Your grandmother leaned forward, hand on his arm as she smiled up at him.

“So, Aoi,” she cooed sweetly, “how did you get that scar?”

He smiled shyly, one hand scratching the back of his head, the hairtie on his wrist catching the light.

“Oh, this one? Training accident. A long time ago, nothing serious.”

He turned his head slightly so she could get a better look.

Your grandma hummed. “Mm, gives you character. Like a movie star. You ever done modeling?”

You nearly choked on your drink.

Aoi let out a bashful chuckle. “No, ma’am. Just sorcerer work. But thank you. That’s… really sweet.”

“Don’t be shy, dear. You’re handsome and polite. And those arms—oh my. Look at these arms!” she laughed, giving one bicep a playful pat.

He blushed. Honest to god, this six-foot-something tank of a man blushed.

You couldn’t take your eyes off him. The shirt was tight. The pants were loose but you knew what was under them. His thighs, his back, his strength. And yet, the way he smiled at your grandma made your chest flutter worse than anything else. His voice, so deep and soft just for her.

And for a moment, you got lost in it.

Then your heel slid off, resting lightly under your own legs as your bare foot reached forward—under the tablecloth, under the table—until it pressed softly against the edge of his shin.

He froze mid-sentence.

Your toes traced a slow circle over the fabric of his pants, feeling the bulk of his calf beneath. Then you dragged your foot up—to his knee.

He coughed.

“Something in your throat, sweetheart?” Grandma asked, pouring him more tea.

He cleared his throat. “N-No, ma’am. Just, uh. Air’s dry.“

You smiled, innocent as ever, lifting your phone from your lap to type:

you’re doing so well baby. maybe later i’ll sit on your lap in that same chair and tell you what color my panties are. or do you already know?

He glanced down at his phone and nearly dropped the teacup.

You kept teasing with your foot, slowly sliding it back down toward his ankle, letting the arch of your foot just brush against the inside of his leg.

He sat straighter. His eyes flicked up. Then narrowed.

You typed again:

can you even focus on what she’s saying, or are you thinking about how soaked i got the second you sat down across from me?

He shifted in his chair like it burned. He couldn’t cross his legs. Not like this.

Your grandma went on. “And your hair—so thick! You remind me of my first boyfriend. He was built like you too. Used to carry me around like a feather. Had the prettiest smile.”

Aoi let out a strained laugh. “Wow. That’s… really nice to hear. Thank you.”

You texted:

bet i’m not the only one who wants you to carry me around today.

His fingers tightened on the edge of the table.

You bit your lip. And you weren’t even halfway done with him yet.

He was sweating. Not from the heat. Not from the soft garden sun or the warm tea in front of him. No—he was sweating because your foot was still on his leg.

And you were dragging it up and down the inside of his calf like it was nothing. Like you weren’t sitting across the table from him with a halo of sunlight on your shoulders and a grandmother who loved him talking his ear off about homemade jam.

“And you have such nice posture, Aoi. Do you work out a lot?”

Grandma’s tone was all innocent curiosity.

Aoi cleared his throat again, visibly flustered. “Uh—yes, ma’am. Every day.”

Your toes slipped higher, grazing the thick muscle just above his knee.

He gripped his thigh under the table.

You picked up your phone.

imagine if i just climbed under the table. pulled your zipper down real slow. used my mouth like the good girl i pretend to be. bet you’d crack before dessert.

He twitched. He looked up at you sharply, chest rising a little faster, his eyes burning into yours like you’d just smacked him.

You gave him a tiny smile and took a bite of cake.

“Have you tried the strawberry one?” you asked, all sugar and sweetness.

Aoi nodded stiffly, forcing a polite smile. “Mmh. Yeah. It’s—really good.”

Your foot slid up again. Slow. Cruel. This time, your toes pressed between his thighs.

He jumped—just a little.

“Are you alright, sweetheart?” Grandma asked with concern.

He blinked rapidly. “Yes—yes ma’am, sorry. Just, uh… bees.”

“Bees?”

You texted:

not bees. just my pretty little toes on your cock, huh?

He gave you a look that could only be described as pleading murder. His hand slipped under the table, like he was going to grab your ankle, maybe stop you. Maybe hold you there. Who knows.

But you pulled away. Slowly.

Then sent another message:

aw. you miss it already? poor baby. you can flex those thighs all you want, you’re not gonna scare me.

He looked down at his lap, then back up at you with a clenched jaw.

You watched his chest rise and fall. Watched the shirt stretch over him like it was fighting for its life. His hand curled on the table. His tongue dragged across his bottom lip, slow and unsteady.

He picked up his phone. Your screen buzzed.

You’re a menace. Keep going and I swear to god I’m gonna carry you behind that shed and make you beg with your knees in the dirt.

You exhaled slowly, your thighs tightening under the table. Your grin was sharp. Wild.

You didn’t text back. Instead, you slowly slipped your foot forward again, nudging between his legs, softer this time—just resting there. Warm. Bare. Unapologetic.

He shifted in his seat, one large hand over his mouth now, pretending to listen to your grandmother talk about her old rose garden. But his eyes were only on you now.

Burning. You took a sip of your drink, smiled like a saint, and leaned back in your chair.

Game on.

You stood up mid-conversation, your chair scraping softly against the stone patio.

“Excuse me,” you said cheerfully, brushing invisible crumbs from your dress. “I’ll go smoke real quick.”

You caught Aoi’s eyes as you stepped back. His stare was desperate. Desperate to move, to follow, to do something. His mouth opened just slightly like he wanted to speak—but he didn’t. Couldn’t. Not with your grandma watching.

You turned and walked away.

The garden stretched out around you in warm shadows and rosebushes, the party still softly buzzing behind you. You found a small, weathered table near the shed—half hidden by hanging ivy and a trailing wisteria vine. The sunlight was dappled, the air smelled like sun-warmed grass.

You leaned on the table lazily, pulling a cigarette from the pack in your bag just to hold it. You didn’t even light it. Just waited.

Your heart beat like a drum in your chest. You heard footsteps a few minutes later. Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

He came from the side, not directly behind you—like a predator circling prey. You didn’t move. Didn’t look. You just stayed relaxed, letting your body stretch and curve naturally in the warm air.

Then you felt it.

His hands. Big and warm, sliding so slow from your hips up to your waist from behind, fingertips dragging lightly over the fabric of your dress. He pulled you back into him with a slow roll of his hips—not hard, not obscene, just enough to show you what was there. What you’d caused.

His mouth came to your ear.

And his voice—god. Low, gravel-thick and dark, wrapped in breath: “Your grandma just told me I’ve got good hands,” he murmured, barely touching your earlobe with his lips. “Wanna see what they can do when they’re knuckle-deep in her favorite girl?”

Your breath hitched so hard you nearly dropped the cigarette.

He chuckled darkly, pressing you in a little closer, his chest hard against your back.

“You’ve been playing so sweet,” he said, voice curling into a whisper like smoke. “Smiling. Teasing. Acting like I won’t fuck you up the second I get a chance.”

One of his hands slid down now, just over your lower stomach, dangerously slow, hovering like a promise just above where you ached for him.

You swallowed.

“You wanna be good for me now?” he murmured. “Or do I make you finish this little game with your mouth full and your knees in the grass?”

You let out a shaky breath. He still hadn’t touched there—not yet. Just his hands. His mouth. His presence.

The cigarette trembled slightly between your fingers.

“I’m waiting, baby,” he whispered. “Be a good girl and answer me.”

You turned around slowly in his hold, that unlit cigarette still resting between your fingers like a prop in a play you were directing. He looked down at you, dark eyes burning, chest rising and falling like he’d just run laps.

You tilted your chin up, all sweet and calm like nothing had happened, lips curling into the softest little smirk.

“All mouth,” you murmured, voice sugary and low. “You wouldn’t dare, sweetheart.”

You watched his jaw twitch. His hands flexed at your hips.

“Not here,” you added, stepping in closer until your chest brushed his. You tapped his sternum with the tip of your finger. “You’re way too good for that. Such a gentleman. Grandma’s favorite.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But fuck did his body tense.

Then your hand slipped between you—low, palm sliding over the front of his slacks with slow, deliberate pressure. He was half hard already, thick and hot under the linen, and you swore he let out the faintest groan the second your hand cupped him.

“Mm…” you cooed, eyes locked on his. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation now, would we?”

Your fingers stroked him through the fabric, just enough to tease, nothing more. Not yet.

“You’ll behave, right?” you purred. “Like the good boy you are?”

His entire body went still. His hands tightened on your waist.

You leaned up a little closer. “I’ll let you fuck me later if you earn it.”

He growled—a low sound deep in his chest but didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

You gave him one final, slow squeeze before pulling your hand away like nothing happened. Your smile widened.

“Now go back to the table,” you whispered against his neck. “And try not to cum in your pants before dessert.”

Then you turned around, again, swaying your hips as you walked back toward the celebration, still holding that cigarette like the smug little devil you were.

Behind you? He stood frozen in place, hands clenched, breathing heavy, the outline of your touch still hard and visible through his slacks.

The table was loud again unaware of anything simmering beneath the surface.

You were glowing. Giggly. All dimples and sweet laughter, as if your fingers hadn’t been on Todo’s dick ten minutes ago.

“I’ll help with the dishes,” you said lightly, standing and stretching just enough for your dress to pull tight at your back. “Need a little break from all the cake.”

You heard a few polite chuckles. Grandma smiled. “That’s sweet of you, dear.”

Then he moved.

Aoi stood. Calmly. Softly. He reached for a couple of dessert plates with the kind of casual grace that hid the way his fists had been clenched under the table for the last hour.

“I’ll help you,” he said simply.

You didn’t look at him. Didn’t have to.

You turned toward the house, walking slowly up the old garden path, the scent of roses and sun-warmed grass around you. You reached the kitchen first bright and empty. You set the plates down by the sink, running the water, giving yourself a second to breathe.

You felt him behind you before you heard him.

A step. Then another.

Then his voice—low, velvet-dipped, so quiet it sent a chill down your spine: “I’m gonna make you say those same words with my dick down your throat.”

Your hands stilled in the sink.

He stepped closer, the heat of his body barely brushing yours, mouth to your ear like he hadn’t just threatened to ruin you.

“‘All mouth, sweetheart’? You remember that, right?”

He dragged the words slow, gentle, like he was complimenting your dress.

“I’m gonna hear it again. But next time, you’re not gonna be able to finish it.” You swallowed. Your hands gripped the edge of the counter.

Then he took the plates from beside you—like nothing happened and placed them gently in the other sink. Smiling, like a good guest.

“A sponge?” he asked, his voice suddenly chipper.

You turned your head slowly, blinking up at him with your jaw slightly open, your legs weak under your dress.

He just smiled. And winked.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of clinking glasses and leftovers packed into foil. Guests were leaving, your grandmother fussing over coats and goodbyes. You slipped back into the kitchen, fingers pruned from dish soap, cheeks warm from wine.

Todo was still there.

Standing by the sink, drying the last dish with a white towel, hair still down. God, he looked wreckable. Arms thick and veined, chest flexing with every subtle movement, and that towel looked criminally tiny in his hands.

You stood beside him like nothing was happening.

Like his whispered filth from earlier hadn’t soaked through your panties. The kitchen was quiet now. Just the low hum of the dishwasher. The faint laughter from the garden. The scent of cake and lemon soap in the air.

Your grandmother stepped in with one last plate.

“Here’s the final one, loves,” she said sweetly. “I’ll leave you two to it.”

Todo turned, smiled at her with all the gentle charm he still had the strength to summon. “Thank you, ma’am.”

The door clicked shut behind her. You didn’t speak.

You walked past him, trailing your fingers across the counter like you weren’t planning anything.

“Where’s the jar of sugar again?” you asked, voice light.

He reached a hand toward the upper shelf, but you stopped him.

“No no, I got it.”

You stood in front of him. Pressed yourself into him as you reached—your ass pushing into his crotch with a slow, deliberate grind. His breath hitched.

You stretched your arm up toward the shelf, your other arm lifting, elbow beside his head, caging him between your body and the counter.

You wiggled slightly as you reached, like it was just hard to balance on your tiptoes. Your body rocked right against the bulge in his slacks, brushing slow and teasing as you whispered under your breath: “Mmh, can’t… quite reach…”

Your hips tilted just a little more into him.

That was it.

His towel dropped.

Both of his hands gripped your waist, tight, fingers digging in like he could barely restrain himself. His head lowered beside yours, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“You think I’m gonna let you keep doing that?” he said, voice thick, trembling with restraint.

You didn’t move. Just smiled. “Doing what?” you murmured, innocent. “Helping?”

His fingers flexed harder on your hips, pulling you back into him so you could feel how hard he was.

“Don’t fucking start,” he growled quietly. “You’ve been driving me insane all day.”

You laughed soft, breathy, but it cracked a little at the end.

He turned you in his grip.

Slow. Careful. Dominant.

Pressed you back against the counter with his full chest flush to yours, one hand staying on your waist, the other reaching up to finally grab the sugar jar and set it beside you like you’d actually needed it.

Then he leaned in—nose to nose, lips almost touching. “You still think I’m all mouth?” he whispered.

You looked up at him, lips barely apart, eyes sparkling with mischief. His breath was hot against your cheek, his chest rising hard and fast, hands gripping the edge of the counter behind you like it was the only thing stopping him from taking you right there.

You leaned in even closer, mouth brushing his just enough to tease. “Yes,” you whispered. “I do.”

And then you moved. Smooth. Slow. Fingers slipping down, brushing his waistband, then gliding—so gently—over the bulge pressing against his slacks.

He hissed in a breath through clenched teeth, eyes flashing. “Shh,” you cooed, dragging your palm over him again. “Didn’t say you could make a sound yet.”

Then you reached lower, teasing the button open with a single finger. He didn’t stop you. Couldn’t. He was frozen in place, jaw locked, muscles tight, his breath shallow and heavy.

You undid the zipper slowly—painfully slow. The soft rasp of metal teeth opening echoed louder than it should have in the quiet kitchen.

You slipped your hand into his boxers. Wrapped around him. And gave one hard stroke.

He shuddered. His hand slammed into the counter behind you to keep himself upright. You looked up at him with mock sympathy, lips parted like a pout. “Aww,” you whispered, voice thick with fake sweetness. “You’re already so hard. That’s cute.”

Then you started moving your hand. Tight, slow, twisting at the top, palm dragging over the tip every time. Your other hand slid over his stomach, holding him steady, grounding him, letting him feel every second of it.

And when his head fell forward, lips parting with the beginning of a groan— You stopped. Grabbed his face. Pressed your mouth right against his ear.

“I know you are very vocal but if you make a single sound too loud,” you whispered, “I will stuff my panties in your mouth.”

He froze.

“And I’ll let you leave like that,” you went on, voice like sin, “walk back to your apartment with them still between your teeth, hard as a rock, dripping down your leg.”

Your hand started again—rougher now. He bucked into your grip, just slightly, eyes squeezed shut.

You smiled, and kissed his jaw, slow and gentle, while you jerked him off like it was a fucking death sentence.

“You’ll behave, won’t you?”

Another twist. Another gasp choked back.

“Good boys don’t cum loud.”

His breath was ragged now, almost desperate.

Your hand never stopped. Stroking him slow. Tight. Purposefully dragging your palm over the sensitive head each time, watching how his legs shook beneath him, how his abs tensed under your free hand.

Then you leaned in. And kissed him. Soft at first—barely a brush of your lips over his. Then deeper. You tilted your head, opened your mouth just enough, your tongue licking slow into his as you kept stroking him like you had all the time in the world.

He moaned into your mouth before he could stop himself, hips jerking once—twice into your fist.

You pulled back just enough to breathe, your lips wet against his as he whispered, voice wrecked—

“Babe, I—” A shudder. His forehead dropped to yours.

“I can’t… hold it longer…”

Your strokes slowed. Painfully slow. Just your fingers teasing the head now, palm curling around him with each soft twist.

He whimpered. You smiled, lips brushing his again. “Aww. Are you gonna cum in my hand like a needy little mess?” He clenched his jaw. His hands gripped the counter harder. Every vein in his arms stood out. His chest was heaving, skin flushed down to his collarbones.

“Such a good boy for me,” you whispered sweetly, and kissed him again—this time biting softly at his bottom lip.

Your thumb rubbed over the tip, just a little. And he twitched.

“Ohhh, poor baby,” you purred, biting back your own moan. “Can’t even speak, huh?”

He buried his face in your neck, his breath hot and ragged, and you felt his whole body tense.

Just before he came, you whispered one last thing: “Don’t you dare stain my dress.”

And with a strangled groan pressed into your throat, he came—hot, thick, and twitching into your hand as you stroked him through it, slow and steady, watching him fall apart against you.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, so gentle it was almost cruel. Then pulled your hand away.

He stayed there—head pressed to your shoulder, shaking slightly, trying to catch his breath.

And you whispered. “Now go clean yourself up.”

He stayed still for a second, chest still rising and falling hard, his forehead pressed to your cheek, your hand slick and warm between you.

He pulled back, looked at you with blown pupils and the filthiest little grin. Flushed, fucked-out, hair sticking to his temple.

