.

“Roach and I are heading north.”

“Copy that.”

“Keegan and Soap circling around—ghost, you with us?”

“Copy. I’ll hang back, keep watch.”

You and König slipped behind a steel column deep in the lower level. Shadows spilled everywhere. Surveillance targets hadn’t arrived yet. This was the quiet part. The wait.

And he? Was standing solid beside you, rifle still in hand, head scanning. Too still. Too focused.

So of course… you ruined that. Your hand brushed down his side. Slow. Purposeful. You leaned in under the cover of comm silence, voice soft and smug. “You alright, soldier?”

His body stiffened. “We’re on mission.”

You hummed. Slid your hand lower. Palmed over the ridge of his thigh, upward, toward the tension coiled just beneath his belt.

“That a yes?”

“Stop.” His voice dropped—tight, warning.

“No.” Your whisper dragged across his mask.

He turned his head to glare down at you but you were already sinking to your knees. Right there in the shadows.

“What are you—”

Your fingers made quick work of his belt buckle. Slow. Deliberate. His rifle shifted up, slung across his chest, hands twitching. He hissed through his teeth.

“Fuck—Boss, not here—”

You glanced up at him, that mask making his eyes look even wilder. “You wanted a promise?” you whispered, voice silken. “You get one.” You pulled him free. Big. Thick. Veiny. Hot. Already heavy in your hand, twitching at the first brush of your tongue.

And König? Collapsed back into the wall. His gloved hand immediately buried in your hair, gripping tight. “Scheiße…”

You wrapped your lips around him. He gasped. Tried to stay quiet. Failed. The comm crackled.

“Ghost, do you copy?” His breath caught—his hips tensed.

“Copy,” Ghost’s voice replied casually. König bit down a groan, hand trembling at the back of your skull.

Then—another voice: “König, do you copy?” Ghost's voice. Calm. Direct.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. Your mouth slid down deeper, tongue dragging up the thick vein on the underside as you hollowed your cheeks and moaned softly, throat clenched around his girth.

“König?” the voice repeated.

König’s hips twitched. His grip tightened. His eyes locked on yours like you’d stolen his entire soul. He reached for his comm—hand shaking—and managed: “Uhh—haah—yeah. Copy.” A beat of silence.

“Was that moaning?” Keegan gasped.

Ghost: “Bloody hell.”

König swallowed a broken sound, clicked his mic again.

“Negative. Just stubbed my toe.”

You snorted around him. He shuddered. And came.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your glove as you stood slowly, satisfied, lips still tingling, smirk curling your face. König was still pressed to the wall, chest rising in ragged pulls, rifle slack against his shoulder, belt half-done, mask slightly crooked.

His hand was still trembling. His legs? Not much better.

But his eyes—Dark. Blown. Fucking ruined. You barely had time to breathe. Because the second you were upright— He grabbed you. Gloved fingers wrapped around your throat—not hard, but firm. Possessive. Claiming.

He pushed you back gently against the concrete column, towering over you, nose inches from yours, mask dragging his breath shallow. Your hands curled in his vest instinctively, but you didn’t pull away. You grinned. “Something wrong, soldier?”

His eyes dragged over your mouth, jaw tight, like he was trying not to fucking devour you. His voice came low. Rough. Laced with filth: “You’re going to pay for that.”

You blinked, playing innocent. “For what?”

He leaned closer, hand still gripping your throat, thumb sliding up to brush just under your jawline.

“For dropping to your knees like that, acting like you own me.”

You tilted your head into his touch, defiant. “I do.”

He chuckled. A dark, throaty sound right against your mouth. “You think so?”

His knee slid between your legs, pressing against you slow. Deliberate. “Next time—” he growled, eyes locked on yours, “—you do that without permission, I’ll make sure your legs don’t work for a week.”

You gasped—actually gasped—but bit it back behind your grin. “Next time?” you echoed.

He leaned in further—forehead against yours now, heat radiating off him. “There will be a next time.”

Then— He let go. Slowly. Carefully. Smoothed the edge of your collar.

And without another word he turned and walked off, adjusting his belt and pulling his rifle into position like you hadn’t just ruined him against a wall.

Like he hadn’t just promised to ruin you back. You were still catching your breath. Still standing there with your heart in your throat.

When Ghost’s voice came deadpan over the comm: “Next time, mute your fucking mics.”