He took your wrist—gently—and brought your hand up between you.

You watched, breath caught in your throat. He ran two fingers through his own cum on your palm, slow and shameless, his eyes never leaving yours.

Then his other hand came up. Wrapped around your throat. Firm and possessive. But not tight. Pulling you to him.

“Open,” he said, voice rough.

You chuckled. But you opened. Tongue out, eyes up, lips parted like you were born for this. He slid those two fingers into your mouth—coated, sticky, warm.

You moaned the second your tongue wrapped around them.

Slow licks. Deep. Obedient. Filthy. You sucked him clean with a soft whimper in the back of your throat, your hands gripping the counter now for balance.

His thumb pressed lightly at your pulse. He pulled his fingers free with a soft pop.

His face leaned in, lips brushing yours as you finished, your moan still echoing in his ears.

Then whispered, voice like sin: “I’m gonna fuck you tonight until you cry. Face down. Ass up. My hand over your mouth so nobody hear how good I break you.”

You gasped—barely. Your knees wobbled.

He kissed your cheek so sweetly it almost hurt.

Then stepped back, tucked himself in, and handed you a napkin.

“Now be a good girl and finish drying the dishes.”

Cute. You thought you were done.

The Masterlist is here. If you are still thinking with your teeth, Requests are open.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ © ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛɢʜᴏᴜʟ

You turned on your heel and headed for the kitchen, knowing full well he was following. Hakari was somewhere in the bathroom running the shower, loud as hell and singing some dumb pop song like he didn’t have two people with main character syndrome under the same roof.

Hajime dropped into a chair like he belonged there. “What’s for dinner?”

“I don’t know. Ask the grown-up who invited you over,” you said sweetly, pulling a drink from the fridge. “Unless you want to cook, Daddy.”

He choked. “You did not just—”

You smiled over your shoulder, cocking a hip. “What? Too spicy for your bland little circuits?”

“Swear to god,” he muttered, rubbing his jaw. “You’ve got a death wish.”

“No, I’ve got a you’re-not-gonna-do-shit wish.”

That got him. He stood, slow, walked up until he was too close, too smug, way too Kashimo. “You always this bratty?” he asked low, tone dipped in trouble.

You shrugged, sipping slowly. “You always this easy to rile up? Thought you had more self-control, sparky.“

“You know, most people are scared of me,” he said, eyes locked on your mouth.

“Most people aren’t Kinji’s sister,” you replied, reaching up to tug his hoodie string just to be a menace. “And most people don’t have a baseball bat under their bed.”

He huffed a laugh, actually licked his bottom lip. You almost kissed him just to shut him up. But Hakari yelled from the hallway, “If you two are being weird again, I will kill myself.”

You both stared at each other for a beat.

Kashimo looked you dead in the eye. “Your brother’s a cockblock.”

“Yeah and it is working,” you replied without missing a beat.

He looked two seconds from losing it.

But instead, he walked off with a huff, only to come back after Hakari finally got into the shower. You were curled up on your bed, doom-scrolling, when the knock came. Then a slow creak of your door.

You looked up. There he was. Leaning in your doorway.

“Are you lost?” you said dryly, not bothering to sit up. “Bathroom’s down the hall. Big white door. Your bestie’s in it.”

He didn’t answer. Just stared. “I should kiss you just to shut you up.”

You blinked. “You wouldn’t.”

His gaze dragged down your body like a matchstick. “Oh?” He stepped just inside your room. “I wouldn’t?”

You sat up slowly, pulse skipping. “Hajime. My brother is literally singing Dua Lipa twenty feet away.”

“And your door’s unlocked.”

You stared. He stared harder. A beat of silence. Then he smiled. “You’re scared.”

You scoffed. “Scared you’ll finally admit you like me?”

“Scared you’ll like me too much,” he shot back.

You threw a pillow at him but he caught it, of course he did, then grinned and backed up, one foot still in your doorway. “I’m gonna shut this door one of these nights,” he warned, voice playful, dark. “Just a little. Just enough.”

“Better bring snacks,” you muttered, heart racing despite the smirk on your face. “I don’t entertain guests without food.”

He laughed. But before he turned to leave, he said, under his breath: “You’re not ready for how good I’d be to you.”

Then he was gone. And you were left staring at the open door, pillow in your lap, mouth dry and heart pounding.

You were still sitting there, pillow hugged to your chest, door half open, when the bathroom light flicked off and the hallway filled with footsteps. Heavy, careless, Hakari footsteps.

You didn’t even have time to fix your face. “Yo,” Hakari’s voice came from the hallway. “You good? That gremlin wasn’t trying to corrupt you again, was he?”

You rolled your eyes just as he stepped in, towel slung low on his hips, hair wet and dripping onto his collarbones. One eyebrow raised, fully suspicious. “I’m fine,” you said flatly. “Didn’t know I needed security clearance to sit on my own bed.”

“Yeah well,” he muttered, scanning the room like he expected to find Kashimo hiding under your blanket, “you get that look on your face every time he’s around. Like you’re two seconds away from either kissing him or stabbing him.”

“Maybe I’ll do both,” you muttered under your breath.

Hakari stopped. “Excuse me?”

You smiled too sweetly. “I said maybe I’ll roast some toast. You really need to clean your ears.”

He pointed at you with mock warning. “If I find his crusty shoes near your bed again, I’m throwing both of you out. Through the window.”

“I’m not even in the room anymore,” came his voice—from the goddamn hallway.

Hakari flinched like he’d heard a ghost. “Bro?!”

Kashimo appeared again in your open doorway, leaning against the frame like he hadn’t just tried to start something five minutes ago. Arms crossed, shirt untucked, a devil-may-care smirk on his stupid face.

Hakari turned to him, scowled. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“I like the view,” Kashimo said, not even pretending to look at Hakari. His eyes were locked on you. “She’s funny. You’re just loud.”

Hakari’s mouth opened. “You little electric roach—”

“Do I live here?” you cut in loudly, raising your voice over both of them. “Or am I just a referee for your bromance?”

“She’s defending me,” Kashimo said smugly.

“She’s defending her peace of mind,” Hakari snapped. “Which you’re disturbing by breathing near her.”

“I’m gonna disturb a lot more than her breathing,” Kashimo muttered under his breath.

You choked. Hakari blinked. “What did you just say—”

“I said,” Kashimo said louder, “I’m leaving. Like the respectful best friend I am.” He winked at you. You picked up the second pillow and threw it again. “Out!” you snapped, heat in your cheeks.

Kashimo backed away, still grinning. “Night, sweetheart. Don’t miss me too much.”

“I’m gonna taser him,” Hakari muttered, rubbing a hand over his face. “You got one? No? I’ll buy one.”

You flopped back on your bed with a groan. Hakari walked to your desk and swiped your phone. “What are you doing?” you asked.

“Blocking his number,” he said casually. “And deleting that selfie where he looked like a male model. I know how your brain works.”

You screamed into your pillow.

The morning sunlight bled through the blinds, slashing over the living room couch like it owed Kashimo money.

There he was. Dead ass asleep. One arm flung over his eyes, hoodie ridden up just enough to show the v-line peeking out of his sweatpants, mouth slightly open like he was dreaming about chewing through drywall.

You padded into the kitchen in your oversized tee and fuzzy socks, hair still messy from sleep. Your brother was already there, half-dressed and aggressively shaking his protein bottle like it owed him child support. He didn’t even look at you as you entered—just jerked his chin toward the couch with disgust.

“He seriously slept there. The whole night.”

You snorted, eyeing the tangled limbs on your once-clean couch. “Look at that dumbass.”

“Yeah.”

You walked past the counter, pretending to stretch, but your steps slowed as you approached the couch. He didn’t stir, his breathing steady, muscles slack in rare, peaceful quiet. A faint flicker of dried drool glinted at the edge of his mouth.

Creeping closer, you dropped to your knees beside him.

He looked so innocent. So annoyingly cute. Unfair, really.

You lifted your fingers over his wrist, smirking as your cursed energy began to hum—low, crackling with potential. Your technique interacted with electrical signals—nothing painful, nothing that would really hurt him. Just enough to give his nervous system a poke. A tiny zap. A rude, bratty nudge.

Your finger hovered. Then—tap. A soft pulse of energy zipped into his wrist. The effect was instant. Kashimo’s hand snapped up, his fingers wrapping around your wrist in a grip that was firm and hot. His eyes didn’t even open. “Stop.”

His voice was low, half-gravel, like he’d been awake the whole time. The word rumbled through his chest, deep and warning but underneath it, a thread of amusement.

You froze, eyes wide, lips parted. “Good morning to you too,” you whispered, trying not to laugh.

He still didn’t open his eyes, but his thumb moved slightly, brushing against your pulse point. “Wanna get zapped back?” he murmured, barely audible. “’Cause I can make that a two-player game.”

You licked your lips, pulse jumping. “You talk real big for someone with morning breath.”

“Still talk better than your brother,” he said lazily.

From the kitchen, Hakari is still humming tunelessly to himself, slammed the shaker bottle on the counter and muttered, “I heard that, asshole.”

You twisted your wrist playfully in Kashimo’s hold. “Let go before I fry your nervous system like a cheap toaster.”

He smirked, eyes still shut. “Try it. See what happens.”

You yanked your hand free with a final little zap, just enough to make his shoulder twitch. He groaned. “God, you’re feisty.”

You stood, stretching again, biting your lip so he wouldn’t see your grin. “And you like it.”

Hakari turned around finally, sipping his shake with a dead stare. “If I catch either of you being weird again before 8AM, I’m calling Yuta.”

Kashimo sat up slowly, groaning, scratching the back of his head. “Call Yuta. Maybe he’d let me stay over without threatening to castrate me every time I breathe near his sister.”

“I’m gonna break your kneecaps with a dumbbell,” Hakari muttered.

You were already halfway back to your room, voice light over your shoulder: “Don’t fight, boys. There’s enough of me to go around.”

Kashimo choked on air. Hakari dropped his shake.

Yep. It was a great morning.

At noon, the bathroom door was cracked open, faint steam still curling out. You peeked in, because it wasn’t technically locked, and you needed your skincare bag.

Except Kashimo was inside. Shirtless. Brushing his teeth.

Hair messy. Slouched over the sink. Just sweatpants and a smug, sleepy aura like he hadn’t almost electrocuted your hormones last night. His abs flexed slightly as he leaned forward to spit. Minty foam clung to his bottom lip.

You leaned in the doorway, arms crossed. “I came in for moisturizer, and now I’m moisturized emotionally.”

He choked mid-brush, eyes flicking to you in the mirror. He didn’t even pause, just kept brushing like the cocky bastard he was, cheeks puffed slightly, eyes narrowed in mock warning.

You stepped inside, casually reaching past him for your stuff, brushing against his bare arm. He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But he did grin with that damn toothbrush still in his mouth. You leaned in, teasing, whispering, “You want me to sit on the counter, or do you wanna lift me up yourself?”

CRASH. “WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?”

You both turned.

Hakari stood in the hallway, hair damp, wearing a black tank top and rage. His eye twitched like he’d just caught a glimpse of a demon trying to seduce his sister with a Crest-approved curse. You blinked innocently. “I said do you want me to sit the container somewhere else or should I lift it up myself?”

Kashimo full-on froze. Toothbrush in mouth, head tilted slightly, calculating. Hakari pointed. “That’s not even CLOSE to what you just said.”

“I said exactly that,” you replied, voice calm, grabbing your serum. “You good? Your hearing’s off.”

“I need a lobotomy,” Hakari muttered, backing up slowly.

But Kashimo? Still brushing. He gave you a long, slow look. Up, down. Chewed on that toothbrush like it was loaded with sin.

He stepped toward you, just a bit. Close enough for the air to spark. Still foamy, mouth full, he mumbled, “You want me to what with the counter?”

You batted your lashes. “I said you should wipe the counter. You’re making a mess.”

He looked at you. Then at Hakari. Then—he spat the foam into the sink dramatically. Turned to Hakari and said with a straight face, “She said I should wipe the counter.”

Hakari squinted. “No the fuck she did not—”

“I absolutely did,” you said, walking out like the devil in socks.

“You two love making stuff up in the mornings.”

Kashimo leaned against the sink, still grinning as he watched you leave.

Hakari stood there, broken. “…Am I hallucinating?”

Kashimo shrugged, rinsing his mouth. “Dunno, bro. Might be the protein shake.”

After that, you were perched on the kitchen stool, robe loose around your thighs, calmly buttering the last pancake like you didn’t just terrorize your brother into an existential crisis.

Kashimo walked in shirtless, towel slung around his shoulders, hair still dripping down his neck. Boxers riding low. You glanced up at him, chewed your bite of pancake real slow, and just smiled. He grinned back like he’d been waiting for that look. Hakari sat across the table, head in his hands.

“Morning,” Kashimo said, plopping down beside you and immediately reaching for the syrup bottle—despite the fact that you had the last pancake.

Your eyes narrowed. “Try it, and you lose a finger.”

Kashimo leaned in a little too close, eyes sliding down your bare leg under the robe. His voice dropped. “I’ll bite something else instead.”

You didn’t skip a beat. “Careful, you might choke.”

From across the table—“WHAT THE FUCK.” Hakari dropped his spoon. “Did you two seriously just—again?!”

You turned to him, calm and wide-eyed. “What? He said he’d get toast.”

“I said I’d pass the syrup,” Kashimo added smoothly, licking a bit of it off his thumb like a war criminal.

Hakari pointed wildly. “You just said you’d bite something else!”

“I said I might fight for the shelf, Kinji,” Kashimo said, straight-faced. “Relax.”

You sipped your juice, unfazed. “You good? You seem tense.”

“I need therapy,” Hakari muttered, stabbing his protein oats. Then, while he was distracted arguing with the microwave for some reason—Kashimo leaned in toward you, lips brushing your ear, voice low enough to vibrate straight down your spine.

“Bet if I dropped this robe off your shoulder, you’d moan so soft no one would hear it but me.”

You froze, lips parting. The fork in your hand twitched. You turned to him slowly, sweet and unbothered. “Say it louder.”

He grinned, whispering again: “You’d beg without saying a word, wouldn’t you?”

Before you could respond Hakari turned back around. “Okay. Why do you both look like you’re committing crimes?”

You blinked. “We were talking about the eggs.”

“Yeah,” Kashimo added, licking syrup off his wrist like a menace. “She said she prefers them runny.”

You both locked eyes. You couldn’t stop the smirk.

Hakari stood up. “NOPE.”

“I love a good runny yolk,” you chimed cheerfully, sipping your juice. “You okay, Kinji? You look pale.”

“I’m moving out. One of us has to.”

Kashimo raised his hand. “Not me and I don‘t even live here.”

You raised yours too. “Definitely not me.”

Hakari stared, betrayed and suffering. “…Am I the only person in this apartment with a functioning moral compass?”

You and Kashimo, in perfect unison: “Yes.”

Hakari had officially hit his limit. He stood abruptly, chair scraping back. “I’m done. I’m going to my room. If I hear one moan, one whisper, one syllable that even sounds horny—I’m bleaching this entire apartment.”

You and Kashimo both turned slowly, blinking like you were completely innocent. “Kinji, we’re literally just eating breakfast,” you said sweetly, licking syrup from your fork with the slowest, most incriminating motion known to mankind.

Kashimo nodded, eyes locked on your mouth. “Yeah bro, you need to calm down. Your cortisol levels are insane.”

“I swear to God,” Hakari muttered, already storming off. “You two are like the devil split into horny twins.”

His door slammed. Silence.

Kashimo leaned toward you across the counter, syrup bottle in one hand, and flirting in his eyes like it was his full-time job. His voice dropped low, amused and dangerous. “You really like driving him insane, don’t you?”

You tilted your chin up, meeting his gaze with a smirk so smug it could get you arrested. “You’re the one stalking around like static in a thunderstorm,” you murmured, letting your fingers brush his wrist where the veins pulsed. “Dangerous little flicker.”

Kashimo’s grin twitched wider. He stepped in closer. Just a breath away now. His voice was all gravel and voltage, teasing but dark: “You callin’ me dangerous?”

You shrugged one bare shoulder, licking your lips slowly. “You’re one spark away from burning this whole place down.”

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, eyes flicking from your mouth to your throat. “I’ll light you up before the fire alarm even goes off.”

Suddenly, from down the hall: “I CAN STILL HEAR YOU.”

You both burst out laughing. “Go jerk off and drink your sad little shake, Kinji,” you shouted.

“I WILL,” came the muffled reply. “AND IT’S VANILLA.”

You turned back to Kashimo, breathless from laughing, forehead pressing against his shoulder. “He’s gonna move out.”

Kashimo’s hand slid onto your waist casually. “Then I’m taking his room.”

You pulled back slightly, smirking. “Oh? Planning on sleeping there?”

His eyes gleamed. “No.” Then louder, for Hakari’s benefit: “I SAID—I LIKE THE VIEW. From the kitchen.”

From Hakari’s room: “I’M GOOGLING HOW TO FIGHT GOD.”

You pushed your empty plate away and stretched, feigning nonchalance even as Kashimo’s hand still lingered on your waist. “Alright, I’m gonna—” You began to stand.

But before you could finish that sentence, a warm hand wrapped around your wrist. “Nooo,” Kashimo whined, but his voice was so velvety-soft, like melted butter dripping off a knife. Not desperate. Just… dangerous. Too smooth. Like he knew you’d sit back down just from that tone alone.

You paused. And then he tugged you. Not hard, not rough. Just enough to make you lose your balance and fall right back— Straight into his lap. You landed with a soft gasp, one knee pressed against the table, straddling one of his thighs. His arm settled casually around your waist like this was always going to happen.

And now? Now his face was inches from yours.

His long hair had fallen slightly forward, strands brushing over his cheekbones, some curling into your face like static-charged silk. He looked up at you like you were his favorite problem.

Then he smiled. Not smirked. Smiled. All teeth. All trouble. “You look like you put your finger in a power outlet,” he murmured, voice thick and syrupy. “So messy. Hot.”

Your breath hitched slightly. You raised your chin with a smug little, “Mm, yeah?”—but your voice was breathier than you wanted it to be. Kashimo tilted his head, brushed his nose against yours, barely there. A little tease. A soft spark in the middle of all that static.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Like if I kissed you, I’d taste electricity.”

You grinned, lowering your voice to a purr. “Try it and you might get fried.”

“I’d risk it,” he said instantly, not breaking eye contact.

From down the hall. “WHY IS THERE SILENCE. ARE YOU BREATHING INTO EACH OTHER’S MOUTHS?!”

You screamed into his shoulder laughing.

Kashimo, deadpan, still holding you: “I said we were watching TV, Kinji.”

“No one’s watching TV, Hajime!”

“You’re just mad you weren’t invited.”

“INVITED TO WHAT, THE HORNY OLYMPICS?!”

You looked at Kashimo, still grinning from the high of it all. “We really might kill him.” Kashimo laughed under his breath, curling his other hand around the back of your knee. “Worth it.”

You were still straddling his lap, his hand still on your waist, the air practically humming between your bodies. Kashimo’s thumb idly traced the curve of your hip as his eyes flicked between your lips and your eyes, that crooked smile never fading.

He tilted his head again, slow and loose, like a cat sizing up its prey. “You keep looking at me like that,” he murmured, “and I’m gonna forget your brother lives here.”

You leaned in closer, so close his breath tickled your lips. “You keep talking like that, and I’m gonna make you forget.”

His lashes dipped. Forehead nearly touching yours now. You were a breath away from kissing him—BOOM. Hakari’s door slammed open so hard it ricocheted off the wall. “I KNEW IT!”

You didn’t even flinch. Kashimo blinked once. Calm.

You turned your head slowly toward Hakari, still in Kashimo’s lap like it was a throne. He pointed at you both, disheveled and furious. “I knew it! That silence wasn’t normal silence! That was pervert silence!”

You blinked. Then—“Oh! Hajime, hold still.”

You reached up and plucked something invisible from his hair with a frown of faux concern.

“What—” Hakari sputtered.

Kashimo furrowed his brows. “You see it too?”

“Yeah,” you said seriously. “You had a piece of lint in your hair. From the couch, probably.”

You held up absolutely nothing between your fingers and flicked it into the void.

Hakari’s voice went up an octave. “You expect me to believe you were sitting in his lap—face to face—to get lint out of his hair?!”

“Yes,” you both said at the exact same time.

Kashimo even added, “She’s very thorough.”

You elbowed him hard in the ribs and smiled at your brother. “It’s called hygiene, Kinji. Ever heard of it?”

Hakari looked deranged. “You’re dressed like a robe goblin and he looks like a sexy storm god and you’re telling me this is about a lint ball?!”

Kashimo tilted his head at him, completely unfazed. “You’re the one with the dirty mind, man. Kinda projecting.”

“You’re gaslighting me right now.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Kashimo replied, brushing invisible lint off his shoulder. You nodded in solemn agreement. “Same. I just care about keeping my people lint-free.”

Hakari turned in a full circle like he needed divine help. “I hate this house. I hate this timeline. I hate you.”

Kashimo grinned at you. “You see it too, right? Like right there—there’s another piece…”

You leaned in again, hand on his chest like a professional lint inspector. “Oh, you’re right.”

Hakari stormed out. “IM GETTING A HOTEL!” The door slammed.

You both collapsed into laughter, forehead to forehead, shoulders shaking. Kashimo’s smile softened, breath brushing your lips. “You know,” he whispered, “you’re kinda scary when you lie that well.”

You smirked, brushing his hair back from his face. “You like it.”

He nodded. “I love it.” His laugh was still warm in your ears when you moved. You threw your arms around his neck in one smooth, easy motion, grinning down at him like you owned the room—and maybe you did, because the second your arms draped over his shoulders, Kashimo’s entire body shifted beneath you. Eyes flicking to your lips. Breathing still.

“Well,” you said, voice dipped in honey, head tilted slightly, “we’re alone now, aren’t we?”

Something flickered across his face—cocky, yes, but also hesitant. Soft. Like he was waiting for the punchline.

But you didn’t tease. You didn’t joke. You just looked at him. And held him there.

Kashimo’s hands slid up your waist, fingertips brushing under the hem of your robe, until they settled just below your ribs, and then—he tugged you higher on his lap. A gentle but firm shift, like he wanted you closer. Closer than skin. Closer than air. And you let him.

You sat there, pressed chest-to-chest now, his breath ghosting over your lips, his eyes searching yours like he wanted to ruin you but forgot how. “You look a little confused,” you whispered.

He huffed a laugh. “I’m not used to wanting something this slow.”

“Too slow for you?”

His voice dropped, a little bratty: “You’re teasing again.”

“You like it.”

His hand flexed on your hip. “I hate how much I do.”

Your noses brushed. Just barely. Neither of you moved for a second. Not a word. Not a breath too loud. Just that moment—too delicate for the two of you, like a glass bell in a thunderstorm.

He leaned in. And your lips met. But it wasn’t rough. Or messy. Or greedy. It was quiet. Soft. Like he was scared he’d break you—or maybe scared he’d break. The kiss was tender, drawn out, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure you’d kiss him back even though you already were.

His thumb brushed your jaw. Your fingers curled in his hair. He kissed you again. And again. Slower. Sweeter. Too sweet. Too gentle. So good it made your chest ache.

When you finally pulled back, just slightly, your forehead rested against his, your lips still barely grazing his as you whispered,

“You kiss like someone who never got to.”

He exhaled slowly. A little shakier than before. And said nothing. But his arms stayed around you, tighter than before.

Later that Night—the lights were low. Your bedroom bathed in soft warm hues from the small lamp on your nightstand. You were curled on your side, blanket tangled loosely around your legs. Kashimo lay beside you—on top of the blanket, shirtless, arms behind his head like he hadn’t just kissed you like you were something to be held.

Neither of you spoke for a while. Just… silence. But the kind that buzzed with everything unspoken. “You’re still awake,” you murmured, not even looking.

“So are you.”

You hummed, shifting to your back, eyes flicking over to him.

His gaze found yours in the dim light. “You really drive me insane, you know.”

You smirked softly. “You like it.”

“I think I do,” he admitted, voice quieter now.

You blinked at him. “Wow. Hajime Kashimo, emotionally available after 10pm. This is new.”

He rolled his eyes, smiling despite himself. “Shut up.” A pause. Then you reached over and slid your fingers through his, resting your joined hands on the blanket between you. You didn’t say anything about it.

Neither did he. But he held on like you were the first thing that grounded him in years. It was soft. Too soft. Almost unbearable.

Then: Door slam. Of course. Hakari was back.

You could hear the shuffle of his keys, the sound of him kicking off his shoes and muttering something like, “This isn’t a home. This is a fuckin’ simulation.” Footsteps. Closer. Your bedroom door creaked open.

You and Kashimo looked over so slowly, like teenagers caught stealing wine.

Hakari stood in the doorway. Eyebrows high. Expression dead. “You’ve got two seconds to explain why this man is half-naked in your bed.”

You blinked. “Oh, I had a nightmare.”

Kashimo nodded immediately. “I was offering emotional support.”

“With your tits out?!”

“They comfort her,” Kashimo said calmly.

“I’m gonna lose my mind,” Hakari muttered, stepping into the room. “If I hear one sound—one groan, one breath, one wink—I will go full domain expansion straight into your ass, Hajime.”

Kashimo held up a hand. “I’m emotionally present, not physically engaged. Chill.”

You snuggled into your blanket. “He was helping me with breathing exercises.”

“Bitch what kind of breathing sounds like moaning?!”

“I have allergies, Kinji!”

Hakari just stared at both of you for a full ten seconds. Then threw his hands in the air. “That’s it. I’m done. This place is cursed. I’m moving in with Panda.”

He slammed your door shut. You and Kashimo slowly turned back toward each other. “I think we broke him,” you whispered.

Kashimo smirked, lacing his fingers through yours again. “Good.”

The next morning, the world was still quiet. Hakari, for once, hadn’t made a sound. Sunlight was barely peeking through the blinds, casting soft stripes of gold across your bed.

You were still half-asleep, wrapped up in warmth—your robe had slid open in the night, and now the thin camisole underneath was clinging to your body. One leg tossed over Kashimo’s hip. Your face tucked under his jaw.

And Kashimo? Kashimo was not okay. He groaned softly, arms tightening around you like a reflex. His nose nuzzled against your hair, breath hot and heavy. You shifted a little in your sleep and felt it. Thick. Hot. Hard against your thigh. “Mmh,” you murmured, still sleepy. “Morning, Hajime.”

He groaned again. “Fuck.”

You lifted your head, hair mussed, blinking lazily at him. “You good?”

He cracked one eye open, voice rough, low, still rasping with sleep. “Fuck, I’m so hard it hurts.”

You smirked immediately, biting your lip. “Aw. Poor thing.”

“Not funny,” he grumbled, rocking his hips slightly. “You’ve been on me all night. Soft and warm and fucking perfect and—” He groaned into your shoulder. “This isn’t fair.”

You leaned in, brushing your nose along his. “I was just cuddling.”

He gave you a deadpan stare. “You were cuddling with your thigh pressing against my dick.”

You tilted your head, all fake innocence. “Sounds like a you problem.”

“Oh my god.”

You laughed softly, then leaned down and kissed him—slow and hot, the kind of kiss that promised nothing but implied everything. His hands instantly slid down your back, fingers bunching the thin fabric at your hips as his mouth opened under yours, tongue brushing against yours, needy.

You pulled back just enough to whisper, “You wanna do something about it?”

He growled, bucking up against you once, forehead pressed to yours. “I wanna ruin you.”

You smiled, devilish. “That’s not a no.”

Then—knock knock knock. “IF I HEAR ONE SINGLE TOUNGE FLIP, I’M GOING TO PUT MY FIST THROUGH THE DRYWALL.”

Both of you paused. Kashimo didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Then under his breath: “I will tase him in his sleep.”

You bit your lip, giggling against his mouth. “You were saying something about ruining me?”

He kissed you again—hotter this time, frustrated, almost growling. “I’ll wait.”

You grinned, rolling your hips against his just once before whispering: “Good. Make it worse.”

You hadn’t stopped touching him since. He was flushed now, chest rising and falling fast, arms tight around your waist like if he let go he’d float straight to hell. “God, you’re killing me,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours.

You smiled against his mouth. “Mm. You love it.”

Your fingers trailed down his stomach, past his waistband. You didn’t grab him but your hand hovered, brushing the edge of his boxers like you had all the time in the world. He choked on a groan, jaw tight. “Don’t. You said we’d go slow.”

You tilted your head. “I lied.”

Then—a knock at the door. Polite. Two taps.

Kashimo froze under you. Mouth parted. Hands stiff on your thighs. You didn’t move. Just grinned like the devil.

“Yeah?” you called sweetly, voice clear and innocent.

“Just checking if you’re alive,” Hakari said from the hallway, his voice dry. “Didn’t hear you leave.”

You leaned closer to Kashimo’s ear, lips brushing the shell of it as you whispered, “Don’t make a sound.”

Then you palmed him through his boxers—slow and firm. Kashimo exhaled like he’d been punched. You looked toward the door again, voice still casual. “Yeah, I’m good. Just… relaxing.”

“You sure? Need anything?” Your hand squeezed. Kashimo bit his lip hard.

“Nope,” you chirped, brushing your thumb along the thick outline in his boxers, loving the way his head dropped back against the pillow, silently suffering. “I’m being taken care of.”

“Uh-huh,” Hakari replied. “Well, don’t forget we have groceries coming at ten.”

You stroked up his length again, slow, watching Kashimo struggle not to move. His eyes were glued to yours now, pleading, burning. “Groceries. Got it. Thanks, Kinji.”

You waited until his footsteps faded down the hall. Then leaned in, nose brushing Kashimo’s, lips a breath away. “You were so good,” you whispered. “Didn’t make a sound.”

His voice cracked. “You’re evil.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth. “Mm. And you’re still hard.”

He growled low, hands sliding up your waist again. “You better finish what you started.”

You smiled. “You better earn it.” You moved over to straddle him now.

His hands gripped your hips like he was trying to stay tethered to reality, but his eyes were locked on yours, wide and dark and hungry. Your fingers rubbed slow, just enough to make him twitch under you.

Kashimo exhaled sharp, a low, ragged sound escaping his throat as his hips bucked instinctively—just once. Just enough to betray him.

Still, he held your gaze. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just groaned, deep in his chest, like he could feel it in his spine.

Your smile was pure wickedness. So close now your noses almost touched. “Mm,” you whispered, stroking him again, your palm dragging down the length of him with unbearable slowness. “You’re so stiff, Hajime.” His jaw clenched. Your voice dropped to a purr. “Like a rock.”

He blinked once. A tiny, helpless twitch of his lip. You pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, then pulled back just enough to whisper—“You’re not gonna come in your pants, are you?”

You circled your palm over his tip through the fabric. His whole body tensed. A deep groan ripped out of him as his head dropped back, throat bobbing.

You leaned in again, brushing your mouth across his jaw.

“Just from touching, Hajime?” you murmured. “That all it takes?” His hand flew up, fingers wrapping around your wrist to stop you, shaking slightly. “Don’t,” he growled. “I will—fuck.”

You grinned. Breathless. Drunk on control. “You’re gonna make a mess,” you whispered, kissing just under his ear.

His voice was low, wrecked, broken in your hands.

“Then fucking kiss me and take responsibility.”

You kissed him hard this time, hot and open, tongue sliding against his as he moaned into your mouth, rocking up against your hand even as he held your wrist. One thrust away from falling apart. And you hadn’t even taken his boxers off.

You had him right there, lying flat on his back now, his legs spread slightly, boxers tenting with zero shame, his skin flushed all the way to his chest, jaw locked, hands gripping the sheets like a man about to lose it. His voice was low. Tight. Raw. “Please.”

You smirked slowly, hand still hovering over him, not touching, just letting the heat between you do the damage. “Please what, baby?”

His eyes snapped open, glazed and wild, looking up at you like you were both his savior and his executioner. “Please let me come.”

You just… laughed. A soft, breathy sound that made him groan in defeat. Then you leaned down, kissed him—tongue and all, slow and filthy, tasting his desperation as you gripped his jaw between your fingers. And when you pulled back? “I’ll shower now,” you whispered sweetly, brushing your thumb across his lip. “You can wait here.”

“What?!”

You slid off his lap, completely unbothered, hips swaying as you walked toward the door in nothing but your camisole and panties.

Behind you: “Oh my—FUCK,” he groaned, hand dragging down his face like he was physically holding himself back. You closed the door behind you with a little click and smiled to yourself.

In the hallway.

Of course, the minute you rounded the corner, you ran right into your brother. Hakari stood there, hoodie on, hair messy, clutching a mug with the words “this is hell” printed on it. His eyes narrowed. “You look… smug,” he said slowly. “Why?”

You blinked. “Huh?”

He pointed down the hall. “He slept in your bed, didn’t he?”

You blinked again. “Who?”

“Kashimo.”

You gasped. “You think I’d let him sleep in my bed?!”

“He’s still in there, isn’t he?”

You scoffed. “You’re so paranoid. Get therapy.”

Hakari stared. “Was that his groan just now?!”

“I was stretching.”

“Stretching your soul?”

You were already walking away. “I’m going to shower. You need to sage this house or something.”

Hakari muttered something about priests and psychological warfare as he shuffled into the kitchen.

You? You grinned to yourself.

The water was already running. You stepped inside, pulling the curtain halfway, steam starting to rise. Peace. Finally. You reached for your shampoo—and then a hand wrapped around your mouth.

You gasped. Chest slammed into the wall of the shower as a familiar heat pressed up behind you, lips brushing your ear.

His voice? Low. Wet. Deadly calm. “You think you can leave me like that?” Kashimo growled, now in his soaked boxers and t-shirt, plastered to his body, dripping water. “You made me wait.” His hand slid up your thigh, slow, cruel, already sending sparks up your spine. “I waited.” He licked along the shell of your ear. “Now you beg.”

You barely had a second to react.

One moment you were smirking to yourself beneath the water, proud of the wreck you’d left behind in your bed—And the next? A wet, rough hand slammed over your mouth from behind, and your bare back collided with a solid, soaked chest.