The op wrapped clean. Too clean. Bodies cleared, data retrieved, everyone accounted for. Back at base, the squad filed through the main hall—mud on their boots, blood on their vests, heads high. But behind the calm?

That tension. Thick. Choking. And all of it between you and König. You hadn’t spoken since the “toe-stubbing incident.”

He hadn’t touched you. But he’d looked. Every damn step back. Eyes dragging down your back. Your ass. The way your jaw tensed when you gave commands. The way you pretended nothing happened—like you didn’t nearly make him black out in a shadowed hallway with your mouth.

And now? Everyone was peeling off to debrief.

Ghost and Soap were up ahead, arguing about comms. Keegan peeled off toward the showers. You turned the other way toward your quarters—and that’s when it happened. A massive gloved hand grabbed your bicep.

Pulled you around a corner. Shoved you back against the wall of the armory corridor with a clank of gear.

König. Towering. Tense. Still masked—but breathing hard. You gasped softly, already grabbing a fistful of his vest before he could speak. His voice dropped. Low. Filthy. “You think I forgot?”

You smirked, but your breath caught. He leaned down, lips brushing your ear through the veil.

“You’re gonna act like you didn’t just suck the soul outta me mid-op and then walk around like nothing happened?”

His hand gripped your hip, tight. You inhaled sharply.

“I told you,” he growled. “You’re gonna pay for that.”

Your grin faltered. Just a little. You felt your thighs press together as his hand slid along your waist, possessive, slow.

“I’m gonna fuck you so slow you’ll forget how to give orders.”

Your breath hitched. And that’s when the door behind you opened.

“—oh, for fuck’s sake.” Soap. Standing there. Eyes wide. Holding his helmet. Frozen.

Ghost followed—took one look at König’s hand on your hip, your flushed face, the air crackling between you—and sighed.

“Jesus Christ, can you two go one hour without dry-humping?”

You didn’t move. König didn’t either. Still looming. Still staring at you. His hand on your hip didn’t budge an inch.

Soap blinked. “Wait—wait—is she blushing? You made her blush?” He turned, stunned. “Keegan!! She’s got bloodlust and she’s blushing!”

From somewhere off-hall: “I knew it wasn’t a stubbed toe!”

Roach poked his head in from the hall. Widened his eyes dramatically. “We got unfinished business, König?” he said in a fake-sultry voice.

You shoved at König’s chest but he didn’t move. Didn’t budge. He just leaned in again, voice rumbling so low in your ear only you could hear it: “Let them talk. I’m still gonna ruin you.”

And then he stepped back. Helmet tilted. Calm as ever. Leaving you breathless. Heart pounding. Thighs pressed.

Soap was practically choking with laughter. Ghost muttered, “We’re gonna need a different soundproofing protocol.”

And you? You squared your shoulders. Smiled sweetly. And walked past them all like you weren’t soaked in threat and promise.

Because tonight? You were getting punished. And you were begging for it. You brushed a hand along König’s vest on the way out, slow and smug, eyes glinting up at him. “Alright, big boy. I’ll see you then.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just watched you walk. Those eyes tracked every step, every sway of your hips, every ounce of confidence you let bleed off you like heat.

You swore you felt them burn into your skin as you turned the corner.

Back in your dorm, the mission weight dropped off piece by piece. Gear thudded to the floor. Gloves. Holster. Jacket. The water in your shower was hot, clean, soothing, washing König’s promise off your skin, and sinking it in deeper all at once.

Afterward, you towel-dried your hair, ran your fingers through the strands and hit it with the dryer—gentle, slow, until it fell soft in a blowout around your shoulders. Loose. Framing your face.

You spritzed perfume. Black oversized tee. Biker shorts. Bare legs on cool sheets.

And then? You crawled into bed with a worn paperback and your thoughts full of him. The tension still buzzed in your blood, humming under your skin like a fuse waiting for fire.

Then— Bang. You froze. Loud. Sharp. A knock that wasn’t a knock—it was a demand.

You ignored it. Turned a page.

Bang. Slower this time. Heavier. You exhaled, tossed the book on your nightstand, and padded to the door, hips loose, hair swinging soft around your face.

You opened it— And nearly choked.

Him. Standing there in a black tank top, thick arms crossed, veins visible under the skin, his massive frame wrapped in black joggers that rode low on his hips. Freshly showered. Smelling like cedar and clean soap. Hair still damp, curls pushed back, a single lock falling loose near his temple. Balaclava on. Eyes? Unholy.