You gasped, but the sound was swallowed instantly by his palm. Your eyes flew wide. Kashimo’s soaked shirt was plastered to your back, boxers heavy and clinging, his whole body pressed up behind you like he wanted to fuse into your skin. His lips brushed your wet temple, voice low and breathy, almost calm. “I told you to wait.”

You whimpered into his hand, but he didn’t ease off—not even slightly. “You think I wasn’t gonna come for you?” he murmured, teeth grazing your ear. “You think you can walk out like that after what you did to me?”

You tried to speak. He pressed his hand tighter over your mouth. “Uh-uh,” he whispered. “You don’t talk now.”

The steam made everything slick—your skin, his shirt, the air between you. His hand that wasn’t gagging you was already everywhere. Gliding over your stomach, your hips, the curve of your thigh.

“God, you’re so soft,” he breathed, grinding against your ass now. You could feel it, his cock, hard and heavy, pressed to the small of your back through soaked cotton. “So warm.”

His fingers trailed lower, ghosting down to your inner thigh. You twitched, instinctive. Kashimo groaned low in your ear. “I’m still fucking hard, you know that?” he growled. “I stayed like that. The whole time. Just for you.”

You whimpered again, chest rising, breath catching against the pressure of his palm.

“Shh,” he hissed. “Your brother’s still home.”

You froze. Right. Hakari was still in the apartment. Kashimo’s hand moved lower, cupping between your legs, not even hesitating. “You gonna be quiet now?” he whispered, dragging his fingers through your folds. “You gonna let me make you come with his sad little music playing down the hall?”

You shook under his grip, body arching helplessly into his hand.

“You made me wait,” he growled again. “Now I get to play.”

And with that, he pushed two fingers inside you. Deep. Curling. Slow. You moaned into his palm.

Your body was trembling now. Water still poured down over both of you, steam clouding the air, your palms pressed helplessly to the slick tile as Kashimo worked you open with his fingers, deep and slow, curling with that dangerous precision like he knew every spot inside you already.

His chest was heaving against your back. His soaked shirt clung to every ripple of his body, and his boxers were heavy, wet, and tented against your ass with zero shame. His voice was right at your ear, low and shaking with restraint. “You’re so tight,” he growled. “Fuck—can feel you clenching.”

You moaned—tried to—and he tightened his hand over your mouth again, the slickness of your skin and his grip making your head spin.

“Stay quiet,” he hissed. “Be good.”

Your legs were shaking now, knees nearly buckling under the weight of how close you were. His fingers sped up, deeper, rougher now, the pads of them rubbing that perfect spot over and over and—You were about to fall. About to come. And then he pulled his fingers out. You gasped under his palm, panicked, but before you could even protest, you felt him line up behind you, the tip of his cock dragging through your slick heat.

And then he pressed inside. Slow. Firm. Steady. You arched, gasping under his hand, eyes fluttering shut.

“Shit,” he groaned into your neck. “You’re… fuck… you’re perfect.” His length stretched you open slow, thick and hard, his hips pressed flush against your ass now, body trembling with the effort not to lose it all at once. And he held still there. Letting you feel all of him. Letting you adjust. His hand never left your mouth. “Shh,” he whispered. “Let me take care of you.” Then—he started to move. Not fast. Not sloppy.

Just deep. Controlled. Each thrust was deliberate, pulling almost all the way out before rocking back in, pressing against every spot that had you whining under your breath, your body melting against the tile. You were dripping, legs shaking, his name screaming in your throat—but you couldn’t say it. You couldn’t say anything.

His hand stayed tight over your mouth, the other holding your waist, grounding you as he fucked you slow and hard, gritting through every groan so he wouldn’t get caught. “You’re mine,” he whispered, voice shaky. “You made me wait for this… all fucking night.”

You nodded frantically under his hand, tears starting to well at the corners of your eyes from the overwhelming pleasure, from how full you felt, from the way he held you like he’d burn down the world if you disappeared.

“I’m not stopping till you come for me,” he growled. “Come on, baby. Give it to me.”

And with one deep, perfect thrust, your body shattered. You came with a muffled cry, twitching in his arms, walls fluttering around his cock as he hissed. He didn’t pull out. Didn’t let go. Just kissed the side of your face, breathless. Still holding your mouth like your moans might kill him.

The water was still running. Steam rising in thick waves.

Kashimo stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped around your waist now, his soaked shirt clinging to your back like a second skin. His forehead was resting on your shoulder, lips parted, breathing hard—but he hadn’t finished.

He was still holding on. Still holding back. You could feel the tension in him, his body shaking slightly, cock twitching inside you, muscles taut like wires pulled to snapping.

“You didn’t come,” you whispered breathlessly, still dazed, still trembling.

“I’m fine,” he rasped against your neck. “You first. Always.”

You turned in his arms, moving slowly, water cascading over your bodies, and kissed him. Long and slow. Your hand slid down, wrapping around the base of his cock where it still pulsed against your inner thigh, thick and hot and aching. He groaned into your mouth, forehead pressing to yours. “You don’t have to—”

“Shut up,” you whispered.

You stroked him slow, your other hand slipping up the back of his neck to pull him closer. His jaw clenched, eyes squeezed shut, hips jerking into your touch even though he tried not to.

“You were so good,” you murmured. “So patient. So careful with me…” You tightened your grip. His breath caught. “I want you to come.”

He opened his eyes, blown wide, pupils dilated, jaw slack as he started to lose it. You kissed him again. “Let go for me, Hajime.”

His entire body tensed, groaning through clenched teeth as he came, spilling everything on your stomach in hot, slow pulses, body trembling hard, his head falling against your shoulder. You held him through it. Gently. Smiling to yourself.

And then—Knock knock. You both froze like fucking criminals.

“Hello?” Hakari’s voice, muffled through the door. “Is the water broken or are you just being weird in there?”

You pressed your finger to Kashimo’s lips to stop his growl. Then raised your voice, perfectly steady: “I’m exfoliating!”

“You’ve been in there for twenty minutes!”

“I was conditioner masking!” you shouted back.

Kashimo leaned close to your ear, voice hoarse: “Your body is literally conditioned with my cum.”

You slapped a wet hand over his mouth and giggled. Then turned back toward the door, too sweet: “Kinji, not everyone showers in two seconds with 3-in-1 soap like a war criminal!”

Silence. Then, from the hallway: “…I hope you both step on a Lego.”

You both laughed under your breath as the footsteps faded. You turned to Kashimo, still catching his breath, eyes soft now, thumb brushing his cheek. “You okay?”

He nodded slowly. Pressed his forehead to yours. “I think I’m fucking in love with you.”

You blinked. Then grinned. “Of course you are.”

The water had started to cool, steam thinning as the high of it all softened into something quiet. You stayed there for a few minutes longer—bodies close, heads leaned together, Kashimo’s breathing slowly calming, his fingers tracing lazy shapes along your spine like he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to let go.

Finally, you sighed and pulled back gently, nudging his soaked boxers down with a smirk. “Come on, static boy. Time to rinse off the crime scene.”

He chuckled, flushed, and stepped out of them with a wet peel. Then he tugged off his wet shirt. You reached for the bottle of Hakari’s cheap-ass body gel on the shelf and gave it a squeeze into your palm—way too much on purpose—then turned back to him.

You looked him over once. Wet hair slicked back, skin flushed from heat and afterglow, chest rising slow like he was still trying to believe this wasn’t a dream. His cheeks were pink. Not just from the water. “You look so beautiful,” you said, almost thoughtlessly.

Kashimo blinked. His eyes opened a little wider, lips parting—but he didn’t speak. He just looked at you. Still. Quiet. Soft in a way that felt too private to be witnessed. His blush deepened, flickering over his cheekbones and the tips of his ears like you’d kissed him there. “…Shut up,” he mumbled, barely audible.

You laughed gently and stepped closer, dragging your hands over his chest with the lather. “Never.”

He stood there, letting you wash him with that stupid citrus-mint gel that smelled exactly like Kinji’s failed masculinity, eyes half-lidded, arms loose at his sides like he’d melted under your touch. It was quiet.

You pressed a final kiss to the middle of his chest before stepping out of the shower, reaching for a towel. “I’ll go first,” you said, drying your shoulders, half-turned toward the door already.

But before you could even take a step, his hand snagged your wrist. You looked back, confused—and he was already moving. Wet feet on tile, towel half-draped over his hips, water still dripping from his hair as he grabbed your waist and kissed you.

Not soft. Not sweet. Rough. Hot. His tongue pushed into your mouth like he’d needed this part—the part where it wasn’t gentle, where he could press you back into the wall again and kiss you like he’d die if he didn’t.

You gasped into it, grabbed his jaw, kissed him back with everything he left you wanting. He pulled back barely an inch, eyes dark, lips red and wet. “I should’ve done that last night,” he whispered.

You smiled against his mouth. “Then do it again.” And he did.

The smell of burnt toast and existential dread hung in the air as Hakari poured himself a sad cup of coffee—black, bitter, and full of regret. The morning was quiet, deceptively normal.

Until you stepped into the kitchen. Wearing Kashimo’s hoodie. Nothing else. Your legs were bare, wet hair dripping onto the oversized fabric, the hem brushing just past your thighs. You didn’t even try to look subtle. You padded across the room like you owned it.

Hakari stared.

Then Kashimo strolled in behind you, also wet-haired, shirtless now in a pair of sweatpants like nothing happened, scratching lazily at his collarbone. “…No,” Hakari said immediately. “No.”

You blinked at him innocently. “What?”

“No no no no—don’t give me that look!” he pointed at your hoodie. “That’s not your hoodie!”

“It’s cold,” you shrugged, sipping your water.

“You were in the bathroom for 30 minutes.”

“I was shaving.”

“You don’t even shave—!”

Kashimo wandered over, opened the fridge, looked inside like this was his actual home. “Hey, bro, you got any eggs?”

“Don’t ‘bro’ me!” Hakari barked. “You were in there too!”

Kashimo blinked. Looked at you. Looked at Hakari. “…I had to pee?”

“For twenty minutes?!”

“We showered separately,” you said, calm as ever.

“There’s one bathroom!”

“There’s imagination, Kinji,” you replied. “Maybe try it sometime.”

Hakari just—stood there. Coffee in hand. Looking at both of you like he had aged five years since sunrise. He pointed again. “Why is your hair wet?”

“I slipped,” Kashimo said instantly. “Had to rinse off.”

“Rinse off what?”

“…Shame.”

You snorted into your glass. Hakari looked between the two of you, squinting like he was trying to see through time. Then turned to Kashimo and said—dead serious: “If I hear so much as a moan—”

“I moan when I do yoga,” Kashimo cut in smoothly.

“You don’t do yoga—!”

“Maybe you should,” you offered. “Help with the tension in your shoulders.”

Hakari screamed into his mug. Then walked away muttering, “I’m done. I’m moving. I’m gonna live in a monastery. With rice and silence and men who don’t touch my sister.”

You watched him go, then turned back to Kashimo, still smug beside you. He raised a brow. “You wearing anything under that?”

You leaned up, kissed his cheek, and whispered: “Not a thing.”

Noon—You were curled into Kashimo’s side, face tucked beneath his jaw, one arm flopped over his stomach. Bare thighs tangled with the sheets, hair still damp from the shower. His hoodie draped over you like a blanket.

Kashimo was leaned back against the headboard, legs stretched out, one arm under your head, the other resting lazily on your hip. His fingers idly traced patterns against your thigh as he stared at the ceiling in that half-aware post-orgasm coma.

You were fast asleep. Peaceful. Warm. And the door was wide open. Hakari passed by in the hallway. Then stopped. Slowly backed up. He stood there. Silent. Just… staring. Kashimo glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. They made direct eye contact. A long pause. Then Hakari finally said, low and tired, “You’re in her bed.”

“Wow,” Kashimo replied softly. “You’re observant.”

Hakari’s eye twitched. “You said you were just crashing on the couch.”

“I was.”

He glanced down at you sleeping peacefully against him. “But then she crashed on me. So here we are.”

Hakari inhaled through his nose like a man holding back the urge to summon a cursed technique. He looked at you again—so peaceful. Your cheek against Kashimo’s chest. A soft little sigh escaping your lips. “…She’s smiling in her sleep,” Hakari mumbled. “She never smiles in her sleep.”

“I make people happy,” Kashimo replied without shame, gently brushing your hair back from your forehead. “With my words. And sometimes my tongue.”

Hakari visibly short-circuited. “WHAT—”

“She had a sore spot on her back,” Kashimo added casually. “I used my mouth therapeutically.”

“You’re the worst human being alive.”

Kashimo smirked. “She said the same thing. Right before she came.”

Hakari just stood. One vein pulsing in his temple. Coffee forgotten. Existence unraveling.

Kashimo raised an eyebrow. “You good, man?”

Hakari stared at him. “You’re touching her right now.”

Kashimo looked down. Lifted his hand off your hip for a second. Then put it back. “…Yeah.”

Hakari sighed, ran a hand through his hair like this was somehow his fault. Then turned around. Muttering under his breath: “I’m getting earplugs. And a shovel.”

Kashimo grinned, leaned down, kissed the top of your head, and whispered: “Totally worth it.”

The world was warm. Quiet.

Then Kashimo shifted slightly, kissed the top of your head, and whispered—still raspy from sleep: “Gotta pee, babe.” You hummed in acknowledgment, not even opening your eyes. You heard him shuffle out, the floor creaking, his quiet groan as he stubbed his toe on the dresser. “Fucking furniture,” he mumbled.

The bathroom door clicked shut. You drifted back to sleep. Ten minutes later. Raised voices. Distant blender rage. Chaos.

You blinked awake, stretched under the covers, and sat up just in time to hear: “YOU WERE IN THERE FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES.”

You padded toward the hallway, hoodie falling over your thighs, peeking around the corner of the kitchen door.

Hakari stood near the fridge, holding a banana like a weapon. Kashimo was shirtless, smug, sipping your water from your “Men Are Cursed Energy” mug.

“I was peeing,” Kashimo said flatly.

“You moaned!”

“I exhaled.”

“You said ‘fuck’—twice!”

“I was reflecting on mortality.”

Hakari’s hands flew in the air. “You were reflecting on my sister’s ass.”

Kashimo blinked. “Well. It is… very reflective.”

“OH MY—”

You walked in, yawning dramatically. “Why are you two always fighting like divorced parents?”

“He’s lying,” Hakari snapped, pointing like he was presenting evidence to a jury. “He left your bed, went to the bathroom, and moaned for fifteen minutes!”

“I stretch when I urinate,” Kashimo said calmly.

Hakari blinked. “You’re disgusting.”

“I’m hydrated.”

You leaned against the counter, rubbing your eyes. “It’s literally too early for this.”

“YOU’RE IN HIS HOODIE.”

“I was cold.”

“IT’S JULY!”

“I run cold, Kinji.”

“She runs hot internally,” Kashimo added, finishing your water. “She’s like a crockpot.”

Hakari just stood there. Jaw open. Visibly glitching.

Kashimo walked past him and slapped him gently on the back. “Try deep breathing, bro. Anger shortens your life span.”

Hakari muttered something about “life span” and “shovels” and stormed off down the hall, clutching his smoothie like a weapon. A door slammed in the distance.

Peace. Again. Then Kashimo looked at you, grin curling slowly.

You stepped into him, arms sliding around his bare waist, the hoodie sleeves swallowing your hands. “Still tense?” you whispered.

His hands slid to your hips. “Always.” Then he kissed you. Hard. Loud. Open-mouthed, filthy, deep. Tongue and teeth and no shame.

And just as you pulled back, breathless— From down the hall: “ARE YOU KISSING?! I’M STILL IN THE FUCKING HOUSE!”

You rested your forehead on Kashimo’s chest, laughing as he shouted back: “WE’RE RECONNECTING!”

Hakari’s muffled voice came through the walls. “I hope your cereal’s soggy forever.”

The apartment was quiet again.

After the blender drama, the accusations, the banana violence, and the loud post-argument kiss heard around the world, you and Kashimo had wandered back to your room like you hadn’t just mentally unhinged your brother.

Now? You were both out cold.

Kashimo was shirtless, lying on his back, one arm lazily draped around your shoulders. His other hand rested over your hip like a seatbelt. His hair was still damp, stuck to his temple, lips slightly parted as he snored just faintly.

You were curled into his side, your leg thrown over his, face buried against his chest. His hoodie had ridden up a little over your thighs, one bare knee poking out from the tangle of sheets. Your breathing was slow. Safe. One of your hands rested over his heart.

And for once—Silence. Until. Footsteps.

Then. A door creaked. Hakari poked his head into the room with the full intent of either yelling, sighing dramatically, or pretending to be the bigger person. But he stopped. Stared. There you both were. Asleep. Entwined.

Kashimo’s fingers unconsciously twitching where they held you. Your lips barely parted in sleep. A tiny little smile tugging at the edge of your mouth.