You blinked. “Alex—”

But you didn’t get to finish. He stepped past you like a force of nature, like gravity snapped and redirected around him. He yanked the balaclava off, tossed it toward your dresser, and turned to face you— Full face on display. Scar across his lip. That wicked cut through his brow. Cheekbones sharp enough to kill. And that expression—dark, locked in.

“Fuck, you’re so hot.” You breathed it, eyes scanning over him helplessly.

He smirked. Took a single step forward. “I’m not done with you.”

Your heart spiked. Your thighs clenched. But your lips curled into a grin.

“I know, big boy.” You stepped back, leading him in. “I know.”

The door clicked shut behind him. König stood there, shoulders filling your room like a thundercloud, hair still damp, tank top stretched tight across his chest, joggers hanging low. That scarred face of his? Set. Focused. You stepped back as he stalked toward you—one slow, measured step at a time.

“Still smug, hm?” he murmured.

You crossed your arms over your oversized shirt, bare legs brushing together as you tilted your head. “I don’t see a reason not to be.”

He stopped right in front of you. His fingers brushed your cheek, his voice low and smooth.

“You’re not sleeping tonight.”

You swallowed. Grinned up at him. “You gonna take care of me, or just say scary things, soldier?”

He smiled. Dangerous. Calm. “Oh, I’ll take care of you.” Then—with zero effort—his hands dropped to your thighs, and he lifted you.

Your breath hitched, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as your back hit the wall with a soft thud. His hands cupped your ass like you were made for him—fitting against him like gravity had been waiting for this.

His forehead rested lightly against yours, breath brushing your lips. “You’re warm,” he murmured.

You grinned, brushing your nose against his. “You gonna warm me up more?”

His voice dipped, amused. “That depends… you gonna behave?” Your lips hovered over his. “Not even a little.”

He growled—quiet and wrecked—and walked you straight to the bed. Tossed you down. You bounced once, hair spilling around you.

And before you could sit up— He was on you.

One knee on the bed, the other pressing into the floor as he caged you in, hand dragging your shirt up your stomach slow—teasing—until it bunched just below your chest.

He didn’t touch you yet. Didn’t kiss you. He just looked down at you, chest rising slow, controlled.

“You like teasing,” he said softly, hand sliding up your bare thigh, fingers firm.

You arched into him, breath shaky. “Only when it works.”

He chuckled. “Then you’re gonna love what I do next.”

His hand slipped between your thighs. And stopped. Pressed. “Already soaked?” he asked, calm, delighted. You bit your lip.

And then? Two fingers pushed your shorts aside. And slid in. Your hips bucked, a gasp tearing out of you.

“Alex—” “Shh.” His other hand cradled your jaw. “Let me feel you.” He curled his fingers. And you moaned.

Your thighs trembled as he moved just right, eyes never leaving yours, breathing through his nose like it grounded him.

“Look at me.” His voice was low. Gentle. Unyielding.

You did. Barely. Eyes glossy, lips parted, chest rising quick. He leaned over you, fingers pumping slow and firm, dragging against that spot that made your head spin. “You gonna beg now?”

You smirked. Bit your bottom lip. “Make me.”

His thumb brushed your clit—once, soft. You choked. He smirked. “Good girl.”

And then he curled those fingers deeper. Rhythm perfect. Eyes glued to yours. Voice like silk-wrapped steel: “I want you to come just like this. Eyes on me. Knowing what I’m gonna do to you after.”

You whimpered, hand clawing at his shoulder. He leaned down, brushing his nose against your cheek.

“You wanted power?” You’re about to drown in it.”

Your thighs were already shaking. Hair fanned across your sheets, your oversized shirt pushed up to your ribs, shorts shoved aside—nothing but your slick skin, your gasps, and him between your legs.

König knelt, massive and solid, body heat radiating off him in waves, his hair still damp and curling around his brow. Two fingers still deep inside you, stroking that perfect rhythm he’d found like he’d mapped you in his sleep.

His other hand? On your clit. Gentle. Focused. Fucking devastating. His palm grounded you, warm against your hip as his thumb worked slow, tight circles. Just enough pressure to make your spine bow off the bed, your mouth fall open, a raw moan slipping past your lips.

He leaned over you again. Big body looming. Eyes sharp. His mouth hovered just over yours—his breathing hot, his voice a low rumble against your skin.

“That’s it. Let me hear you.”

You whimpered. Tried to speak. He kissed it away. Full lips pressing against yours in a soft, claiming kiss that should’ve been gentle—but wasn’t. He moaned into your mouth when your cunt clenched hard around his fingers.

Then he pulled back—just an inch. Eyes dark. Hungry. “You’re dripping for me,” he growled softly, too calmly, fingers curling hard again, and you cried out.

Your hand flew up to clutch his wrist. He didn’t stop. Didn’t even pause. His fingers thrust in deep, filling you up, while his thumb rubbed just right—slow, deliberate, circling until you were panting, twitching, so fucking close. He kissed you again—sloppier this time. Your moan vibrated against his mouth and he shuddered.

“You like this?” he whispered into your lips. “Like how I touch you? Stretch you open like you belong to me?”

You nodded frantically, eyes glassy, hips chasing his touch.

“Tell me.”

You gasped. “Y-Yes—fuck yes, Alex—” He growled—low, wrecked. “Good. You’re gonna come for me now.”

And then? He pressed his palm flat over your lower belly, thumb on your clit, fingers fucking into you—fast now, deliberate, fucking ruthless. You moaned, full-body shaking as your orgasm slammed into you—white-hot, violent, beautiful.

Your thighs locked around him as you came, crying out his name, clenching around his fingers like your body wanted to keep him. He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. He kissed the sound out of your throat.

Licked the moan off your tongue. Whispered into your mouth, “Fall apart for me. Good girl. Give it all to me.”

You melted into the bed, wrecked and panting. He finally stilled—then slowly pulled his fingers from you, slick and glistening in the low light. He kissed your cheek. Soft. Firm. And murmured in your ear: “We’re not done.”

You hadn’t even recovered, your chest still rising in broken waves, thighs trembling, skin flushed and shining from your orgasm.

But he didn’t move away. König stayed kneeling between your legs, massive frame caging you in like a fortress. His fingers were still glistening. His lips were parted. And those fucking eyes—

Still locked on you. Still hungry. Still calculating. You blinked up at him, dazed and breathless. “Fuck,” you whispered, voice cracked.

His hand slid slowly up your thigh. Gripped it. Spread you wider. “Round two,” he said, almost tender. Then his voice dropped. “No mercy this time.” Your breath hitched—throat dry, mouth open—and before you could even form a word— He yanked your shorts all the way off.

One hand hooked behind your knee, the other gripping your hip as he pushed you flat into the mattress, spreading you beneath him like a map he already owned. You gasped, arching when he leaned over you again, the weight of him crushing the air from your lungs in the best possible way. His face hovered above yours, that scarred lip twisting into a grin. “You’re gonna take everything I give you.”

His fingers slipped right back into you—no warning, already soaked, already ready. You cried out. Back arched. “Alexander—”

“I know.” His palm flattened against your hip, holding you down, grinding his hand against you like he wanted to etch your shape into his memory. He curled deep. Harder. “You’re still so tight,” he growled.

“Still pulsing for me. Gonna fuckin’ come again, aren’t you?” Your voice broke—“Yes—fuck, yes—” He pressed down on your clit with his thumb—relentless, controlled—and watched you break.

Eyes sharp. Focused. He looked like he was taking apart your body one orgasm at a time.

And then— He leaned down again. Whispered, lips brushing your cheek: “Come for me. Again. I want you fucked-out before I even put it in.” You shattered. Again. Clawing at his arms, your body bucking under him, legs locking around his waist as the second orgasm ripped through you like it wanted to leave you hollow.

He held you through it—calm, steady, hand still fucking into you until you were gasping, twitching, whimpering his name like a prayer.

You collapsed. A trembling mess. But he still didn’t move. Didn’t let go. Just whispered against your lips, breath hot and slow: “Still with me, boss?” You whimpered, nodding weakly.

“Good.” His cock was rock-hard against your thigh, heavy, leaking. He looked down at you like he wasn’t done—because he wasn’t. He leaned in again. Voice dark. Final. “Now I fuck you.”

Your skin was still pulsing. Chest heaving. Your inner thighs glistening where his fingers had left their mark—twice. He was kneeling between your legs, towering over you, perfectly still.

The only movement? His hand—reaching down to undo his joggers. You watched, breath catching, as he freed himself. Thick, flushed, heavy and already leaking. You couldn’t look away—he was massive, and you felt a rush of heat pulse through you at the thought of being split open on him. He leaned over you, dragged his cock slowly along your slick folds, just enough to make you jolt, thighs twitching.