Hakari opened his mouth. Paused. Closed it. He squinted. Like if he looked hard enough, maybe it would turn back into just casual fuckery. Just morning-after mess. Just a hoodie and a mistake. But it wasn’t. You looked safe. Kashimo looked soft. And neither of you were faking it. “…God fucking damn it,” Hakari muttered under his breath, slowly backing out of the room like he’d walked in on an emotional crime scene.

As he closed the door, he sighed. Then mumbled to himself, defeated: “First the moaning, then the hoodie, now the cuddling—next thing I know, she’s gonna put a ring on his dick and call it a ceremony.”

Late Afternoon. In the living room.

You were draped across Kashimo’s lap like sin in a hoodie.

Nothing but his oversized hoodie covering you, legs spread lazily over his thighs, one bare foot hooked under the blanket—his hand deep between your legs, working slow, two fingers curling up inside you like he knew what he was doing too well.

He was so hard under you, smug, shirtless, and whispering filth into your ear while the TV played some children’s baking competition you weren’t even pretending to watch. “God, you’re so wet,” he murmured. “I can hear it, baby. I could fuck you with three fingers and still slide in like butter.”

You gasped softly, biting into your knuckle as his thumb dragged over your clit with sickening precision.

“I’d ruin you on this couch,” he whispered, licking your earlobe. “Push you down, spread you open, fuck you slow until you’re crying into the cushions—”

You whimpered—too loud.

“—but not if you keep being a loud little slut.”

You shoved your face into his neck, body trembling as he added a third finger, stretching you, stroking just right. You whispered, breathless: “Hajime, fuck, I’m gonna—”

“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!”

Hakari. Doorway. Arms crossed. Face pale. Soul exiting body.

Kashimo didn’t stop moving his hand. You made eye contact with Hakari. And—insanely—you smiled. “I said ‘Pass me the chips, I dropped one!’” you chirped.

Kashimo nodded. “Real deep under. She’s helping me find it.”

“You just said ‘I’m gonna fuck you until you cry.’”

“I said ‘I’m gonna fluff the couch, it’s dry.’” Kashimo replied smoothly.

Hakari blinked. “I heard moaning.”

You tilted your head. “I burned my tongue on soup.”

“You’re breathing like you’re dying.”

“I have childhood asthma.”

Hakari’s voice cracked. “His fingers are moving.”

“I’m checking for more chips,” Kashimo said. “Could be several.”

“You’re literally—LITERALLY—doing something under a blanket in my living room!”

Kashimo pulled his hand out slowly, wet, and licked his fingers while holding eye contact with Hakari. “Sour cream and onion, my favourite” he said thoughtfully.

Hakari dropped his smoothie. “I’m gonna call Gojo,” he said, turning around in horror. “I’m gonna call Gojo and tell him you’re both spiritually unwell.” He stormed off. From the hallway: “I hope your sheets never dry and your socks are always wet!”

You turned to Kashimo, breathless, half-laughing. “You’re going to hell.”

He licked his fingers again. “Then I’ll bring you with me.”

The door had barely slammed behind Hakari when silence fell again—just the sound of your ragged breathing and the TV still playing some upbeat jingle about cupcakes.

You were trembling in Kashimo’s lap, thighs twitching, your whole body flushed under the blanket. He leaned into your ear, lips brushing your skin. “You didn’t finish,” he whispered, voice low and smug.

And then—his fingers slid back in.

You gasped, spine arching as your nails dug into his back, dragging red lines down his skin. Your head dropped to his shoulder, moaning into his throat. “F-Fuck, Hajime—”

He kissed just under your jaw, fingers sliding slick and slow as your cunt clenched desperately around them. “God, you’re so soaked,” he groaned, voice cracking. “Shit—I’m gonna shoot in my pants if you keep gripping me like that—ugh—fuck.”

You rolled your hips helplessly against his hand, chasing it.

“You’re a fucking problem,” he growled, thrusting his fingers harder, the wet sounds absolutely criminal. “One pretty little moan and I’m two seconds from coming untouched like a teenager.”

You whined, legs trembling, hips bucking. “Then do it. Come with me. Make a mess.”

His breath hitched. “Oh you love it when I lose control, don’t you?”

“Yes—yes, fuck, please—”

And then you came. Hard.

Clawing at his shoulders, back arched, jaw dropped in a silent scream as your whole body locked up in his lap. Kashimo hissed, biting your shoulder, grinding up against you as he rutted once, twice and then he came too, groaning low into your neck, cock pulsing against his sweatpants, a deep guttural noise like he was possessed.

You collapsed against him, breathing heavy, hearts racing in sync under the TV’s cheerful baking outro. He leaned his forehead to yours, chest still shaking.

“Best chip I ever fucking found,” he muttered.

You started laughing so hard you nearly cried.

15 minutes later you were in the kitchen, stirring honey into your tea like the most innocent girl in the world. Barefoot. Kashimo’s hoodie still half-zipped down your front. Your hair a little messy. You were humming softly. Relaxed. At peace.

He walked in. Shirtless. Eyes on you like he was about to start something again. He leaned into the counter behind you, smirking.

“I still haven’t decided,” he murmured, voice low. “If I liked it more when you were coming on my fingers… or when you were whispering my name while I rubbed my cock against your pussy like a needy little bitch—”

SLAM. The front door swung open. “WHAT THE FUCK?!”

You choked on your tea. Kashimo? Didn’t even flinch. He turned toward Hakari like he’d been expecting him. “I said,” Kashimo repeated smoothly, “I haven’t decided if I liked it more when she was… humming to my dinner playlist, or when she was whispering my name because I rubbed… rosemary on the chicken like a chef.”

He nodded to himself. “Yeah. Real culinary moment.”

Hakari’s mouth opened and closed like a dying fish. “You were just talking about rubbing your dick on her—”

Kashimo gasped. “Hakari. That’s disgusting.”

You nodded slowly, tea in hand. “He was talking about poultry, Kinji.”

“HE SAID ‘NEEDY LITTLE BITCH.’”

“I was quoting Gordon Ramsay,” Kashimo added. “MasterChef reruns. You should watch something besides your reflection sometime.”

Hakari stepped further into the apartment, seething.

Kashimo just casually slung his arm around him, big brother style, like they were teammates on the same spiritual baseball team. “You look tense,” Kashimo said softly. “Need me to rub your chicken too?”

Hakari snapped. “GET THE FUCK OFF ME.”

He tried to shove Kashimo away. Kashimo didn’t move. Not an inch. “I’m just trying to bond,” he said innocently, like a golden retriever with a sex addiction.

Hakari finally wiggled free, stormed past you both toward the bathroom like he was about to baptize himself in ice.

You sipped your tea. “I think he’s warming up to you.”

Kashimo grinned, licking his thumb clean. “Only thing getting warm in here is your pussy, babe.”

You nearly spit your tea all over the sink.

The apartment was now calm. Miraculously. The TV was playing something normal, your tea was fresh, and you were actually wearing pants for once—Kashimo’s sweats, but still. Progress.

Kashimo lay on the couch, head in your lap, hair loose, hoodie tossed over the armrest. His fingers lazily traced shapes on your thigh. You were scrolling on your phone, cheeks finally not flushed.

And Hakari? Hakari was at the kitchen table. Staring into his protein shake like it held the meaning of life. Or maybe just his will to keep living in this cursed household.

“…You’re still mad?” you called sweetly.

He didn’t look up. “I’m not mad. I’m numb.”

Kashimo tilted his head to look at him upside-down. “You want a hug, bro?”

Hakari turned slowly. “I will shove you into the microwave and press popcorn.”

Kashimo grinned, then looked up at you and whispered, dead serious: “I could microwave you for exactly 3 minutes and 30 seconds and still eat you raw.”

Hakari stood. You gasped. Kashimo winked. Hakari didn’t scream. He just… sighed. “I’m going to Gojo’s.”

“Tell him hi,” you chirped.

“And if either of you fuck while I’m gone—”

“I’ll light a candle and pray,” Kashimo said solemnly, hand on heart.

Hakari didn’t even respond. He just grabbed his jacket, keys, dignity—what little remained—and walked to the door. But before leaving, he paused. Looked over his shoulder. And said: “You know what? You two are made for each other. Psychotic. Unhinged. Horny in public.”

You and Kashimo looked at each other. Smiled. Looked back at him. “I mean… thank you?” you offered.

Kashimo gave him a lazy salute.

Hakari opened the door. “I hope the next time you come, it’s while choking on a fruit you’re allergic to.”

And with that, he was gone. The door shut. Silence.

You looked down at Kashimo. He looked up at you. “Do you think he’ll ever forgive us?” you asked.

Kashimo shrugged, smug. “No. But at least he’ll miss the show.”

You snorted, leaned down, kissed him once. “Come on,” you whispered, brushing hair from his face. “Let’s not fuck for like… six hours.”

“Six whole hours?” he teased, pulling you down with a groan. “You’re gonna kill me, babe.”

The lights dimmed. The room quiet. For now.

Until tomorrow. Because if there was one thing that was certain in this apartment—Peace?

Was always temporary.

Don’t be shy now. You already read it.

The Masterlist is here. If you want me to drag your favorite character into the dark next, 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

“Maybe you should cross-examine me properly.”

He smiles almost like a smirk, but too elegant, too refined. He tosses his tie onto the chair, walks over without hurry, just enough command in his steps to make you sit up straighter without thinking.

“Stand up,” he says softly.

Your eyes gleam. You stay exactly where you are. “No.”

He tilts his head, loosens his cufflinks, and rolls up his sleeves, slowly. “Still so stubborn.”

You glance down to where his bulge presses against tailored slacks. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t kneel.”

He hums. Walks over, close enough to touch your chin with two fingers. “You’re so quiet when I touch you,” he says. “But that bratty mouth still finds a way to talk back.”

Your lips part just slightly. “Make me stop.”

His hand cups your jaw, not hard, just present. The other unbuttons his pants slowly, silently. Your gaze drops immediately. He’s already thick and leaking, and the sight alone silences every thought in your head.

“Open.”

You don’t hesitate now. Kneel. Tilt your head. Obey.

His hand stays gentle on your cheek as you wrap your mouth around the flushed head, sucking him in slowly. His breath hitches, not loud, but enough. Controlled. You swirl your tongue, teasing the underside, the slit. He groans low, and you can feel him resisting the urge to thrust.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he murmurs. “So well-behaved when I’m in your mouth.”

You moan softly, cheeks hollowing, and his hips twitch—just a little. He tastes clean, warm, and the weight of him on your tongue makes you dizzy with want. When he pulls back with a gentle hand in your hair, you’re breathless and needy.

“Bed,” he says. “Now. Or I’ll make you come from my fingers and nothing else.”

You rise, still playing coy. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He laughs softly then catches your wrist and pulls you to him in one fluid move. His voice brushes the shell of your ear. “But you beg so sweetly when I’m inside you.”

You’re on your back now, legs parted, wrists above your head, pinned by his weight. He presses kisses down your neck, over your collarbones. His cock rests heavy against your stomach, his hand lazily stroking it while he kisses you slow.

“You always act like you’re in charge,” he whispers, voice warm and low. “But then you let me do whatever I want to you.”

“I like it when you take your time,” you murmur. “Like I’m your… reward.”

He stills at that, something sharp and possessive flickering behind his eyes. He leans in, brushes his lips over yours.

“You are.”

And then he’s inside you—slowly, deeply, stretching you open with a smooth, relentless rhythm that makes your legs tremble. You’re quiet, just gasping into his neck, clawing at his back because it’s too good, too much, too deep.

His hand lifts your leg higher, angling perfectly. You moan. A real one this time and he chuckles softly.

“There it is,” he says. “Knew you’d make a sound.”

Your nails dig into him. “Hiromi—fuck—”

He kisses you, tongue slow, hips rocking just enough to make you lose your train of thought every time you try to speak. Your breath catches. Your eyes flutter shut. He never speeds up, just keeps you pinned, completely under him, filled and desperate.

“You’re close,” he murmurs against your jaw. “You’re trying not to be.”

You whimper, and he grabs your chin. “Don’t hold back. Come for me.” And when you do, you cry out softly, body trembling under his as you clench around him. His pace stutters. He groans, rougher now.

“Where do you want it?” he breathes.

You bite your lip and meet his eyes. “On me.”

His breath catches just for a second. Then he pulls out and fists himself, gaze fixed to your face as he works over his cock with tight, smooth strokes. You lie back, legs still parted, watching him, smug and ruined and still twitching from aftershocks.

“God,” he growls through his teeth. “You fucking tease—”

And he spills across your belly and thighs, hot and thick, groaning low as he releases everything onto your skin.

You smirk lazily. “What would the court say?”

He leans over you, brushing your hair off your forehead. “They’d say I lost the case. And I’d say I absolutely won.”

His hand dips down, spreading his cum over your lower stomach, warm fingers smearing it against your skin with soft, slow circles. You flinch—too sensitive, too much.

“You like this,” he murmurs, watching your expression shift.

Your voice is barely audible. “I love it.”

He hums and leans down, kissing your temple, your jaw, your lips. “Good,” he whispers. “Because I’m not done making a mess of you.”

He scoops it up—lazy, deliberate—his fingers dragging through the warm mess he left on your stomach. It’s thick between them, glistening. You can barely breathe. Then his other hand grips your jaw, firm not rough, just commanding enough to make your spine straighten like instinct. His thumb strokes your cheek, and he leans in close, voice low and velvet-warm.

His smile is soft, tired, but so wickedly turned on it makes your thighs squeeze together.

“Open,” he says.

Your lips part slowly, and he hums in approval.

“Good girl.”

He presses his fingers past your tongue, coated in him and watches as your mouth closes around them. Your lashes flutter. You suck without instruction, the taste of him thick and musky on your tongue. He groans, just once, deep in his chest.

“You like that,” he murmurs. “Getting fed my cum like you were made for it.”

You nod, mouth full, and he doesn’t pull away yet, he just watches you, chest rising and falling a little faster, his cock twitching again where it rests half-hard against your thigh.

Your tongue swirls around his fingers. You moan, quiet and obedient, eyes locking onto his.

“Fuck,” he whispers.

Then he pulls his fingers out with a wet sound, smearing what’s left across your bottom lip. His thumb dips under your chin, tilting your face up.

“You’re so quiet now,” he says, gently teasing.

You smile slowly, wicked beneath the submissiveness. “Because you’re finally using your mouth for something better than arguing.”

His brows lift, amused. He leans in, licks his own cum off your lip with one long, slow drag of his tongue.

Then he kisses you. Deep, slow, unhurried. His weight settles over you again, hips grinding lazily against yours. You can feel him getting hard again.

“You’re still a little brat,” he whispers between kisses. “But you’re mine.”

Your breath stutters. You whisper against his mouth. “Then prove it again.”

And he does. He takes your wrist gently, fingers curling around yours, warm, steady and guides your hand between his legs. You feel him. Still hard. Already pulsing again.

Your brows lift with a slow, sultry grin. “Good stamina, Hiromi, huh?”

He chuckles under his breath, voice husky now. “It’s your fault.”

You lift both hands in mock surrender, still catching your breath, still flushed from the last round. “Guilty.”

His mouth curves into a tired, devastating smile. Then he leans in again, presses a kiss to your lips, soft and slow, then your jaw, then lower. He takes his time, reverent. Down your throat, over your collarbone, dragging the wet heat of his tongue lazily along your skin like he’s claiming every inch.

When he gets to your stomach, still sticky with him, he doesn’t pause. He kisses right through it, licks the mess off your skin with slow, purposeful swipes of his tongue. His eyes flick up, watching you.

You twitch, overstimmed and aching, and he only hums in satisfaction.

“You taste like mine,” he says, voice low. Then his hands part your thighs again. You barely have time to react before his mouth is on you, making out with your clit like it’s the first time he’s ever tasted anything so good. Tongue flat, then pointed, then slow, warm sucks that make your head fall back and your legs jerk in place.

“Hiromi—fuck—”

He groans against you, like your voice is a reward. One arm wraps under your thigh to keep you still, the other spreads you wider, fingertips digging just enough to ground you. His tongue moves in lazy, deliberate circles, like he has all night. Like he doesn’t care how many times he makes you come, only that he does.

You’re trembling, hands in his hair now, pulling, pushing, unsure whether to drag him closer or shove him away. But he doesn’t let up. Not even when your thighs start to shake. Not even when your breath gets ragged.

“You’re already soaked again,” he murmurs against you, breath hot and teasing. “Brat.”

“You’re not—fuck—not helping—”

He laughs, tongue flicking faster, rougher, then pulling back just to press a single kiss to your clit.

“Good,” he says. “Then shut up and come on my tongue.”

You do. Loud this time. Voice cracked open, legs shaking around his head as he keeps going, working you through it, slow and merciless. And when you finally push at him, whining, twitching, overstimulated, he still doesn’t move. He just looks up, mouth wet with you and his own cum, and says,

“I’m still not done with you yet.”

He kneels between your thighs like he owns the space there, chest rising slow, lips glistening, eyes dark. The back of his hand wipes across his mouth, but not in shame. Just to clear the mess he proudly made. The kind of man who doesn’t flinch tasting his own cum mixed with you. You look down at him, flushed and wrecked, and then lower—your breath catches.

He’s still hard. Throbbing. Heavy. Twitching slightly where it rests against the base of his stomach, flushed dark at the tip and slick again.

You groan, exhausted, throbbing, and let your head fall back against the pillows. “Fucking hell, Hiromi.”

He laughs under his breath. “Don’t act surprised,” he says. “You know exactly what you do to me.”

He crawls forward again, the slow drag of his body over yours warm, grounding, but laced with heat. One hand finds your thigh and squeezes, possessive, grounding while the other strokes his cock lazily.

“You think I can stop when you’re like this?” he murmurs, leaning close to your ear. “Breathless. Shaking. Dripping down your thighs because you liked the taste of me in your mouth.”

You bite your lip, hard, trying to hold yourself together. “I—Hiromi—”

“Shh,” he whispers. “Don’t start talking again unless you’re ready to beg.”

You look at him, eyes wild, mouth parted and then deliberately lift your hips. Invite him. Show him how ready you are. He presses the head of his cock against your entrance. Doesn’t push in. Just grinds slow circles, watching you flinch and twitch at the overstimulation.

“You want me to fuck you again?” he says softly. “Even now?”

You nod. A whimper slips past your lips.

“Say it.”

Your eyes lock. And in that moment you drop every ounce of dominance, every edge of bratty bite, and give him exactly what he wants.

“Please.”

He groans, low and strained, like your voice alone could undo him. Then he presses in, slowly, deeply and your hands clutch at his back, digging into him as he stretches you open again. “Still tight,” he murmurs. “Still perfect.”

You can’t even answer. Your head falls back again, gasping, as he starts to move, long, steady strokes that fill you just right. His hands hold your hips like you’re breakable. His body covers you like a promise. And you let him take it all. Again.

His rhythm slows. His eyes never leave yours. And then his hand comes up, fingers brushing your throat, his thumb stroking gently at first, before tightening just slightly around the sides. Not choking, just present. Dominant. Measured. You moan. Loud. Sharp. Your back arches like instinct. But then you breathe, “Stop.”

And he freezes. His grip loosens instantly, panic flickering beneath the surface of that usually calm expression. “Did I—? Was it too hard?” His voice is low, tight, careful.

You shake your head, flushed and breathless. You look up at him with a wicked glint in your eye and whisper, “No.”

Then your lips part, soft and inviting, voice slow like honey.

“I want you to fuck my mouth. I’m too sensitive. Get up.”

There’s a pause—his jaw clenches slightly, then he lets out a rough breath and pulls out with visible restraint. His cock glistens with your arousal as he climbs off the bed and stands at the edge, tall and lean and aching for you. You sit up on your knees, eyes trailing up his body, smirking.

“You said I was quiet,” you murmur. “Let me make some noise for you.”

He groans under his breath, cock twitching in response. Then— Slap. He smacks the head of it gently against your cheek. Again, over your lips. Then your tongue, stretched out for him, obedient. He sighs wrecked while watching you, thumb brushing your cheek softly in contrast. The other hand slides into your hair at the back of your head, fingers threading through it, gripping gently. Anchoring you.

You blink up at him, tongue still out, lips shiny. Then the hand holding your cheek shifts. He gathers your hair fully now, twists it into a makeshift ponytail, and tightens his fist.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty like this,” he breathes, hips jerking slightly forward. You finally take him in, wet and slow, mouth stretching around him and his head drops back with a low groan. “God, yes—just like that.”

Your tongue traces every vein. You hollow your cheeks and suck deeper, taking more, moaning softly around him. His grip tightens, and his breath gets ragged. His thighs flex. His hand holding your hair keeps you steady, just the right amount of pressure, just the right amount of control.

“You’re doing so good,” he says, voice breaking slightly. “Look at you.”

You look up through your lashes, drool slicking the corners of your mouth, and he loses it a little. His hips roll, slow at first, then deeper. Testing. Controlled. He grits his teeth, trying to hold back, but your moans vibrate around him and he groans your name like he’s been starving for this.

“You’re gonna let me come in your mouth, yeah?”

You nod around him, hand reaching up to grip his thigh, encouraging. You want it. You want him.

He growls low, hips stuttering now, one hand sliding down to cup your jaw—feeling every movement as you swallow him down.

“Fuck—fuck—keep going, baby—just like that—”

His grip tightens in your hair as he groans, deep, desperate, broken—hips stuttering. You feel the twitch of him on your tongue, and then—

He pulls out just a little.

Only the tip remains in your mouth as he comes. Thick, hot pulses spill onto your tongue, and you don’t move, just hold him there, lips parted, tongue soft underneath as he unloads.

It’s so much. You roll your tongue beneath the head, playing with it, teasing his slit with little licks, eyes locked to his the whole time. He gasps sharp and winces, his whole body shivering from the overstimulation. “F-fuck—come here.”

He grabs your face with both hands, rough now, breathless and hauls you up into a kiss. His mouth crashes onto yours, tongue pushing in deep like he’s starving for it, for you, for what he left in your mouth.

And you moan, long and sweet because he’s tasting himself. He swallows it right out of your mouth. No hesitation. No shame. He likes it. Gets off on it. The filth. The control. The way your body melts under his.

“God,” he breathes against your mouth, voice shaking. “You drive me fucking insane.”

His lips drag over your cheek, down to your jaw. He pulls back, barely. One hand still on your face, the other brushing your bottom lip with his thumb.

“Show me.”

You open your mouth slowly, obedient, tongue out. And there it is. His cum, what’s left of it—drips down the center of your tongue, slow and shameless. A thick line falls past your lip, trailing down your chin, sliding over your throat and onto your chest.

His eyes darken. He stares like he’s never seen anything more perfect. His thumb presses just inside your bottom lip, smearing some of it against your teeth, then tracing down to your throat, following the drip.

“You’re so fucking pretty when I ruin you.”

You hum softly, closing your mouth around his thumb now, sucking the taste off it with a slow swirl of your tongue, never breaking eye contact.

His cock twitches again, still sensitive, still half-hard.

And all he can do is breathe, stare, and whisper—“Don’t move. I need a picture of this in my fucking mind forever.” You stay still, just like he told you, mouth open, tongue out, his cum still warm where it drips from you.

His eyes drag over every inch of you. The mess. The mouth. The reverence. “Lay back,” he says, voice low and rough. “I’m not done looking at you.”

You don’t argue. You ease yourself back onto the bed, legs falling open without thinking. Your skin’s hot. Sticky. Your chest rises and falls as you lie there, stained with him, wrecked, glowing in it. Hiromi climbs onto the bed like he’s approaching something sacred.

He doesn’t rush. He leans over you, palms on either side of your ribs, eyes trailing over where the last drops of his cum are still clinging to your chest, your throat, the corner of your lips.

Then he lowers his head. His tongue flicks out, slow, deliberate and licks it from your collarbone. Then higher. His mouth wraps around the hollow of your throat, sucking gently, tongue dragging up where it pooled on your skin.

You shiver. Moan. Legs twitching beneath him.

“You taste like me,” he murmurs against your skin. “So good like this. I should cover you every time.”

You whimper softly, breath catching as he licks up toward your mouth. And then he kisses you again—deep, slow, but this time he pulls back just slightly.

You feel the shift. His lips part. He doesn’t spit, not filthy, not crude he just lets it fall. A slow, thick drip from his mouth to yours, a shared offering, warm and raw and strangely intimate.

You gasp as it hits your tongue. And he kisses you again. Softer this time. His tongue brushes yours and he moans into your mouth, like he needs to feel it all over again, taste it with you.

You hold his face in both hands now, kissing back just as hungrily, letting it mix on your tongues, your lips, your breath. When he finally pulls back, he’s flushed and dazed, hair a little messy, chest rising fast.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he whispers.

You smile slowly, licking your lips again.

“I’m just making sure you remember me.”

He breathes a laugh, quiet, reverent. “Like I could ever forget.”

The room smells like sweat and sex and something heady and expensive. You’re both stretched out on the tangled sheets, warm skin against warm skin, the kind of silence that only comes after something wrecking. Hiromi lies on his side, propped on one elbow. You’re still sprawled on your back, legs open, absolutely unapologetic. His hand rests low on your stomach, fingers tracing lazy shapes over the faint sticky sheen that hasn’t dried yet. He watches you with that courtroom gaze, a little more undone now hair a mess, jaw slack from fatigue but still beautiful, still composed. Always.

You glance over, wicked smirk creeping onto your face. “So,” you murmur, voice hoarse from moaning, “how’s it feel being the guy who tasted himself tonight?”

He blinks once. Then his mouth twitches, just barely. “Are you going to bring that up every time?”

You stretch, deliberately, arms above your head, your grin widening. “Every single time.”

Hiromi sighs through his nose. “You’re insufferable.”

“You’re the one who got off on it.” You turn your head to look at him, all smug satisfaction. “You moaned. Like I was feeding you gold.”

He laughs softly, truly laughs—and rubs his hand over his face. “It was hot.” You shift onto your side, chest pressed to his, one leg lazily sliding over his. Your voice drops, soft and teasing now.

“I didn’t know you were so filthy, Hiromi.”

Your finger traces his bottom lip. “All polite in the courtroom, but the moment I open my mouth, you’re spilling down my throat and licking it out.”

His eyes flicker down to your mouth again. You see it—how that memory burns behind his eyes. How he wants to kiss you again. How badly he wants to taste it again.

“You make it sound like I planned it,” he murmurs.

You hum. “Oh, no. That was desperation. Like you were starving. So sexy.”

His hand moves. Slides around your neck gently, thumb brushing your pulse. “You liked it too much.”

“I love that you wanted it,” you whisper. “That you kissed me like I was yours, like you didn’t care how messy it was. That you moaned when it hit my tongue.” He groans, low in his chest.

“Hiromi?”

“Mhm?”

“If you ever do that again… I’ll swallow half and make you work for the rest.” His eyes flutter shut. Then open again—dark. Dazed.

“You’re really going to kill me.”

You kiss him, slow and sweet. Let your tongue just barely brush his. “Good,” you whisper. “Then maybe you’ll shut up and fuck me again.”

He exhales, shaky, wrecked all over again. And smiles.

“That’s a threat I’m willing to die for.”

We both enjoyed that more than we should have.

If this found the wrong place in your head, the Masterlist has more. If you want me to make it personal, Requests are open.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ © ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛɢʜᴏᴜʟ

You stepped in close. Right into his space. Right where you knew he’d feel the heat of your body as you hovered two fingers just over his chest, just above the fold of his shirt, not touching.

“You look tense,” you said, voice dipped in mock concern, your smile anything but innocent. “Need me to loosen you up?“

His eyes narrowed, slow and tired and very much not amused. But his jaw? Still clenched. Still grinding around that poor candy.

“I’m working,” he muttered.

“Mm. And here I thought you were just loitering, looking delicious in your little office doorway,” you teased, fingers now barely brushing the edge of his collar. “What flavor is that anyway?”

“You are not getting my damn lollipop.”

“Oh?” You leaned in. Your voice dropped like a stone into his stomach. “But I’ve got a better mouth.”

He exhaled sharply—through his nose, again. Didn’t say a word. Just stared at you, tight-lipped, like he was deciding whether prison time was worth it.

You hovered a finger near his jaw, right beneath the curve of his cheekbone. He didn’t move, but you felt the way his body tensed. The way his eyes followed your hand like a threat.

Then you did it. You plucked the lollipop right out of his mouth with a grin, popped it into your own, and sucked slow.

His lips parted like he was about to protest, but nothing came out. His eyes flicked down—neck, chest, hips—and then right back up, clearly catching himself.

“Stop teasing,” he growled. Low. Dangerous.

You stepped back slowly, keeping the lollipop between your lips. “Why? You look like you like it.”

He scoffed and turned around sharply, walking into his office. “I’m putting in for a transfer.”

You followed him to the doorway, smug. “You say that every week.”

“I mean it this time.”

„Yeah sure.“

But he didn’t close the door on you. Didn’t tell you to fuck off. Just kept his back to you while he reorganized the same folder you knew he’d already read three times.

And behind all that annoyance, that rigid posture, that irritated sigh. You could feel the heat.

And next time? You’d turn it up even more.

You were becoming his problem.

Atsuya already didn’t like people. But you? You were something worse. A consistent, nagging itch beneath his skin—too close, too playful, and always too damn smug.

And the worst part? He hadn’t stopped you.

So when you saw the new mission assignment—just you two—you grinned. Then you walked into the meeting room and found him.

Sitting on the floor, back against the wall, knees up, folder resting on his thigh. His hair was slightly messy, eyes dark, jaw clenched. And of course, there it was: the lollipop between his lips. Probably his fifth that day. Poor man was trying to stay away from smoking. Poorer man didn’t realize you were worse for his health.

You slid the door shut behind you with a soft thud. He looked up, didn’t say a word. You padded over, then slowly crouched down in front of him. Eye level. Smirking.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, voice light, teasing.

He didn’t even blink. “Nothing.”

“Atsuyaaaaa,” you whined, drawing his name out like a complaint, a purr, a dare. “Stop it with the sulking already.”

You placed both hands gently on his knees. He stared at you.

Then you pushed them apart, just slightly. Testing. He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t move. Didn’t clench. Just let you crawl a little closer into the space between his legs. Too close. Intimate-close. Eyes locked. And still that stupid, sweet lollipop sat between his lips.

“Talk to me,” you whispered.

He gave you a look like he wanted to strangle you. “You don’t listen even when I do talk.”

You grinned. “Because you say such boring shit.”

He rolled his eyes. “You’re a menace.”

“A cute one.”

“No.”

“Yes.” You leaned in a little closer, hands still resting lazily on his thighs. “You smell good, you know that?”

He blinked, confused. “…What?”

You leaned closer to his chest, inhaled dramatically, eyes fluttering closed.

“Mmm. My bedsheets would love that smell.”

His lollipop drooped from his lips just a little. His jaw locked tight, like he was trying to process whether to be offended or wildly turned on. You didn’t give him a chance.

You snatched the lollipop right from his mouth again and popped it into your own. Loud click of it hitting your teeth.

“Hm.” You tilted your head with exaggerated thought. “Strawberry. The last one tasted better.”

Kusakabe looked murdered. Offended. Slightly pink in the face. Absolutely questioning every life decision that led to this moment. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something—maybe insult you, maybe warn you, maybe bark a tired “what the fuck is wrong with you.”

But your hand was already on his face. Firm fingers grabbed his jaw—not soft, not sweet. You tilted his head up like you owned it.

He stared at you, wide-eyed. And then— You shoved the lollipop back into his mouth.

“If you don’t want to kiss me,” you whispered, voice low and deadly sweet, “maybe this’ll get you used to the taste, sweetheart.”

His breath caught. His eyes dropped to your lips for half a second too long.

You patted his cheek. “I’ll see you before the mission starts.”

Then you stood, turned, and walked away—hips swaying, victorious. Behind you, Kusakabe sat there, knees still spread, lollipop resting pathetically between his lips again. Too stunned to move. Too flustered to curse you out.

And completely, utterly yours to ruin.

You really shouldn’t be flirting while running for your life.

But then again when Atsuya was the one watching your back, it was hard not to.

The mission had gone sideways fast. The cursed spirit was stronger than reported, and your two-man team was being cornered in a half collapsed parking structure, the walls humming with leftover cursed energy. He was on edge. Focused. Sword unsheathed and shoulders tense.

God, he looked good like that. You grinned as you dodged debris, dropping beside him behind a low wall. “We should go out more often.”

He didn’t even look at you. “It’s a mission. We’re not out.”

“But you still picked me,” you teased, panting slightly, eyes flicking down to his blade. “Does that make this a date?”

Kusakabe side-eyed you, deadpan. “It means I was the only one available.”

“You’re so mean when you’re stressed. It’s hot- you little samurai.”

“Shut up.”

Another cursed projectile came crashing toward you, black smoke twisting midair. You barely registered it before—

His katana intercepted it with a clean, beautiful arc, sparks flying. He stepped in front of you, body moving instinctively. Protectively. You saw it before he even did, he shielded you without thinking.

The hit pushed him back a step, and your balance faltered. You stumbled forward, landing right against his chest. His arm caught you, hand bracing the small of your back, your face now stupidly close to his collarbone.

For once, it wasn’t a tease. You hadn’t meant to fall into him. He stared at you. You stared back. Your breath hitched. Not from the fight, from him.

“…You okay?” he asked gruffly, voice tight.

“Y-Yeah.” You swallowed. “You, uh… you saved me.”

“Tch. Someone has to.”

You didn’t move. His arm was still around you. His body warm, sturdy, and too damn close for your brain to operate properly.

Then, of course, you broke the moment.

“You know,” you whispered, lips near his ear now, “if you wanted me in your arms this bad, you could’ve just said so.” He made a sound between a scoff and a sigh, and gently pushed you off him. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You keep catching me. That’s your fault.”

“Next time I’ll let the curse hit you.”

“No you won’t.”

He didn’t respond. Just stepped forward again, katana up, blocking the next blow with a grunt and you followed, grin spreading.

Because no matter how annoyed he looked. He still stepped in front of you every single time. And you? You were gonna flirt your way right under his skin until he broke.

One katana swing at a time.

The curse lunged. Not at you for once. But at him.

Kusakabe turned too late, distracted by a second spirit splitting off in your blind spot. And before he could raise his katana, the thing was already halfway through the air, claws up and humming with cursed energy.

You didn’t think. You moved. Your blade sliced the thing clean across the middle with a searing crack of your cursed technique, its scream barely finished before it hit the ground, dissolving into ash. Your breathing was rough, hair stuck to your forehead, heart pounding, not from fear, but from the fact that you had just saved him.

He turned, stunned.

You stood over the collapsed remains, one boot against what was left of the cursed body, wiping your blade with your sleeve.

“Nice reflexes, old man,” you said, breathless, cocky. “You’re lucky I’m cute and skilled.”

Kusakabe stared at you for a long second. “Don’t flatter yourself.” But his voice had a rasp to it. Like it hit him deeper than he wanted it to.

The air felt thick. Not awkward, but… loaded.

You were both scratched up, bruised, and riding high on adrenaline. But the energy between you had shifted. You’d always teased him. He always rolled his eyes. But now?

Now you’d saved his life.

You heard the driver’s side door open. He slid in, dropped his katana beside him with a grunt, and leaned back with a heavy sigh. And of course—of course—there it was. That damn lollipop between his lips again.

You side-eyed him. “Seriously?”

He ignored you. Started the car.

The car ride was quiet.

You turned toward him slowly, your legs pulled up on the seat, and stared like he owed you an explanation. “How many lollis do you go through in a week?”

“No idea. Not enough to deal with you, apparently.”

You leaned closer. “I mean,” you said, voice low and butter-sweet, “you could’ve said thank you.”

He kept his eyes on the road. “I was going to kill it.”

“It was an inch from your back.”

“I had it under control.”

“Sure you did,” you whispered, fingers now tracing the edge of your seat, then slowly brushing against his arm.

He didn’t look, but his jaw tensed.

“You taste like strawberry again,” you added, tongue slipping over your bottom lip like you weren’t the devil in disguise. “That all you ever get, or is it just for me?”

His hands gripped the steering wheel tighter. You reached over suddenly slow but firm and curled your fingers under his jaw, turning his head toward you. His eyes widened just a fraction.

“You’re quiet now,” you whispered. “I kinda like it.”

He stopped the car abruptly. He blinked. “Don’t start.” You smirked. “Who says I ever stop?”

And before he could say a word, you leaned in, not to kiss him, no. Not yet. You just pulled the lollipop gently from his mouth, tossed it into your own, and sucked on it slow.

“Mmm.” You hummed. “This one’s better than the last.”

He stared at you like you’d just committed murder. “You goddamn menace,” he muttered. You licked the candy slowly, grinning. “And you keep letting me get away with it.”

Later that Day

You were in his office, dropping off some bullshit paperwork you could’ve just left at the front desk. But no you wanted to see the look on his face.

“Got something for you,” you said, casually tossing the mission log onto his desk. “And before you say anything—yes, I actually filled it out correctly.”

He didn’t look up. “Congratulations. You met the bare minimum.”

You stepped around his desk instead of leaving. Leaned against the edge. “Harsh. Aren’t you gonna thank me?”

“For not wasting my time?” He raised a brow, eyes still on the report. “Thanks, I guess.”

You tilted your head, letting your fingers brush lightly over the edge of his desk, “That’s it? Not even a smile for your favorite junior?”

That made him pause. His eyes flicked up, slowly, and there it was—that familiar, tired scowl. “You’re not my favorite.”

You smiled, leaning closer. “But I’m the one you keep saving on missions, aren’t I?”

He let out a long sigh and pushed his chair back. “You keep getting into situations that require saving. There’s a difference.”

“But you always come.” You were so close now, your knee bumping his. “Starting to think you like me.”

“You’re exhausting,” he muttered—but his eyes dropped to your lips for half a second. You caught it.

“Oh?” you teased, reaching down to tug lightly on his tie. “Then why aren’t you telling me to leave?”

He grabbed your wrist—not roughly, but firm. His expression shifted. A beat of tension passed. His voice came low.

“Because I know you won’t,” he said.

Your breath caught.

“I should stop you,” he continued. “You’re ten years younger. You’re annoying. You never shut up.”

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” he muttered, already regretting how close he let you get.

You laughed softly, stepping right between his knees, the space narrowing down to heat and breath.

“But a hot one,” you shot back, cocky and smooth.

He didn’t move. Didn’t lean back. Just sat there in that creaky office chair, eyes tracking every tiny shift of your body like a man watching a fire crawl across his floor.

You reached up and tugged lightly on his tie. And he let you.

He was taller than you, seated or not, shoulders broad under his black suit, arms strong enough to fold you in half if he wanted. And yet, here he was, letting you pull him down with two fingers and a grin.

You brought his face just close enough to breathe in his scent, cologne and sweat and the damn sugar on his breath and tilted your head, mocking, playful.

“Careful,” you whispered. “I may kiss you.”

His jaw clenched instantly, the tiniest twitch beneath your fingers. “Don’t,” he warned, voice rough, but lower now. “Don’t start what you don’t wanna finish.”

You leaned in a little more, your hand still gripping his tie, your lips just barely not touching his. The air between you could’ve been sliced with his katana.

“Who says I won’t finish it?”

His eyes flicked to your mouth. Then back to your eyes. Then back to your mouth again. You knew that look. Kusakabe was unraveling slowly and hating every second of it.

And god, it made you ache. But you didn’t kiss him. Not yet. You pulled his tie just one inch tighter and let the tension simmer until he couldn’t pretend anymore.

Then, with a breathy laugh, you let go, stepping back just enough to let him feel the cold.

“Guess you’ll have to wait,” you murmured.

And with a smirk, you turned around and walked out of his office—knowing full well you’d just left his mouth half-open, his pulse racing, and his thoughts very far from professional.

The next day, you didn’t say a word. You didn’t need to.

Kusakabe was in the corridor outside the main operations room, arms crossed, talking quietly with Nanami about cursed spirit sightings. The usual deadpan exchange. Calm. Professional. Boring.

Until you came down the hall. You saw him. Of course you did. You were practically tuned to his frequency by now—grumpy, tall, always dressed like he had better things to do than be hot. You didn’t pause or call out. Just walked right past, slow and smooth, brushing your shoulder against his just barely.

Then just as you passed you tossed a wink over your shoulder.

Dirty with implication. Kusakabe stopped talking mid-sentence. Nanami, mid-thought, blinked once. Then turned to look at him.

Kusakabe’s eyes were fixed ahead, clearly trying not to react. His jaw flexed like he was biting the inside of his cheek. The tips of his ears turned red. The lollipop in his hand paused halfway to his mouth.

Nanami raised an eyebrow. “…You okay?”

“Fine.”

“That didn’t look fine.”

“She’s just—” He let out a rough breath through his nose. “—always like that.”

Nanami’s lips twitched. He adjusted his tie with a little shrug. “Seems like it works on you.”

Kusakabe gave him the side-eye. “Can we not do this right now?”

“Of course,” Nanami said, completely deadpan. “Let’s not talk about how you keep watching her like she’s going to disappear.”

Kusakabe grunted. “You’re an asshole.”

“Just observant.”

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

Nanami gave a calm nod. “I do. But this is more fun.”

Kusakabe pinched the bridge of his nose. He hated this. Hated how obvious it had become. How one wink from you could drag his brain into a place it had no business being in during work hours.

Nanami glanced down the hall again, then smirked slightly. “You know, if you keep letting her win—”

“She hasn’t won anything,” Kusakabe snapped.

“Mmm. Sure.” Nanami walked off with his usual calm pace, hands in his pockets. “Just make sure you’re the one doing the catching, not the falling.”

Kusakabe stood there for a moment longer, then slowly slid the lollipop into his mouth, mostly to give his hands something to do before he did something stupid. Like walk after you.

You caught him the second he stepped out of his office. Shoulders tense. Eyes tired. A sigh half-finished on his lips.

But this time—it wasn’t his lollipop.

It was yours. Twirling slow in your mouth as you leaned against the wall, the deep violet candy pressing lightly against your cheek when you smiled.

His eyes met yours. You watched the exact moment his jaw tightened. His eyes flicked from the lollipop to your lips, then away again—pretending not to look.

“What’s the matter with you?”

You pushed off the wall, slow steps toward him, the silence thick and pulsing.

“Mmh,” you hummed around the lollipop. “Nothing? Just checking on my favorite grumpy bastard.”

He raised a brow. “Don’t call me that.”

You grinned.

With no further announcement, you stepped into his office, letting the door swing shut behind you—and then click as your foot hooked it closed. Locked. Sealed.

You turned, licking the lollipop slowly, and hopped up onto his desk, legs swinging just slightly.

He followed. Of course he did. “Something’s wrong with you,” he muttered as he stopped in front of you.

You smiled up at him with the lollipop still in your mouth. “Yeah. You.”

His sigh was audible but he didn’t leave. Your hands were on his tie again, fingers brushing the knot, slowly tightening the slack. He didn’t stop you. He never did.

“You walk around like you’re not the hottest man on campus,” you murmured. “It’s criminal.”

“You’re insane,” he muttered. “And wildly inappropriate.”

“And you’re standing between my knees.”

He opened his mouth to say something else—probably another insult, another warning. But then you shifted.

Opened your legs wider. Pulled him closer by the tie until he was flush against you hip to hip, heat to heat. You could feel his pulse jump. His breath catch. His fists clenched slightly at his sides.

Still no protest. You held his gaze as you chewed the last of the lollipop, the candy crunch loud in the thick air between you. Then slowly you reached up and slipped the empty white stick into the front pocket of his shirt.

He stared at you. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

“Blueberry,” you whispered. “Wanna taste?”

You didn’t wait for a yes. You yanked him down by the tie and kissed him.

It was heat and frustration and something unsaid finally spilling between mouths. His lips crashed against yours, rough and starved, hands gripping the edge of the desk on either side of your thighs like he needed to hold something to keep from losing it. His tongue met yours immediate, no hesitation, all friction and pressure and anger curled into something devastatingly hot. Your fingers buried into his hair, tugging. He growled low against your mouth. It was messy, breathless, long overdue.

When you finally broke apart, his forehead was pressed against yours, his hands still planted beside you, breath ragged. You whispered, teasing, smug as ever: “See? You do like blueberry.”

He groaned. “You’re going to be the death of me.” You smiled, dragging your nails lightly down his chest. “Only if you’re lucky.”

His hand tightened slightly on your thigh. And then—he stepped back. Fast. Like the distance would help. Your fingers slid from his shirt. Your knees stayed open, letting the cold air between you cut through the heat he’d left behind.

He turned his back to you, hands braced on his desk just inches from where your thighs still sat, breathing uneven.

You let the silence linger for a beat. “What?” you said softly. “Scared I’ll ruin your rep as the emotionally unavailable bastard of Jujutsu High?”

“Don’t push me.”

His voice came low, shaky, deadly calm. You saw the tension in his neck, the flex of muscle down his back. Saw the tremble in his hand as he slowly straightened his tie like it could fix anything.

“You’re the one who kissed me,” you whispered.

“You kissed me.”

“And you kissed me back.”

That got him. He turned around. Slowly. His face was unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were wrecked with tension. With something starved and dangerous.

You hopped off the desk, walked toward him, lollipop stick still nestled in his pocket like a damn trophy.

“You gonna say something grumpy again?” you teased.

He watched you get close again. This time, when you reached for his tie, he grabbed your wrist. Not rough. Just… firm.

“I should tell you to leave,” he said.

“But you won’t.” You saw it, the fight in his eyes. The line cracking. The last thread of restraint tugging taut in his jaw, his fingers twitching at your pulse point.

“You have no idea,” he muttered, “what you’re doing.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing.“

“You think this is fun?” His voice was harsh now. “You think teasing me like this is some fucking game?”

You stepped into him again, chest brushing his, your smile too slow, too smug. “It’s not a game if we both want to lose.”

His hand was still on your wrist. His breath hitched once. You reached up with your free hand and gently placed it flat over his chest. Felt his heartbeat slam against your palm.

“Say it,” you whispered.

“I’m not saying anything,” he growled, eyes locked on your mouth again.

You leaned up just enough to ghost your lips over his. Not a kiss. Just the threat of one. Then you pulled back with a soft chuckle and turned toward the door.

“You’re not walking away from this,” he said behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder, heat in your grin. “You’re right.”

Your hand reached for the doorknob. And then his voice dropped low, dangerous, hot enough to burn:

“If you stay… you’re not leaving my bed in the morning.”

You froze. Slowly turned to look at him.

He was staring at you. Breathless. Eyes wild. Jaw set like he hated himself for saying it but couldn’t take it back.

You licked your lips. “Then maybe,” you whispered, “you should stop pretending you want me to leave.”

His voice had burned into your spine—If you stay, you’re not leaving my bed in the morning—and something in his eyes told you it wasn’t a line. It was a confession. A breaking point. One step further and you’d fall in with him, and neither of you would crawl back out.

So you walked. You left his office. Didn’t look back.

But sleep never came.

You tossed. Turned. Swore into your pillow and thought about the lollipop still tucked in his shirt pocket. About his hands on your thighs. About how he looked at you like he wanted to ruin every line of professionalism he’d ever drawn.

By midnight, you gave up.

The hallway was silent—just the soft hum of security lights and the occasional whisper of wind through the open ventilation shafts. You didn’t know where you were going exactly. You just let your feet take you.

And then you saw him. Outside. Leaning against the brick wall of his dorm, hood half-up, cigarette pinched between two fingers.

Lit by moonlight and the orange glow of the burning tip. He was smoking again. Your heart thudded. Quiet. Uneasy.

You walked toward him slowly. He saw you before you said anything. Didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Just blew smoke out the corner of his mouth like the act alone was penance for everything he hadn’t said earlier.

You stopped a few feet away, arms crossed, your voice quieter than usual.

“I thought you quit.”

“I did.”

You looked at the cigarette. “That doesn’t look very ‘quit’ to me.”

He shrugged. Didn’t look at you.

“Didn’t think you’d actually leave,” he said after a beat.

You stared at him. “Didn’t think you’d let me.”

His jaw twitched. He took another drag.

You stepped closer. “You okay?”

“No,” he muttered.

Your voice softened. “Because of me?”

His silence said everything. You reached out, took the cigarette from his hand, and dropped it into the small tin ashtray beside him. Still smoldering. Still warm.

He finally looked at you. Up close now, you could see the tension still buzzing through his body shoulders high, breath shallow, like the kiss was still echoing in his blood.

You placed your hand lightly on his chest. His hoodie was warm. His heart raced under your palm.

“Why are you making this so hard?” you asked, voice barely audible.

“Because you make it so easy.”

His words hit you right in the ribs. You looked up at him—tired, beautiful, wrecked.

“You didn’t kiss me like it was easy,” you whispered.

He didn’t respond. Just stared. Jaw clenched. And still he didn’t touch you.

So you did it for him. You leaned in slowly, forehead resting against his chest, not pushing—just there.

He hesitated. For a moment.

Then, finally, his hand rose and curled around the back of your head. No words. Just that quiet, brutal need he refused to name. You stood like that in the dark. Just breathing. Just… holding.

You didn‘t mean to hug him but slid your arms around his waist.

And you felt him freeze. Like it startled him. Like no one had touched him that gently in a long time.

His breath caught. He didn’t say anything—but after a few seconds, you felt his free hand come up. Rest lightly between your shoulder blades. Just a little bit of pressure. Just enough to mean he needed it too.

You didn’t let go. Not for a long minute.

And just when you were about to pull back—

Click.

He reached over and unlocked his dorm door with his elbow, hesitating only a second before pushing it open behind you both.

You blinked. He didn’t say a word. Just slid his hand down your back, grabbed your wrist, and tugged you inside like he couldn’t wait anymore.

The door shut behind you. And then he snapped.

His hands were on your waist. On your back. On your jaw. His mouth crashed into yours, hot and desperate, tongue sliding against yours like he was starving. Like he’d held back for too long and now there was nothing left but you.

You gasped into his mouth, and he took that too.

You stumbled backward, his hands guiding you, mouth never leaving yours, until your back hit the wall with a soft thud. His body pressed into yours—solid, warm, unshakable. One thigh slipped between yours, pinning you there.

“Knew it,” he muttered between kisses. “Knew the second I let you walk out, I was gonna fucking regret it.”

You grinned, breathless, chasing his mouth. “Then stop wasting time.”

He growled like your voice alone undid him. Your hands tangled in his hoodie, fisting the fabric, and he leaned in harder, lips trailing down your neck, biting just enough to make your knees go weak.

“I told you,” he rasped against your skin. “If I start—I’m not stopping.”

You tilted your head back, grinning through the heat in your chest. “Then don’t.”

He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. And something in his gaze—dark, torn, full of restrained hunger—made your stomach flip.

“You drive me insane,” he whispered.

“And you taste like blueberry,” you whispered back.

That was it.

He grabbed your face in both hands and kissed you again, rougher now, breathless groans against your lips as your bodies locked tight. You knew, right then, no one was going to save you from him. And he was done trying to save himself from you.

His mouth was on yours again, but it wasn’t the same.

This wasn’t holding back. This was him finally breaking, and it felt like fire ripping through dry skin.

You barely had time to gasp before he was spinning you, pressing your front to the wall of his dorm room with one hand braced beside your head and the other dragging your hips back against his. You could feel him already—hard through his pants, grinding against your ass with a low, murderous grunt in your ear.

“I told you,” he growled, voice gravel. “If I start, I’m not stopping.”

“Then shut up,” you hissed, pushing back into him. “And fuck me.”

His hands grabbed your waist so hard you gasped, and in one movement he yanked you back, spun you around, and shoved you onto the desk behind him—papers, pens, all sliding off as your thighs spread for him like it was instinct.

You grinned up at him, breathless. “God, you’re so—”

He grabbed your face, thumb on your chin, and forced your gaze up to his. “Say now if you don’t want this,” he said low, serious, jaw locked.

Your whole body lit up at the roughness of it. At the way he still checked.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you whispered.

That was all he needed. He crashed his mouth against yours, messy, wet, needy. His hands already under your shirt, yanking it up. You raised your arms and it flew off, then he was on your neck, sucking hard enough to mark, biting your collarbone as his fingers hooked in the waistband of your pants.

They didn’t come off slow. They came off with a snarl of fabric and impatience, and so did your underwear, yanked halfway down and shoved aside like they were never going to survive this night anyway.

“You fucking tease,” he muttered, dragging his fingers between your folds. “Look at this, now you’re dripping.”

You let out a whimper when he rubbed your clit, rough and fast.

“Is this what you wanted?” he grunted, fingers slick now, curling them inside you, voice right at your ear. “Flaunting that lollipop, touching my fucking tie, knowing I couldn’t stop thinking about you—was this it? You wanted me to snap?”

Your hands grabbed his hoodie, pulled him closer. “I wanted you.” He grunted, pulling his fingers out. You watched him lick them clean, eyes locked on yours. That damn mouth.

He undid his belt. Quick. Fumbling only once. He shoved his pants down just enough and stepped between your legs again. He dragged the blunt head of his cock through your soaked folds and nearly groaned when he felt how ready you were.

One hand on your thigh, the other on your throat just enough pressure to make your breath catch, not enough to hurt.

“Look at me,” he said, low. “When I fuck you.”

Then he pushed in. You cried out. It burned. Stretched. And felt so goddamn right.

He filled you all the way in one smooth, brutal stroke—deep, tight and hot. “Fucking hell,” he growled, jaw tight as he bottomed out. “You feel—shit—perfect.”

You clung to his arms, legs wrapping around his waist. He started to move, rough, desperate thrusts that had the desk creaking under you, his hips slamming into yours again and again.

You moaned loud and unfiltered. “Fuck—Atsuya—”

“You don’t get to act innocent now,” he hissed, thrusting harder. “You wanted this, sweetheart? You take it.”

He hit deep—so deep it made you tremble, made your hands claw at his back. His hand shifted from your throat to your jaw, tilting your face up so he could kiss you again—messy, open, tongue licking into your mouth as you cried into him.

“Such a brat,” he whispered. “All day, driving me insane and now look at you.”

“D-don’t stop,” you begged.

“I’m not gonna stop ‘til you fucking break.”

And he didn’t. His fingers found your clit again, circling, relentless. You were gasping, grinding up into him, eyes rolling back as he pounded into you with his voice in your ear, his breath hot on your skin.

Then— “Come,” he whispered. “Right fucking now.”

You shattered. Your body clenched around him, thighs shaking, head thrown back as you came with a cry—loud, broken, desperate. And he fucked you through it. Chasing his own high with a few more savage thrusts before burying himself inside you with a deep groan, hand tangled in your hair, lips pressed to your cheek as he came hard.

You stayed like that for a minute. Breathing. Panting.

He didn’t pull away. Just held you. And then, after a long silence, his voice—low and spent—murmured: “You okay?”

You nodded, smiling weakly, boneless in his arms. “More than okay.”

“…Good.” He kissed your temple. Soft and gentle. Like the roughness hadn’t just destroyed you. Like he still wanted to stay.

Your eyes blinked open to the early slant of morning light cutting through the blinds. The air was cool, quiet. Your limbs ached in the best way - sore thighs, kiss-bruised hips, heat still lingering between your legs.

You were in his bed.

One arm was slung heavy over your waist, warm and solid. The other tucked under the pillow. And when you glanced over—shirtless, half-asleep, hair a mess, face buried against your shoulder. You couldn’t help but smile. You didn’t know he could sleep that deeply.

You turned just slightly. His grip tightened instantly.

“Don’t move,” he muttered, voice wrecked with sleep.

“Mmh,” you teased, pressing your lips to his forehead. “You’re kind of clingy for a grumpy bastard.”

He sighed. Didn’t argue.

Eventually, he stirred, pulled back, rubbed a hand over his face and sat up with a grunt. You stared. Broad back. Scattered scars. Black sweatpants slung low on his hips. You almost whined.

He walked to the kitchen in silence, scratched his neck, grabbed the coffee pot. The air smelled like coffee beans and sex. You stayed in bed, blanket around your chest, watching him move. Still groggy. Still gorgeous.

He came back with one mug. Set it on the nightstand beside you without a word.

You took it. Smiled into the rim. “No sugar?”

“You’re sweet enough,” he muttered.

You blinked.

Kusakabe didn’t catch it. He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing at his eyes like he hadn’t just dropped a line that made your stomach twist.

You leaned forward, placing the mug down carefully.

“Say that again,” you said, crawling toward him.

“I’m not repeating it.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll tease me.”

You swung your leg over, straddling his lap before he could react. His hands automatically found your waist.

“What if I pay you back instead?”

His eyes met yours. Cautious. Curious. You slid down his chest, slow. Kissed the center of it. Licked just beneath his ribs.

He exhaled. Sharp. “You don’t have to—”

“Shh,” you whispered. “Let me take care of you for once.”

Your lips trailed down his stomach, hands already tugging at the waistband of his sweats.

He watched you—eyelids heavy, jaw tense. You freed his cock, already half-hard, flushed and sensitive.

You gave him one long, slow stroke, watching his breath catch.

Then you leaned in and licked him tip to base, tongue dragging up his shaft while your hand squeezed gently around the rest.

“Fuck,” he hissed, head tipping back.

You took him into your mouth slowly, warm and wet, inch by inch.

His hand immediately found your hair. You sucked him deep, tongue swirling, cheeks hollowing. He grunted, hips twitching. His fingers tightened in your hair, but he didn’t push. He let you set the pace.

“Shit—fuck—just like that,” he rasped.

You moaned around him, letting him feel it. His thighs tensed beneath your hands.

“Always with that mouth,” he breathed, voice ragged. “Driving me insane.”

You pulled back just to kiss the head, lips swollen. “Then lose your mind for me.”

He did.

You sucked harder now, messier. Spit coating your chin. Your hand stroked what you couldn’t take. His curses got louder. His hips started to move.

“God—fuck, sweetheart—I’m close—”

You moaned again, loud, needy.

He came with a broken sound, deep groan rattling in his chest as he spilled down your throat. You swallowed every drop, licking the head after, drawing it out until he hissed from overstimulation and gently grabbed your chin.

“Enough,” he rasped. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled up at him, lips slick. “You taste like coffee.”

He stared at you. Then pulled you up into his lap, kissed you slow, hand cradling the back of your neck. “You’re going to kill me,” he muttered against your lips.

“And you’re gonna beg for it,” you whispered back.

He didn’t deny it.

You padded into his bathroom, his shirt barely hanging off your shoulder, sore in places you forgot could ache. Your voice was still hoarse from moaning his name through clenched teeth hours ago.

“Hey,” you called over your shoulder, grabbing a towel to wipe your face, “you got a toothbrush or am I just raw dogging coffee breath today?”

Kusakabe appeared in the doorway, disheveled and shirtless, his sweats hanging low on his hips like he didn’t give a single fuck about your self-control.

He tossed a toothbrush toward the sink. “Top drawer.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” you said, sing-song, just to hear him groan again.

You started brushing. He lingered. You could feel him behind you. When you leaned down to rinse, his presence stepped in closer, body heat pressing at your back like a second skin. You spat, wiped your mouth, and lifted your head—

And there he was. Right behind you. In the mirror.

Your eyes locked.

He looked wrecked. Sleepy. Tense. But more than that—he looked hungry. Like he’d been watching you the whole time, jaw clenched, just barely holding back.

And something about that restraint, that slow boil right behind your spine. God, it made you throb.

So you rinsed the toothbrush. Placed it neatly to the side. And locked eyes with him through the mirror.

“You don’t have to ask, baby,” you whispered, voice low and filthy. “Just fuck me if you want to.”

His eyes darkened. That was it

He grabbed your hips and bent you over the sink before the last syllable even finished falling from your mouth. His body pinned you forward, one hand slipping under your shirt to grip your bare breast, the other yanking your panties down to your knees with zero patience.

“You really don’t know when to stop,” he muttered, voice rough in your ear.

You smirked into the mirror. “Why would I? You love it.”

He didn’t answer. He just shoved his sweats down, cock already hard from watching you, and slid it through your folds once slow, teasing before thrusting in deep.

You gasped, head falling forward. “F-Fuck—Atsuya—”

“Look at me,” he growled, yanking your hair back.

You met his eyes through the mirror. God, he looked ruined already. He fucked into you hard, deep strokes that rocked the sink against the wall. His hand stayed at your throat this time, not squeezing just reminding you who had you.

“Is this what you wanted?” he hissed. “Bent over my sink, begging with that dirty little mouth?”

You moaned, helpless. “Go—Just shut up and fuck me harder—”

He growled, angling his hips just right to make your knees buckle. You clawed at the edges of the counter, crying out every time he slammed into you.

“God,” he muttered, breath ragged. “You’re soaked—I can feel you clenching—fuck—”

You pushed back against him, whining. “I want you to come in me.”

“You’re filthy.”

“You’re obsessed.”

His hand slid down your stomach to your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles that made you tremble.

Your legs shook as the orgasm hit sharp, blinding, your eyes rolling back as you nearly collapsed over the sink. He grunted and thrust a few more brutal times before he stilled, burying himself deep, spilling inside you with a low, wrecked moan.

You both stood there sweaty, panting, your body trembling under his. Then his lips brushed your shoulder. “Shit,” he muttered. “I’m gonna break you.”

You smiled at your reflection.

You leaned against the bathroom counter, still catching your breath, face flushed, legs jelly-soft.

Kusakabe was behind you, one arm wrapped loosely around your waist, the other rubbing lazy circles into your hip like he wasn’t the one who’d just folded you over the sink and fucked you senseless.

Neither of you said much. You didn’t need to. Eventually, he kissed the back of your neck and pulled back. “Shower.”

“Mmm,” you groaned. “Carry me.”

“Shut up.”

But he did grab your hand and tug you gently toward the stall, helping you step out of your panties like they weren’t ruined, like he hadn’t completely destroyed you two minutes ago.

The water was hot. Steam curled between your bodies.

You leaned into him under the stream, resting your cheek against his chest while his fingers slid through your hair with surprising care.

“You good?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded against his skin.

“Didn’t hurt?”

“No. Just sore.”

He grunted. “Good.”

You stayed like that for a while his arms around your waist, your lips brushing along his collarbone, bodies sticky and clean all at once. You could feel the bruises blooming across your thighs, the ache between your legs, the mess of kisses under your jaw.

But mostly, you felt him, quiet.

You both showed up to headquarters fourty minutes late.

He wore his suit like usual. You wore his hoodie, a smug little smirk and a mark on your neck you hadn’t even tried to cover.

You passed Nanami in the corridor.

“Morning,” you chirped.

Kusakabe grunted behind you. Dead silent.

Nanami didn’t say anything. Just blinked once. Looked at your neck. Then at Kusakabe’s suspiciously stiff posture.

Then back to his files. “Hope it was worth it,” he said blandly, flipping a page.

You blinked. “Huh?”

Nanami looked up, entirely unimpressed. “The overtime you’re both about to get.”

Kusakabe groaned under his breath. You just smiled, bouncing on your heels. “Every second.”

You walked off ahead, and behind you, Nanami muttered just loud enough for Kusakabe to hear: “She’s going to eat you alive.”

Kusakabe sighed, running a hand over his face. “Yeah.”

And the worst part? He wanted you to.

There you are. I knew you would stay.

The Masterlist is here. If that still does not satisfy you, Requests are open.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ © ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛɢʜᴏᴜʟ

It was late. The office was quiet. Everyone else had cleared out after a brutal cleanup mission—devils, blood, screaming. But you both stayed behind to write reports. He was sitting at his desk, tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up, drying blood on his knuckles. You walked over and held up the lighter again, silent as ever.

He didn’t move. Just looked up at you, that slow storm building in his eyes.

“You always do that,” he murmured, voice low and gravel-warm.

You swallowed. “Do what?”

“Light my cigarette. Like you’re waiting for something.“

You cocked your head. “Maybe I am.”

He finally leaned in—but not for the cigarette. He caught your wrist instead. And pulled you down into his lap.

Your breath left you in a soft gasp, back arching instinctively as he tugged you closer. The cigarette dropped from his fingers, forgotten. His grip stayed firm on your wrist, rough but controlled, and his voice ghosted against your throat.

“You’ve been teasing me.”

“Not teasing. Waiting.”

That made something snap.

His mouth was on yours before you could blink—hot, bruising, full of the frustration he never let out in words. The kiss was rough, devouring, his hand gripping the back of your neck as your legs spread instinctively across his thighs. You could feel him already hard beneath you, straining in his slacks as he ground up just enough to make you whimper.

“You like playing with fire,” he murmured against your lips, dragging your shirt up with one hand while the other snaked between your thighs. “Let’s see if you can take the heat.”

He bent you over the desk without hesitation.

The wood was cold under your chest, but his palm between your shoulders kept you pinned, flushed and panting, as he undid your pants with deft fingers. When he slid in, it was slow—too slow—making your body tremble as you gasped, clutching the edge of the desk.

“Fuck—Aki—”

“I said you’d wait,” he growled in your ear, suddenly snapping his hips forward. You cried out as he filled you completely, your entire body jerking against the desk. “You lit the fire. Now take it.”

Every thrust after that was hard, controlled, devastating. He wasn’t fast—he didn’t need to be. He fucked you like he handled a sword—precise, sharp, no wasted motion, just deep, dragging strokes that made you see stars.

When he reached around to rub you in time with his rhythm, it was almost cruel. Your body was shaking, eyes glazed, heat flooding you from the inside out.

And he didn’t stop until you were sobbing his name into the desk.

When he came, it was with a deep groan and his forehead against your back, breath hot and heavy as he pulsed inside you. He stayed like that for a long moment, hand still wrapped tight around your hip.

Then he kissed your shoulder. Slowly. Once.

“You’re trouble,” he muttered.

You looked back over your shoulder, flushed and breathless.

“And you like it.

You were still bent over the desk when he finally pulled out, slow and careful, breath ghosting hot across the back of your neck. The air between you cracked with heat, slick and sweat-damp. His hands lingered—on your hips, your lower back—like he wasn’t ready to let you go.

“Get up,” he murmured.

Your legs wobbled when you stood, and Aki caught your wrist again, dragging you down into his lap the same way he had earlier—but this time you were wrecked. Still undone, dazed from the way he’d just ruined you.

He reached down and adjusted himself lazily, half-hard again, cum still dripping down your thigh, and kissed you with a softness that should’ve surprised you—but didn’t.

Aki was always like this. Quiet fire. Cold eyes, warm hands. You knew he wouldn’t say much. But he didn’t need to.

“You wanted this,” he said low against your lips, his hands sliding under your shirt again, teasing the skin over your ribs. “I saw the way you looked at me every time you lit one of those cigarettes.”

“You could’ve said something,” you whispered, straddling him again, your voice still a little hoarse.

“I didn’t want to say something.” He leaned back in his chair, tilting his head. “I wanted you to make the first move.”

You blinked. “Lighting your cigarettes was the move.”

His smirk was slow and unfair. “Yeah. And look where it got you.”

He pulled your hand to his lips—kissed your palm—and then slid your fingers under the waistband of his pants. He was hard again. Still. Your stomach fluttered as you leaned down to kiss him, but this time you were the one who reached for his cigarette case on the desk, flicked it open with one hand.

“Let me light it,” you whispered against his mouth.

He stilled. Let you slide the cigarette between his lips. Let you lean back and flick your lighter open again—slow and deliberate this time. But when he leaned in, the flame caught more than the cigarette.

He stared up at you with those ice-blue eyes, smoke curling between his lips, and you swore it was the hottest thing you’d ever seen.

Until you dropped to your knees in front of him.

“You gonna stop me?” you asked, hands on his thighs now, mouth ghosting over the trail of hair leading to his cock.

His head fell back with a sigh. One long inhale. Smoke exhaled through parted lips like a dragon ready to burn.

“No.” And then his hand tangled in your hair.

And you showed him exactly what months of waiting had done to you.

There you are. I knew you would stay.

The Masterlist is here. If that still does not satisfy you, Requests are open.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ © ᴠᴇʟᴠᴇᴛɢʜᴏᴜʟ