You whimpered. He smiled. “You’re already shaking,” he whispered. His hand slid under your thigh. Then the other. And just like that—your legs were up on his shoulders. You gasped, open and exposed, back arching into his chest as he shifted his weight, pressing the head of his cock right to your entrance.

He bent down, so close his forehead brushed yours. “Look at me.” You did. And then he pushed in. Your jaw dropped. Your back bowed. A helpless moan spilled out of your throat and he caught it with his mouth—kissing you while he filled you to the hilt. Every centimeter. He didn’t break eye contact. Didn’t rush. Just pressed in until your legs trembled against his shoulders and your hands clutched at the sheets, trying to hold on to something—anything.

“There it is,” he whispered against your lips, voice low, ragged.

Then he pulled out just enough—and thrust back in. Deep. You cried out. He groaned, that delicious low growl from deep in his chest. “You take me so good.”

His thrusts started slow, hard, rhythmic. His hips moved with total control—like he was meant to break you apart, inch by inch. Every time he bottomed out, he grunted—just a soft, tight sound in your ear, and every time your walls clenched, he moaned like it shattered him.

You were so full—stuffed, stretched, eyes rolling back. He kissed you again. Longer this time. Tongue brushing yours, needy, hungry, still slow. “You were made for me.” You nodded—whimpered. His thrusts deepened. Harder. The bed creaked beneath you. Your legs shook on his shoulders.

He bent lower, hands gripping your wrists, pinning you down as he whispered filth into your mouth between kisses. You were so close. And he knew it. His thumb found your clit again, pressed slow little circles as he fucked you with those deep, spine-snapping strokes that sent you straight into the stars.

You broke. Came so hard it ripped a cry from your throat—legs trembling, mouth open, nails digging into his shoulders as your body clenched around him like it never wanted to let go. He groaned—loud, wrecked, eyes wild as your orgasm took you. But he didn’t stop. He kept going.

Chasing his own edge, breathless and ragged and whispering against your skin: “You’re gonna take it. All of it. Don’t let go of me now. That’s it, baby—fuck—I’ve got you.” And he did. He always did. Your body was done. Wrecked.

Every muscle trembling. Skin flushed. Hair clinging to your face. But you still didn’t look away. You were up on your forearms, head tilted, watching König fall apart as he fucked you through the aftershocks of your orgasm. His thrusts were rougher now—chasing it, mouth parted, breath coming in low, broken grunts. Your legs slipped from his shoulders, but he didn’t stop—hands braced beside your hips, still pressing in deep, over and over.

You shifted your shirt up. Just a little. Exposing your belly. Your waist. The curve of your lower stomach, slick with sweat and heat. His eyes locked on it. You smirked, breath still ragged. “You want it there?” you rasped.

He didn’t answer right away. Just groaned—hard—hips stuttering once. You dragged your shirt higher. Bare skin, glowing. Waiting for him. “Yeah?” you whispered, blinking up at him, mouth open. “Yeah—fuck—yes,” he growled, his voice wrecked, deeper than you’d ever heard it. And then— He kept going. Still fucking into you. Still holding it off. You could hear it in his breath—his restraint cracking, voice breaking with every thrust: “So fucking tight—God—Fucking—gonna lose it.” You whimpered at his moans—desperate, helpless, low in his throat and shaking through his chest. His hair clung to his forehead. His stomach flexed.

His hands gripped your hips like you were the only solid thing in the world. And for three full minutes—he kept going. Hard. You could see him unraveling—his voice tipping from control to feral, hips stuttering as his rhythm broke.

“Look at me,” he gasped. “Let me—fuck—let me come on you.” You nodded, mouth open, too breathless to speak. That was it. That broke him. With a choked, filthy moan that ripped from his chest—“F-Fuck—Scheiße—God—”—he pulled out, grabbed himself, and pumped his cock twice over your stomach.

And then— He came. Hard. Hot ropes spilling across your skin as his whole body shuddered, his voice wrecked in the dark, moaning your name through clenched teeth. You watched every second—eyes wide, lips parted, thighs still twitching as you watched him unravel over you.

And when it was over— He braced himself above you, arms shaking. Panting. Sweaty. Eyes locked to yours like you were his last tether to reality. You ran a hand down his stomach, slow, lazy, your voice nothing but a whisper: “You moan so pretty, big boy.”

He dropped his head forward, still catching his breath, and laughed softly Low. “You’re fucking evil.” You grinned, eyes fluttering shut. “You love it.” He kissed your jaw.

And whispered—“Yeah. I do.” Silence. Just your breathing. His.

König was still above you, muscles trembling, his breath ragged against your cheek, chest pressed to yours like he needed to anchor himself somewhere solid. You were coated in him. Hot. Sticky. Dripping down your stomach. He didn’t move for a second. Just stayed right there—head bowed, arms braced, watching your face like you were something he didn’t think he deserved to touch.

And then— He leaned down. Pressed the softest kiss to your jaw. Just a warm brush of lips. Barely a breath. Then another. And another. Trailing down your neck until his voice slipped through, rough and low: “I’ll clean you up.”

You nodded, barely able to speak. He moved slow and carefully rolling off the bed, moving with a slight shake to his legs—and grabbed one of your old cotton t-shirts from the chair. Warm. Worn. He dropped to his knees again between your legs—this time not to tease, not to conquer—but to care. He wiped you clean with the soft edge of the shirt, slow circles, gentle strokes. His voice was barely a whisper: “Tell me if it’s too much.”

You smiled. “It’s perfect.” He paused. Looked up at you. And the way he smiled back—soft, reverent—destroyed you. He crawled back into the bed behind you without another word, slid his arms around your waist, and pulled you tight against his bare chest, tucking your head under his chin. Your legs tangled.

His hand slid up under your shirt—just resting on your stomach, warm and firm. His other hand? Twisting gently in your hair. No pressure. Just there. Present. You felt his breath start to even out against your neck. Your body relaxed. Your fingers traced lazy circles over the back of his hand as your eyes fluttered shut.

He whispered it like a secret— “Don’t go anywhere.” You whispered back— “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

And then? You both slept. Tangled. Bare. Safe.

The next morning you woke to warmth. His arm around your waist. His body curved perfectly into yours.

König. Still asleep. Still breathing slow against the back of your neck, bare chest rising and falling with yours like your lungs were synced. His hand rested low on your stomach, fingers splayed lazily under the hem of your shirt. You could feel the soft fabric of his briefs behind you, the weight of his thigh hooked between yours.

You smiled. Soft. Sleepy.

Then— Bang bang bang. The door shook.

“Boss?!” Keegan. “Please, I’m begging you—Ghost is gonna murder me if I don’t bring you in like now.”

You groaned. Loud. Into your pillow. “Keegan, I swear to god—”

“I’ll buy you a coffee! A week’s worth! Just open the damn door!”

You sighed. Wriggled gently out of König’s grip—but he only groaned and pulled you tighter. “Alex,” you whispered, pressing your hand over his.

He didn’t open his eyes. Just mumbled, low and sleepy: “Tell them you died.” You snorted. “Tempting.”

You slipped out anyway—quiet, careful—and reached for your black cargo pants. Yanked them on. Then grabbed a tight-fitting black t-shirt and slid it over your head, still feeling the buzz of sleep on your skin. Keegan knocked again. You rolled your eyes, tightening your belt.

But as you turned to grab your boots—Strong arms pulled you back.

König was sitting on the edge of the bed now, hair messy, broad back bare, briefs riding low on his hips. He tugged you between his legs, big hands sliding over your thighs until they rested behind you—pulling you in, grounding you.

You didn’t even fight it. You just melted into him. He looked up at you with soft eyes, sleepy smile curling one side of his mouth. Still ruined from last night. Still yours. “You’re beautiful like this.”

You laughed, brushing his hair back. “Yeah? Messy, no makeup, halfway out the door with Keegan losing his shit?”

He didn’t answer. Just pulled you closer, kissed your stomach through your shirt. Then your ribs. Then stood just enough to press a kiss to your lips. Warm. Unhurried. Like he could stop time.

“I will follow you later.” he murmured against your mouth. You smiled.

Then Keegan’s panicked voice shouted again from the hall: “I’m serious, I think Ghost is pacing. He has knife hands. I’m scared.”

You pulled away from König with a sigh. He let go—slowly. Reluctantly. But he didn’t stop looking at you. Not even once.

And as you slipped your boots on, hand on the knob, you heard him say it under his breath—quiet, but certain: “You’re mine.”

You cracked the door open, just enough to see Keegan’s face. Poor guy looked like he hadn’t slept.

“Thank God,” he exhaled, raking a hand through his hair. “Riley was actually pacing. Like, back and forth. Eyes narrowed. Knife in hand. He’s gone full feral.” He squinted at you, then blinked. “…Why are you glowing?”

You didn’t answer. You just stepped out, locked the door behind you, and walked past him. Bare skin under your collar. Hair still a little curled. T-shirt too tight, pants a little low on your hips. That easy sway in your stride.

And Keegan? Red. In the face. He turned to follow you and muttered under his breath: “Oh my God you definitely slept with him.”

You smirked. Didn’t deny it.

The ops room was buzzing.

Roach leaned against the far wall, Soap was halfway through a coffee, and Ghost looked up the second you walked in. Paused mid-sentence. His eyes locked on you. Then narrowed. Hard.

You raised your eyebrows, cool as hell. “You called?”

He said nothing for a full three seconds. Just looked you up and down, expression unreadable behind the mask. Then: “You smell like him.”

Dead fucking serious. You blinked.

“Excuse me?”

Ghost crossed his arms. “Gun oil, sweat, cedar soap… and smugness. All of it screams König.”

Keegan coughed violently to hide his laugh. Soap’s eyes lit up. Roach looked away politely, but you swore you saw his shoulders shake. You pressed your tongue to your cheek, grinning slowly.

“And?”

Ghost stared. Then turned away with a grunt, muttering something like: “Hope you’re proud of yourself, big bastard.”

And from the corner of the room, You heard Soap whisper: “Bet he moans real pretty, too.” You didn’t deny that either.

The door hissed open with that signature hydraulic whine.

And König walked in. Black cargo pants. Black tank top. Black balaclava pulled tight over his face.

And on full display? Bright red scratch marks carved across both biceps—fresh, angry, yours.

The room? Silent for maybe three seconds.

Until—“Are those…?” Soap’s voice cracked like he was seeing a ghost. He squinted, leaned forward— “Are those fucking nail marks?”

Keegan, no mask today, just sipped his coffee like a man clinging to life. Didn’t look up. Didn’t blink. Just muttered into the cup: “Yup.” “Jesus Christ.”

You didn’t say a word. Just sipped from your own mug, calm and glowing, the picture of post-orgasmic superiority. Ghost, seated across from you, didn’t look up either.

He just grunted. “König. Fuck off.” A beat. “And stop fucking smiling.”

König, all muscle and sin, paused mid-step—then tilted his head with mock innocence. “You cannot even see my face, Skeletor.”

Soap choked on air. Keegan did a full body wheeze into his cup. “No fucking way.”

You laughed straight into your mug, a quiet, rich sound that echoed off the walls. Ghost snapped his head toward you—slow, deliberate—and hit you with the fattest side-eye in human history.

You grinned over the rim of your cup. “What?”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re not helping.”

Soap was wheezing. Keegan nearly slipped off his chair.

And König? Still standing, hands clasped behind his back like a model soldier, voice low and calm: “They’re only jealous.”

Ghost scoffed. “Yeah, yeah. Bet you fuck with the mask on.”

You nearly spat your coffee across the table, laughing, eyes wide. König didn’t even blink. Just cocked his head and replied “Not always.”

Soap fell off his chair. Keegan covered his mouth with both hands. Roach walked out of the room.

And Ghost? Just stood. “I’m going to shoot somebody.”

König wasn’t done. He tilted his head toward Ghost, voice bone-dry: “You sound tense, Lieutenant. Jealousy’s a bad look for you.”

Ghost turned slowly. Dangerous. Silent. König? Calm as hell. Took a few long strides to the door. Opened it. Stepped aside like a damn gentleman and said— “After you, Skeletor.”

Ghost stomped past him with a grunt of pure rage, throwing his hand in the air. “STOP THAT!!!”

You, Soap, and Keegan? Cackling. Keegan was doubled over. Soap had tears in his eyes.

And you? Just shook your head, hiding your grin behind your mug.

König didn’t say anything else. He looked at you. Held your gaze. And just before the door closed— He winked. Smooth. Possessive.

He closed the door behind him, and the room finally exhaled. Soap was cackling, Keegan wheezing into his mug, and Ghost? Probably planning König’s murder.

And all you can think about: This isn't something you get twice. The silence, the danger, the way he looks only at you.

And you would be a fool to waste that.

That was our little mistake. Wasn’t it? You can leave now.

But you won’t.

The Masterlist is here. If that was not enough, you know where to put your request.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ © ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛɢʜᴏᴜʟ