The dim, flickering light of the abandoned underbelly chamber barely cut through the haze of dust and leftover adrenaline still clinging to the air.
Jabber lay sprawled beneath you on the worn-out pile of scavenged blankets, his chest heaving, manic grin splitting his face even as fresh toxin-laced scratches bloomed across his skin like glowing veins. His Mankira rings glinted on your fingers now, warm from his body, heavy with promise, and every shallow breath he took made the locs framing his face shift like wild ropes.
You straddled his hips, thighs locked tight around him, feeling the hard, insistent press of his cock trapped between your bodies.
He was already slick with pre-cum and the faint sheen of sweat, twitching every time your nails dragged another light, deliberate trail down the center of his chest. The neurotoxin burned slow and sweet for him, making his muscles twitch and jump under your touch.
“Fuck…yeah, just like that,” he rasped, voice low and ragged, eyes half-lidded but burning up at you with pure, unhinged obsession. “Scratch deeper, pretty thing. Make it sting. I can take it.”
You smirked down at him, heat curling in your belly even as something softer flickered behind it.
He was insane, dangerous and beautiful in the most feral way—and he looked at you like you were the only thing in this trash-heap world worth craving.
You leaned in, dragging the rings slower this time, letting the toxin kiss a fresh line across one of his pecs until he arched hard beneath you, a breathless laugh tearing from his throat.
“Greedy bastard,” you murmured, sweet but edged with challenge.
He groaned, hips bucking up sharply, trying to grind himself against your heat. One of his hands shot up, rings clinking as he gripped your waist like he might flip you but you were faster.
You dug your nails in harder right over the fresh scratches, pressing the toxin deeper, and his whole body jolted. A raw, heavenly moan ripped out of him, head tipping back, locs spilling across the blankets.
“Shit—yes—hurt me nicer than they ever could,” he laughed, the sound wild and cracked with pleasure. His cock throbbed hot against your thigh. “You’re so fucking strong…my strong, sweet girl. Nobody else gets to do this. Nobody else gets me like this.”
You rolled your hips slow and mean, letting just the tip of him nudge against your entrance before pulling back, teasing. The control felt electric.
He was bigger than you, much stronger and faster but right now he was letting you win, letting you wreck him, because it made his blood sing.
“Stay down,” you warned softly, leaning down to bite the side of his neck.
Your teeth sank in until you tasted copper, warm and metallic, and his laugh melted into a moan that vibrated against your lips. He shuddered hard, one hand fisting in your hair, not pulling you away but holding you closer.
“Mmm…bite harder, baby. Draw it all out. I love when you mark me up like I’m yours.” His voice dropped, obsessive and crazy-soft. “You are keeping me, right? Say it. Tell me you won’t get bored of breaking your favorite freak.”
You licked the wound you’d made, soothing and filthy at once, then rocked down again, finally sinking onto him in one slick, tight slide. The stretch burned deliciously. He filled you perfectly and the moment you bottomed out, his hips jerked up on instinct, chasing more.
You pinned his shoulders with the rings still on your fingers, dragging fresh tingling lines down his arm as you started riding him. Every roll of your hips ground the toxin-laced scratches, making him twitch, laugh and moan all at once.
“Fuck—look at you,” he panted, eyes wild and fixed only on your face, that obsessive gleam brighter than ever. “Riding me like you own me. You do, don’t you? My pretty, feisty little monster. Shit, clench like that again and I might lose it.”
You smiled down at him, sweet despite the way you were using his own weapon to drive him higher, and gave him exactly what he wanted—another slow, mean grind while the claws dug in just a little harder.
He was completely gone for you, laughing breathlessly through the burn, body arching and trembling under every touch like it was the best kind of pain he’d ever chased.
His pupils were blown wide, eyes glassy and feral as he stared up at you like you were the only fixed point in his spinning, violent little world.
His chest rose and fell in sharp, greedy bursts, every fresh neurotoxin trail you’d carved glowing faintly against his dark skin, making his muscles twitch and jump under you like live wires. He looked completely fucking gone—high, unhinged, giggling through every moan like the pain and pleasure had short-circuited his brain straight into heaven.
And he was loud. Extremely.
“Fuuuuck—yes, baby, yes—harder, c’mon, don’t you dare go soft on me now,” he laughed, the sound cracked and breathless, turning into a shameless moan when you rolled your hips again, taking him deeper. His locs stuck to his sweat-slick forehead. “You feel so good—so tight, so wet, so perfect—shit, I’m addicted. You’re my favorite fucking drug, you know that?”
You bit your lip, trying to keep some control even as heat coiled tight and vicious in you. He was thick inside you, stretching you just right, and every slow grind you gave him made the toxin burn hotter under his skin.
You could feel how close he was to flipping the script—his hands kept twitching at your thighs, fingers flexing like he was dying to grab but you weren’t done playing yet.
You dragged the Mankira rings down one last teasing line across his abs, watching his abs clench and his cock throb hard inside you. Jabber’s head snapped back, a loud, giggly moan ripping out of him as the toxin sang through his veins.
“Too much?” you asked, voice sweet but teasing, already sliding the heavy rings off your fingers one by one.
He didn’t answer with words—just a wild, breathless laugh that dissolved into a needy whine the second the last ring left your hand.
The moment they were gone, Jabber moved. Both of his hands shot to your hips, fingers digging in bruisingly hard, yanking you down onto him with zero warning.
The sudden, rough thrust punched a sharp moan out of you—“Shit—” you hissed, nails digging into his chest for balance as he dragged you forward, forcing you to take every inch in one brutal snap of his hips.
“There she is—fuck, there’s my babygirl,” he growled, voice hoarse and giddy all at once. His grin was pure chaos, wide and unhinged, but his touch was starving.
He smacked your ass hard, the sting blooming hot as he used the grip to bounce you on his cock faster and rougher, setting a punishing rhythm that had the wet slap of skin echoing in the dim chamber.
“Louder, baby—let me hear you moan for me. You take me so fucking good—shit, you’re squeezing me like you wanna break me.”
You couldn’t help it.
The shift from slow, mean control to Jabber lost and manic beneath you, hips snapping up to meet every downward grind, hands gripping, smacking and dragging you exactly where he wanted—had heat exploding through you. You moaned loud, sweet and filthy, bracing one hand on his chest while the other tangled in his locs, tugging hard enough to make him hiss with delight.
“Yeah—pull it, pull my hair, make it hurt,” he laughed, the sound loud and cracked as he fucked up into you harder, the toxin making every sensation sharper, wilder. He was high on it, high on you, pupils blown so wide he looked drunk. “You’re so sweet when you moan like that, my feisty little monster. Nobody else gets this—nobody else gets to ride me while I lose my fucking mind for them. Only you. Only fucking you.”
He sat up suddenly, one arm locking around your waist to crush you closer, hair falling around your faces like a messy curtain as he buried his face in your neck.
His hips never stopped while his free hand smacked your ass again, then squeezed, spreading you open so he could drive even deeper. The new angle made you cry out, pleasure spiking sharp and hot, and Jabber moaned right against your skin, loud and shameless.
“Mmm—hear that? That pretty sound you make when I hit it just right…fuuuuck, I’m addicted. Can’t get enough—never gonna get enough of this tight little pussy, of you biting me and scratching me and owning me.” His voice dropped into something crazier, softer, almost reverent even while he fucked you stupid. “You’re mine, yeah? Say it—tell your crazy boyfriend he’s yours while I fuck you raw.”
You gasped, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave new red lines, and he shuddered violently, hips stuttering for a second before he laughed loud, giggly, completely lost and slammed back in even harder.
He was a junkie who’d finally gotten his favorite hit, and he was riding that high like it might kill him.
The aftershocks kept fluttering through you, lazy little pulses that made him twitch every few seconds.
Jabber was flat on his back on the old blanket, arms lazily tucked behind his head, chest rising and falling in slow, satisfied breaths.
The toxin trails on his skin had faded to a soft pink, mixing with the faint streaks of blood. He looked wrecked in the best way—grinning that wide, unhinged grin, eyes still glassy and half-lidded, completely high on whatever cocktail of pain, pleasure, and you was running through his veins.
You reached for the small bottle of water you’d scavenged earlier, tipping it gently so the last of the cold liquid slid over his chest and abs in slow, glistening trails. It washed away the thin lines of blood, cooling the heated scratches, and Jabber let out a low, giggly sigh that turned into a soft moan when the chill hit his skin.
“Mmm…that’s nice,” he murmured, voice rough and lazy, watching you with pure, obsessive adoration. “My sweet girl playing nurse after she rode me like she was trying to kill me. Fuck, I love you like this.”
You smiled down at him, as you used your fingers to gently wipe away the last traces of red.
He was still inside you, soft but thick, keeping you full and warm while you took care of him.
The contrast made everything feel softer, heavier, more intimate. You leaned down, brushing your lips against his in a slow, teasing kiss that quickly deepened—tongues sliding hot and lazy, tasting the faint copper of his blood mixed with the sweetness of whatever candy he’d stolen earlier.
Your breathing mingled, heavy and shared, chests pressed close as you kissed him deeper, slower, like you had all the time in this trash-heap world.
When you finally pulled back just enough to breathe, you felt him starting to harden again, thickening slowly inside you, stretching you once more with that familiar, delicious burn. A grin tugged at your lips. You rocked your hips just once, teasing, and watched his eyes flutter.
“You like that?” you asked, voice low and flirty, sweet with a filthy edge. “Me taking care of you after you came so deep inside me? All messy and warm, still leaking out while I clean up my favorite freak?”
Jabber’s laugh was soft this time, giggly and annoyingly charming, but his eyes were dark with hunger and something almost embarrassingly soft.
“Shit, baby…you’re gonna make me blush if you keep talking like that. Look at you—sitting pretty on me like it’s your throne, wiping blood off me like I’m some delicate thing. But we both know you’re the one who put it there.”
He shifted his arms from behind his head, one hand sliding slow and possessive down your back, the other cupping your ass, squeezing with just enough pressure to make you gasp.
“Mmm, yeah…I like it. Love it. You taking care of your crazy boy after you wrecked him? Makes me hard all over again. You’re too good to me and I’m too fucking gone for you.”
He pulled you down closer, your breasts pressing soft and warm against his chest, nipples brushing his skin with every breath.
His hand on your ass kneaded lazily, fingers digging in as he rocked up just enough to nudge deeper inside you, a lazy grind that had you both breathing heavier.
The kiss you shared next was messier—tongues tangling deep, wet sounds mixing with your shared moans, his free hand sliding up to tangle in your hair and hold you right where he wanted.
“You’re so pretty like this,” he mumbled against your lips between kisses, voice husky and giggly, still high and unhinged but wrapped in sweetness. “All flushed and sweet, tits on my chest, my cum still dripping down your thighs while you play gentle. Fuck. I’m addicted. Can’t stop wanting you. You bite me, scratch me, ride me till I’m laughing like a maniac…then you clean me up and kiss me like I’m worth something. Makes me wanna keep you forever, pretty thing. My hot woman who knows exactly how to break me and put me back together.”
You laughed softly, nipping at his bottom lip before soothing it with your tongue, your hand still tracing gentle circles over his cleaned abs.
“You’re such an annoying junkie,” you teased, voice breathy and flirty as you rolled your hips again, feeling him swell fully hard inside you once more. “But look at you… all soft and obsessed, watching me with those pretty eyes while I take care of you. It’s almost embarrassing how gone you are for me.”
“Embarrassing? Nah,” he grinned, but his touch stayed tender even as his fingers smacked your ass lightly playful, and possessive. “It’s honest. I’m your junkie, baby. You’re my favorite hit. The only one that makes the world stop feeling boring.”
He pulled you into another deep, tongue-heavy kiss, breathing hard into your mouth as his hand slid between your bodies just enough to thumb slow circles over your clit, making your breath hitch. “Keep cleaning me up, sweet girl…or don’t. I might just flip you again and fill you up a second time while you’re still being so nice to me.”
You leaned in for another slow, filthy kiss, whispering against his lips, “Then stay right here…let me take care of my favorite addict a little longer.”
You were still sitting pretty on his cock, warm and full, trading slow, deep kisses that tasted like sweat and blood and pure want. Jabber’s hands roamed lazy over your ass, squeezing, when he suddenly grinned against your mouth—wide, giggly, and way too pleased with himself.
“Alright, sweet thing… my turn.”
Before you could tease him back, he flipped you.
One quick, smooth roll and your back hit the blanket, him hovering over you with that obsessed energy crackling all around. He was still breathing hard, still high on the toxin and on you, but his grin never faded as he kissed down your body—messy, open-mouthed, leaving little bites along the way that made you arch.
“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured, voice rough and flirty, spreading your thighs wide with both hands. “All messy from me with my cum still leaking out like you couldn’t get enough. That’s so fucking hot, baby.”
You laughed breathlessly, feisty even while your body buzzed. “You’re such a greedy idiot—”
“Yeah, and you’re my favorite bitch,” he cut in with a loud, giggly moan, already lowering his head. He didn’t tease. He dove in like a starving man—tongue dragging hot and filthy through your folds, licking up every drop of his own release mixed with yours.
The wet, obscene sounds filled the dim space as he swallowed it all down, humming loud and happy against your pussy like it was the best thing he’d ever tasted.
“Shit—Jabber—” you hissed, hips jerking, one hand flying to his hair.
He laughed right into you, the vibration making your toes curl. “Mmm, say my name louder, pretty girl. I love when you get all sweet and loud for me.” His tongue circled your clit, then dipped back inside, lapping greedily, swallowing everything you gave him. He was loud about it—moaning, giggling, making sloppy, wet noises that should’ve been embarrassing but only made you wetter.
One of his hands slid up your body to pinch your nipple while the other gripped your thigh, holding you open so he could bury his face deeper. He sucked hard, then softened it with lazy licks, switching between mean and sweet until your legs started shaking.
“You taste so good with me inside you,” he mumbled, voice muffled and filthy, pulling back just enough to grin up at you. His chin was shiny, lips swollen. “My cum, your pretty little pussy… fuck, I could stay down here all night. You gonna come on my tongue, baby? Let your crazy boyfriend drink it all up?”
You moaned, sweet and feisty, tugging his hair harder. “Stop talking.”
He barked a loud laugh, eyes sparkling with pure obsession. “Yes ma’am—fuck, I love when you boss me around.” Then he was back on you, rougher, tongue fucking into you deep, nose grinding against your clit, sucking and licking like he was addicted to the taste of both of you together. His moans vibrated through you, loud and shameless, while his hands kept you pinned exactly where he wanted.
Every time you twitched or moaned louder, he got greedier—swallowing every drop, humming happily, occasionally pulling back just to murmur flirty, crazy shit against your slick skin.
“God, you’re perfect… my sweet, feisty girl who lets me be this nasty for her. Come on, baby—flood my mouth. I wanna taste how much you love your crazy man.”
He sucked your clit again and you felt that coil snap—pleasure crashing through you sharp and hot. You came with a loud moan, thighs clamping around his head, and Jabber moaned like he was the one coming, drinking down every bit of it with greedy, happy little sounds.
He didn’t stop until you were trembling and oversensitive, only then pulling back with a wet pop and that wide, satisfied grin, licking his lips like he’d just had the best meal of his life.
“Mmmm… best aftercare ever,” he laughed, crawling up your body to kiss you deep, letting you taste both of you on his tongue.
His voice dropped softer, still giggly but stupidly sweet. “You okay, pretty thing? Or you want me to flip you again and keep going till we both can’t walk?”
He nuzzled into your neck, pressing lazy kisses there, hands still roaming like he couldn’t stop touching you.
You both stayed naked for a long while after that, tangled up on the blanket like you had nowhere better to be in the whole damn Abyss.
Skin on skin, slow and lazy at first, then hot and rough again whenever one of you got bored of being sweet.
Jabber’s hands never really left you—tracing lazy patterns over your hips, squeezing your ass, pulling you in for deep, messy kisses that turned filthy fast.
He’d laugh against your mouth when you nipped his lip too hard, then flip you under him just to grind against your thigh like he couldn’t help himself.
“Fuck, you’re addictive,” he mumbled between kisses, voice rough and giggly. “One taste and I’m already twitching for round three.”
You shoved his shoulder playfully, sweet but feisty. “Give a girl five minutes to breathe, would you?”
He just smiled wider and kissed you harder, tongue sliding deep, hands rough on your waist until you were both breathing heavy and laughing into each other’s mouths again.
Eventually the high started to settle and the chill of the underground air nipped at your skin.
You sighed, stretching. “Alright, crazy boy. We should head back before someone comes looking and finds us like this.”
Jabber groaned dramatically but rolled off you, both of you finally tugging clothes back on in the dim light. You pulled your shirt down, smoothing it over your hips, while he shrugged into his jacket and started sliding his rings back onto his fingers one by one.
The second the last ring clicked into place, the neurotoxin activated with a faint shimmer. One of the sharp edges caught his own thigh through the fabric. Jabber froze mid-motion. You froze too, shirt halfway tucked in, staring at him.
He side-eyed you slowly.
You raised a brow.
Then that smirk crept across his face… and bloomed into a full, manic grin.
“No, Jabber—” you huffed, already taking a cautious step back, half-laughing, half-warned.
Too late.
His eyes lit up with that fresh toxin rush, pupils blowing wide as the familiar high slammed back into him. “Ohhh baby,” he drawled, voice cracking into a giddy laugh. “Look what you made me do. Can’t even put my own rings on without thinking about you scratching me up again.”
“Jabber, I swear if you—”
He howled loud, wild, pure chaos—then launched himself at you with a playful bark and a giggle that bounced off the walls.
“Jabber!”
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ full already? didn’t think so. my masterlist’s right here.
Peace lasted zero seconds, because Hajime was suddenly behind you like he spawned there.
A warm hand slid over your waist, and this idiot didn’t even breathe normally—he growled into the back of your neck. “You’re late,” he said, low, annoyed, and almost feral.
You didn’t even get to shrug. “Yes, baby. Traffic exists.”
His chest pressed to your back, clearly on purpose.
His hips followed, also on purpose.
One of his fingers slipped under your shirt like he needed to confirm you were actually home. “Traffic,” he repeated, not buying it at all. “Cute excuse.”
You tried to turn, but he blocked you with his arm next to your head, pinning you between him and the wall. He leaned in and kissed your shoulder, slow and open-mouthed, completely ignoring the fact that you were still half-dressed.
“You know I go insane when you’re late,” he murmured. “You could at least text. Or call. Or send a signal flare. Something.”
You snorted. “Sure. I’ll just throw fireworks out of the car window.”
He bit your shoulder. Sharp enough to make you gasp. “Don’t act like you don’t know,” he said, voice dropping, “that I missed you.”
You finally managed to turn. “You are an idiot.”
He didn’t even argue. “Yeah. Yours.”
You reached for your jacket, but he grabbed the collar and pulled it off himself, tossing it somewhere that was absolutely not the coat rack.
He didn’t bother lecturing you. He just kissed you. Slow for two seconds, then he deepened it, tongue brushing yours, a low groan rumbling out of him like he had been waiting all day for this.
“You’re being needy,” you muttered against his lips.
“Yeah,” he said, kissing you again, “and whose fault is that? Not mine.”
He pressed you back into the wall, his thigh sliding between yours, hands already under your shirt like he couldn’t be bothered to pretend he had self-control.
Your fingers curled into his hair. And oh, he loved that.
“Hajime,” you warned.
“Mm?” he said, still kissing your throat. “I’m busy.”
You shoved his shoulder lightly. “You couldn’t wait five seconds?”
“Nope,” he said. “Suffer.”
He kissed the spot under your ear and his grin grew when he felt how you reacted. “You missed me too,” he said. His hands slid down, pulling you flush against him like physics had no say in this household.
“Hajime.”
He lifted you by the waist just to prove he could, and your breath caught. That made him grin like he’d won something. “Yeah. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”
You hooked a finger in his shirt and dragged him closer. “Didn’t plan to.”
“Good,” he whispered, kissing you once more, slower but hungrier. “Because I wasn’t done.”
He cupped your jaw and kissed you again, so stupidly in love. When you finally kissed him back just as hard, he smiled against your mouth. “Knew it,” he murmured. “Come here. I’m not done with you.”
He carried you to the living room like you weighed nothing. The big couch already looking like it knew what was coming.
He dropped you onto it—gentle, but only because he wanted you there, not because he was being polite. Then he knelt. He hooked a finger behind your heel and slid your shoe off. The other followed. No rush. No shame. He kept his eyes on you the entire time, like he was daring you to react.
Then he lifted your ankle and kissed it. A slow, open-mouthed kiss right to the bone, like he wanted to mark the place.
You stared at him, completely still. “You’re insane.”
He looked up at you through his lashes, smirking. “You knew that before you dated me.”
He kissed a little higher, thumb dragging along your calf. His mouth was warm and greedy, like he wanted to ruin the idea of anyone else ever touching you.
“Hajime.” you murmured.
He hummed, lips brushing your skin again. “You keep saying my name like that, I’m gonna take it personally.”
“You should,” you said.
“Good,” he muttered, biting the inside of your ankle just to be a menace. “Because I am.”
His hands pushed up your legs a little, spreading your knees without asking. Bratty. Confident. Absolutely not pretending to behave.
He looked you over like he owned the view.
“You came home late,” he said again, pretending to be offended. “I had time to spiral. I had time to imagine things. I had time to—”
“Be dramatic?” you cut in.
He froze, narrowed his eyes, and then crawled up the couch toward you in that slow, predatory way, like a man who was deciding between kissing you and starting a fight he fully expected to win. “Say it again,” he said quietly.
“You. Are. Dramatic,” you repeated, deadpan.
He exhaled a laugh through his nose. “You’re lucky I love you,” he said, climbing over your thighs. “Lucky I’m obsessed with you. Lucky you’re hot. Lucky—”
“You’re talking a lot for someone who pounced on me in the hallway.”
He braced a hand beside your hip and leaned in close, his breath warm against your cheek. “That’s because I waited all day,” he murmured. “And you walked in here looking like that. And then you try to mouth off?” He tilted his head. “Sweetheart, be serious.”
You raised a brow. “Make me.”
His grin sharpened. “Say less.”
He kissed you rougher this time, cocky, demanding, messy in a way that made your stomach drop. His hand slid up your thigh, fingers squeezing like he couldn’t help himself.
You kissed him back just as hard.
He pulled back with a low laugh, forehead pressing to yours. “There she is,” he said. “My brat.”
You smirked. “Oh, brat?”
“Yeah,” he growled softly. “Mine. And I’m gonna remind you of that tonight.”
He kissed you again, deep, hungry, full-body needy and his hand dragged you closer by the waist like he wasn’t going to tolerate even an inch of distance. “God, baby,” he murmured against your mouth, breath shaking with how badly he wanted you. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“I know exactly what I do to you,” you told him, dead serious. “You’re worse than a rabid raccoon.”
He blinked. Slowly. Offended. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“That’s slander.”
“That’s accurate.”
He put a hand to his chest like you wounded him. “I am a majestic creature.”
“You’re a feral gremlin with muscles.” Then you pointed at him. “Take your clothes off.”
He stared. “Eh?”
“You are needy. I had a long day. I wanna shower and I want to touch you.”
“Touch me?” His voice jumped an octave.
You nodded once. Calm. “In very unholy places.”
He shot to his feet so fast the couch springs complained. “Say less.”
He actually stretched like some smug demon who’d been summoned with the correct incantation. Back arched, arms up, grin horrible. “Oh wow,” he said, already pulling his shirt off like it personally wronged him. “Suddenly my entire personality disorder vanished. I’m cured.”
“You were never cured,” you muttered.
“I could be,” he said, tossing his shirt somewhere stupid, “if you touched me in these alleged unholy places.”
“You’re not supposed to enjoy being called a raccoon.”
“I thrive,” he said. “Call me worse.”
“Rodent.”
He gasped. “Hot.”
You sighed so hard it could’ve powered a wind turbine. He stepped between your knees, half-naked, fully feral, hands on your thighs like he was staking a claim. “So,” he said with a wicked little tilt of his head, “you wanna touch me?”
“Yes baby, I literally said that.”
“In the shower?”
“Yes.”
“Together?”
You stared. “Do I need to file paperwork for you to understand?”
“Nope,” he said brightly. “Just checking if you meant ‘touch’ like ‘touch,’ or touch like—” He made aggressive grabby-hand motions. “—touch.”
“Second one.”
“Oh thank God,” he breathed, already undoing his belt like it was a race. “I shaved for nothing yesterday.” He stepped back, smug and shirtless and a menace. “Let’s go then. Touch me. Ruin me. End my suffering. Be my villain arc.”
“Get in the shower,” you said flatly.
“Gladly,” he answered, already walking backward toward the bathroom, pants halfway undone, nearly tripping over his own shoes because he wouldn’t take his eyes off you.
“Watch where you’re going!”
“No,” he said, finger pointed at you like a threat. “Eyes on my woman at all times. Safety hazard? Yes. Worth it? Also yes.”
You dragged a hand down your face. “You’re actually going to die one day being stupid like this.”
He smirked. “Then bury me sexy.”
“Hajime, get in the damn shower.”
“Oh believe me,” he said, stepping inside with that same feral, delighted grin, “I’m already there.”
You followed him, because honestly, what else were you going to do, and he held the door open like a gentleman who had absolutely zero gentlemanly intentions. The man was naked and vibrating with excitement like a demon on caffeine.
“You ready?” he asked, standing in the stall—cocky, smug, and vibrating like a possessed tuning fork who’d been waiting for this moment his entire life.
“I should ask you that, sir,” you said, poking his chest with mock innocence. Your finger dragged down his torso in a lazy, disrespectful line, pausing exactly where his… very enthusiastic situation was basically waving hello like a proud student at a school assembly.
His grin dropped off his face so fast it hit the floor. “Me? Ready? For what? What are you planning, girl?”
You didn’t answer. You just laughed and walked right past him to turn on the water, acting like you didn’t just short-circuit his entire personality.
“Babe??” he tried again.
You still didn’t answer, just undressed in front of him with zero ceremony, zero rush, and zero concern for the fact he was about three seconds from combusting.
He made a choked sound. “HELLO?? Are you doing this on purpose?”
You stepped into the stall, looking up at him slowly, hands finding his waist, then the small of his back, then lower to his ass. You squeezed playfully.
He gasped—a scandalized, delighted, borderline spiritual gasp. “Oh my god,” he wheezed. “You can’t just—warn me! Warn me next time, actually no don’t, do it again—wait, no, WHAT are you plotting?”
Your hands stayed exactly where they were, fingers digging in just enough to make his whole spine go tense.
He stared at you like you were both his dream and his punishment. “Why are you like this?” he demanded, voice cracking in the middle. “Why do you act innocent and then suddenly—suddenly—THAT?”
You tilted your head. “Problem?”
“Yes?? No?? I don’t know??” He gestured vaguely at his entire existence. “You can’t just go for the premium zones without warning.”
“Premium?” you echoed, amused.
“It’s a VIP area,” he said, very serious. “Five-star access only.”
“And who owns that access?”
He swallowed hard. “You. Obviously you. Forever. No refunds.”
You slid your hands a little, just enough to make his knees buckle for a second. He clutched your shoulders like he needed emotional support. “You’re going to ruin my life.”
“You like when I ruin your life.”
“Yes! But you’re not supposed to know that!”
You smiled up at him, far too pleased. “Hajime.”
“Mm?” he answered, already sounding gone.
“You’re very loud for someone who walked in here like the big bad wolf.”
His jaw flexed. “I am the big bad wolf.”
You squeezed again and he made a noise that was definitely not wolf-like. “…I am a medium bad wolf,” he corrected quietly.
You leaned in, lips brushing his jaw, voice low. “You know what I’m planning.”
He shivered head to toe. “I have theories. None of them safe.”
You kissed the corner of his mouth. He inhaled sharply. “Oh, okay, yep. We’re doing this. I’m going to pass out. Perfect. Great.”
You smiled. “Hold still then.”
He made a breathless laugh, grabbing your hips like he didn’t trust gravity. “Girl…you better be ready to deal with me after this,” he said, voice roughening with that familiar, dangerous affection. “Because I’m about to forget how to behave.”
“You never behave.”
“Exactly,” he said. “And you make it worse.”
He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes dark, smile crooked. “You and me,” he murmured, “we’re not normal.”
“And?”
“And I want every second of it.”
The water steamed around both of you, close and hot. His hands roamed your waist, slow and promising, as he whispered “Come on then. Show me what you were planning.”
The shower was hot, way too hot—not because of the water temperature, because of what you were doing to him.
On your knees, licking slow, teasing, dragging your tongue in ways that made him grab the wall like the tiles personally betrayed him. Every time he twitched, every time he groaned, every time his breath broke you pulled back just enough to keep him right there, trembling.
Hajime wasn’t moaning, he was trying not to scream.
Twenty minutes. Twenty whole minutes of you torturing him with your mouth, your tongue, your breath, your stupid calm face that made him lose absolute sanity.
He finally snapped.
“Okay—NO. No, no, no—get up—baby, I’m losing brain cells—”
He hauled you straight off the floor like you weighed nothing, slammed the shower off, and grabbed a towel, drying you with the speed and aggression of a man fighting for his life. His hair was dripping, sticking to his face in wild strands, eyes blown wide open.
He shook his head like a wet dog and you barely had time to laugh before he yeeted you out of the bathroom.
You bounced once on your bed, breath leaving your chest in a gasp. He stood there at the edge of the mattress wet, panting, glowing red with frustration and desire, and he looked like he could devour you whole. “You make me—” he tried, voice rough, cracking. “God—You make me CRAZY—”
You pulled him down by the back of his neck and kissed him with the same slow-torture energy you’d used in the shower. His whole body jerked like you hit a switch.
“No,” you whispered into his mouth, tasting how ruined he already was. “Lay down.”
He froze. Like you’d just challenged him to a duel. “Lay—down?” he repeated, staring at you, chest rising in sharp, uneven breaths.
“Yes,” you said, pushing him by the shoulders. “Now.”
He obeyed. Not gracefully. Not calmly. He collapsed backward onto the bed like a man who’d been waiting years to be told that. Legs spread, hair wild, water dripping onto the sheets, arms thrown up like he was offering himself to the universe.
“Okay,” he said, voice wrecked. “I’m lying down.” Then, louder, needier, “Do something about it.”
You crawled over him, slow and predatory, and he followed every movement with desperate, hungry eyes. “You really want me to?” you asked, straddling his hips, refusing to give him contact.
“Yes,” he answered instantly. “I want everything. I want all of it. Do whatever you were doing in the shower but multiplied— squared—I don’t care, just—”
You placed one finger on his lips. He shut up immediately. His eyes were huge. “Hajime,” you murmured, leaning down so your nose brushed his.
“Mm?” he whispered, already ruined.
“You really shouldn’t challenge me.”
He swallowed so hard it made his throat flex. “I wasn’t challenging,” he whispered. “I was begging.”
Your smile turned slow and cruel. “Fantastic.”
His hands shot to your waist, gripping tight. He breathed out— “Oh…I’m so dead.”
You kissed him again, deeper this time, dragging your nails down his sides, feeling him arch into you like he couldn’t decide whether to moan, curse, or just black out from sheer want.
He chose all three.
You kissed like you were making up for every second you’d ever been apart, messy and desperate and breathing each other in. He kept pulling you closer, like he physically couldn’t stand even a millimeter of distance. His hands dragged over your back, your hips, your face—rough one second, tender the next, completely unhinged either way.
He moaned into your mouth, helpless and needy, and then, he muttered against your lips, “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Evil woman—”
You shut him up with another kiss, biting his lower lip until he groaned loud, legs falling open without a single hesitation.
All yours.
Your hand slid down between his thighs, slow, testing him. His breath stuttered against your cheek. He tried to keep kissing you but he missed your mouth entirely, whining like the world was ending. When your fingers brushed lower his whole body jerked.
“God—okay—” he choked, gripping your face and kissing you harder, lips desperate, hot, clumsy with want. “Do that again—”
You did. He broke. Softly. Beautifully. His thighs relaxed, opened more. That silent permission he only ever gave you.
When you pushed in just a little he bit your lip, sharp enough to make you gasp into his mouth.
He cursed. Not angry. More like it hit him in the spine. “It—fuck—hurts,” he hissed, forehead pressing to yours, breath shaking. Then, voice dropping into something raw—“Don’t. Don’t fucking stop.”
He reached blindly for the nightstand, stretching, swearing under his breath as he knocked things over. Finally his hand closed around what he wanted, the small bottle of lube, and he shoved it at you like it was a lifeline. “Add another one,” he begged, voice wrecked. “God—please. Please—”
You froze. Not from doubt—from need. You looked down at him, eyes locking. He was looking back at you like he’d kneel if you told him to. “Yeah?” you said, your voice low, taunting, almost mean. “You want another finger?”
He nodded immediately. Violently. Desperate. His voice broke when he answered, “Yes—yes, baby, please. Just—I want it—I want whatever you want to give me—I don’t care—”
You leaned in so your lips brushed his ear. “You’re so needy,” you whispered. “So badly behaved. So loud.”
His fingers twisted in the sheets. “But you love me,” he rasped.
You smiled against his skin. “Yeah. I love you like this.”
He exhaled something between a moan and a laugh—feral, overwhelmed, unhinged with pleasure and anticipation. “Then ruin me,” he whispered. “I’m right here.”
The way he said it shot through you like heat. His legs trembled beneath you. His chest rose fast. His eyes were half-closed, begging and challenging at the same time.
Your palm slid over his hip, deliberate, claiming. “Good boy,” you whispered.
His whole body shuddered and you took control the moment he laid back. No hesitation. No softness. Just intention.
Hajime always acted like he was the feral one, but the second your hands were on him he melted so fast it was embarrassing.
The lube was in your hand before he even finished breathing. He watched you open it like it was a ritual. His legs opened on their own.
He didn’t even pretend he wasn’t begging for it.
“My pretty boy,” you said under your breath as your hand slid down, slow and possessive, claiming every inch of him without even needing to touch the forbidden places directly.
His breath stuttered.
You didn’t even give him time to recover. Your fingers went lower and the second he felt you push his breath broke. Not a gasp. Not a moan. A sound ripped out of him. “—oh fuck—”
You leaned down, kissing his stomach as he arched. He clutched the sheets, knuckles white, trying to breathe through the shock of being handled exactly the way he always pretended he didn’t want but absolutely craved.
You whispered against his skin, low and cruel, “You wanted this, didn’t you?”
His head snapped back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut. “Yes—yes, I—baby, it feels—it feels so—”
You pressed your lips to the sharp line of his abs, kissing him like you were claiming territory. “Tell me,” you murmured. “What does it feel like?”
He choked on air. “Good—god, it feels good, too good— I can’t—”
You kissed lower. He trembled violently. Your voice dragged over him like heat. “What are you going to do for me if I keep going?”
He whimpered. “Anything,” he rasped. “Anything you want—just don’t stop. Please don’t—”
You smiled against his skin. “Look at you. Opening up for me. Falling apart like I trained you to.”
His thighs twitched, trying to close, then opening wider when he realized you wanted space. He was ruined. Completely and beautifully ruined.
You kissed along his lower stomach again, slow and smug, while your hand moved with deliberate, devastating expertise, just enough pressure in just the right place to make him shiver like he was being rewired. “There you go,” you whispered. “Let me have you.”
He covered his face with one forearm, moaning into his own skin like he was embarrassed by how loud he was getting but not enough to stop. “Baby—baby—I’m—oh god—this is—I can’t—”
“Yes you can.” Your mouth brushed his skin. Your tone dropped. “You’re going to take everything I give you.”
He arched, gasping. His free hand flew to your hair, grabbing, holding, grounding himself as he fell apart under your voice, your control, your pace. “Please,” he whispered, desperate, shaking. “I want to make you feel good—let me just—tell me how—tell me what to do—”
You lifted your head, slow and commanding, meeting his blown-out eyes. “You’re going to listen,” you murmured. “You’re going to behave. And when I want you to touch me—then you’ll touch me.”
He nodded so fast it was almost frantic. “Yes. Yes, whatever you want—I’m yours—”
Your lips brushed his stomach again, a kiss that made him shudder from head to toe. “Good,” you whispered.
He gave in completely, body shaking, voice breaking, breath overloading, under nothing but your pace, your control, your voice telling him exactly how undone he was allowed to be.
He wasn’t just falling apart, he was coming undone at the seams, breath stuttering, hips trying to follow your pace. Just the way you moved your hand, the way your voice dragged over him, the pressure you kept exactly where he needed—It broke something open in him.
His thighs tensed, then trembled. His stomach tightened. His breath caught in his throat in a strangled gasp that turned into a sound he’d absolutely deny making later. His whole body arched as pleasure hit him sharp and overwhelming—so intense it knocked a shocked, helpless gasp from him. His voice cracked mid-moan, half-laughing, half-swearing, like he didn’t even know what reaction he was supposed to have.
“Oh god—” he choked out, eyes unfocused, chest heaving.
You watched the chaos roll through him—every twitch, every sound, every desperate attempt to breathe through the shock of how hard the pleasure hit him.
He giggled. Actually giggled. A little delirious, a little wrecked, a lot overwhelmed. And then he moaned again, so soft, ruined and melting.
You raised a brow. “Oh? Already?”
He slapped a hand over his face like he could hide from reality. “Help—” he whined… then laughed again, breathless and shaking. “I can’t—baby, oh my god—”
You withdrew your hand slowly, careful but teasing. “Hm?” you asked, innocent voice, wicked smile. “What’s wrong?”
He tried to speak. Failed. Tried again. “You hit that…just right…” he panted, reaching blindly for you like he needed grounding. “Oh my..baby. I didn’t—I wasn’t ready for that—”
You leaned over him, lips brushing his ear. “You fall apart beautifully,” you whispered. “I barely touched you.”
He shivered. “Don’t say that,” he muttered weakly. “You’ll get ideas.”
“I already have ideas.”
He whimpered. And then he laughed again, delirious, breathless, high off what you did to him. “Baby,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “You’re actually going to kill me.”
“Good,” you said softly. “Then behave this time.”
He covered his face again. “No promises.”
He was still shaking. Still breathless, pupils blown wide, chest rising in sharp little stutters. His hands reached for you with zero coordination, like instinct was doing the work his brain no longer could.
“Come here—” he murmured, grabbing blindly for your waist.
He tried to pull you on top of him, but his arms were jelly, and all he managed was dragging you halfway across his hips in a pathetic, horny attempt.
You hid a laugh. He was so gone he didn’t even bother pretending. He watched your hand glide over his stomach, over the mess he’d made of himself, and his eyes went dark.
His mouth dropped open. Tongue out. Begging. You didn’t even tell him to, it just happened.
He sucked at your fingers the moment they touched his lips, desperate, greedy, half-whimpering like he needed the taste of everything you did to him.
Still hard.
Still twitching.
Still ready for more.
“Lick it,” he demanded, voice hoarse and wrecked, like he barely knew what he was saying. “Clean. All of it.”
You kissed him slow, letting him taste your breath before moving to his jaw, then down his throat where his pulse jumped so fast you felt it against your mouth.
He made a low and broken sound and his hand slid into your hair, not to guide you, but to make sure you didn’t float away.
You kissed your way down his chest, over every trembling breath, every shiver, every place you’d undone him.
You moved lower, letting your tongue drag across his skin where he was still marked by cum, collecting everything left on him.
“Oh my god…” he whispered, hips twitching.
You moved back up to kiss him again. Before you could even speak, he grabbed your jaw with surprising strength for a man whose legs still didn’t work, pulling you close enough to steal your breath.
“Give it to me,” he growled.
You laughed and kissed his chest instead, making him groan and buck up like his body had its own ideas. “Hajime,” you teased. “You’re still shaking.”
“Don’t care,” he rasped. His thumb stroked your cheek, almost gentle. “Come here. Now.”
You leaned in, letting your lips ghost over his. He couldn’t wait. He kissed you hard, tongue pushing into your mouth with a needy, hungry moan, tasting everything you’d taken from him.
He groaned into the kiss, his hips jerking up under you, chasing you without thinking. “God, baby,” he whispered against your mouth, breath trembling. “I’m not even done. You ruined me and I still want you. You don’t know what you do to me.” He kissed you again, deeper this time, losing the ability to breathe, think, talk, just drowning in you.
He tried to pull you up with him, tried to drag you into his arms but his legs still weren’t cooperating. He growled at his own weakness, slapped your hip once like it personally offended him, and then with the determination of a man who refused to lose, he flipped you onto your stomach.
It was messy. It was wobbly. He nearly fell on you twice. But he did it. “Don’t laugh,” he warned, breath catching. “I’m taking control back.”
“You’re about three seconds from face-planting—”
“SHH,” he snapped, immediately biting your ass in retaliation.
You yelped, then laughed into the pillow. He groaned like the sound rewired his soul. “You,” he said, teeth grazing you again, “are the best woman ever.”
He crawled over you sloppy and still shaking but you felt the shift in him. That feral heat coming back, slow and rising, like he was rebooting into his worst, horniest form.
His arms caged you in. His chest pressed to your back, still wet, still heaving. His breath hit your shoulder, trembling with want and pride and questionable stability. Then you felt him tilt his hips forward and tap his hard cock against you.
Once.
Twice.
Like a knock on a door.
He made the stupidest proud noise, a smug little hum deep in his chest. “A gentleman,” he announced, voice wrecked but triumphant, “always knocks.”
You couldn’t help it. You pushed up onto your knees, tilting your hips back deliberately, wickedly, offering yourself like you were presenting a royal invitation. You glanced over your shoulder at him and said:
“Well then—come in if you dare.”
His soul left his body. He froze, eyes blown wide, breath catching like you’d just whispered a spell. He grabbed your hips and lowered himself over you, mouth at your ear, voice shredded. “Ohh baby,” he whispered, barely holding himself up. “You say one more thing like that and I’m gonna forget how to act for the rest of my life.” His voice dropped low and sinful. “Mmmh… I’m going to make sure we both can’t walk after this.”
You didn’t even give him time to feel proud. “Wise words,” you said sweetly, “from someone who just spilled all over himself because I put two fingers up your—”
He didn’t let you finish. He grabbed your hips so suddenly you gasped, yanking you back into him with a force that shook the bed frame.
A sharp, hot jolt ran through your whole body, not pain, not surprise, just impact, raw and feral, the kind that knocked the air out of your lungs and the thought out of your skull.
Your hands shot forward, bracing into the sheets. Your breath broke into a moan you couldn’t swallow.
His voice was right at your ear, ragged, triumphant, trembling with need. “Ohhh, NOW you wanna mock me? Huh?” His grip tightened, dragging you back against him again in a brutal, unsteady rhythm. “Say it again. I dare you.”
You tried but your voice cracked into a needy, helpless sound instead.
He laughed. Dark. Mean. Turned on beyond reason. “That’s what I thought,” he growled. “You talk big until you’re actually taking me.”
Your nails dug into the sheets, body arching back instinctively. You were slipping into a need that matched his, feral and dizzy and rising fast. “Hajime—” you breathed.
He groaned, long and low, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he moved behind you with messy, almost desperate force. “God, baby,” he rasped, voice breaking, “you’re gonna end me. You feel—oh my—” Another ragged sound left him, hips stuttering. “I can’t—you’re too—fuck—” You pushed back into him deliberately, wickedly and he almost choked. “NO. No, don’t baby, I’m—I’ll lose it. I swear—I’ll—”
You looked over your shoulder at him, panting, hair sticking to your face. “Do it,” you said. “Lose it.”
His head snapped up. “Oh..you’re DONE.”
He wrapped an arm around your waist, hauling you upright against his chest, breath shaking against your neck as he muttered into your skin:
“I’m gonna ruin you for talking like that.”
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ full already? didn’t think so. my masterlist’s right here.
contains unprotected sex, degradation, dom/sub dynamics, overstimulation, slapping, spit, hair pulling, oral, face-fucking, crying during sex, orgasm control, humiliation, jealousy, power imbalance, obsession, multiple orgasms, light choking, praise/degradation mix, cock slapping, post-sex aftercare, subdrop, emotional vulnerability, playful bickering, bratty male subs, dick grabbing, cousins participating in shared sexual activity (non-incestuous, mutual involvement with reader), suggestive humor, consensual power play, group sexual content, soft dom reader
You don’t knock.
You never have. Not at the Zenin compound, not in some half-assed Tokyo rental, and definitely not at Toji’s apartment.
You toss the box of gear onto the table without so much as a greeting. Mission leftovers. Burners. Blades. Shit Toji always forgets. But the silence hits first. Then the voice.
“You’re brave, showing up like that without calling.”
It’s lower than you remember. Rougher. Steadier. But still soaked in that cocky, rotted smirk he used to have when he was just a teenage brat in the Zenin halls, trying to one-up Toji in every way and failing.
You turn slowly.
Naoya Zenin. Twenty-seven. Bigger than he used to be — lean, cut, and furious. Still got that prince-of-nothing vibe, but now it’s dressed in black compression sleeves and tattoos curling under his collarbone.
He looks at you like he wants to kill you.
Or fuck you raw. Probably both.
“Relax,” you hum. “I’m not here to fuck your cousin. Not this time.”
He snorts, eyes dark. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
You smirk. “Dunno. You always did have a complex about him.”
His jaw ticks. “I don’t have a fucking complex.”
You take your time eyeing him up shameless, slow, head tilted. Then you grin, like it physically hurts you not to poke.
“Still a bitch, huh?”
He’s in your face in a second, palm against the wall near your head, chest flush to yours, not touching but daring you.
“You think you’re better than me.”
“I know I am.”
He grits his teeth. “Fuck, you’re insufferable.”
“You’re hard.”
That stops him. Just a second. Just enough.
He is hard. His cock pressing against the front of his pants, straining like it’s trying to claw through the fabric. You feel it before you see it and when you grin, when you drop your voice to a purr and lean into his cheek— “Still getting off to thoughts of me riding your face when you were nineteen?”
He snaps.
The second you purr that little line about his teenage fantasies, something detonates in him. Naoya shoves you back fast and rough and drags you by the waist down the hallway, throwing the door to Toji’s bedroom open like it insulted him.
He throws you on the bed. Your back hits the mattress with a bounce, and before you can blink, he’s on top of you, straddling your hips, his knees pinning your thighs apart.
“Fucking mouth,” he growls, voice shaking. “You always had to talk shit.”
“You always had to get hard over it.”
That makes him snarl. He grabs your throat with one hand, palm wide and hot, squeezing just enough to make your pulse flutter and then crashes his mouth onto yours.
The kiss is filthy. Possessive. Tongue first, lips dragging open, spit-slick and unhinged. He kisses like he hates you. Like he’s starving. Like if he can get deep enough he might finally shut you up.
You moan into it, high and taunting, and that only makes him grip your neck harder, just a bit. His cock pulses against your abdomen through his slacks.
He breaks the kiss just to pant against your mouth, voice cracking. “Shut up. Shut the fuck up. You don’t know what you do to me.”
“I do,” you grin, breathless, teeth nipping at his bottom lip. “I always knew.”
He shoves your shirt up, palm dragging over your chest, fingers digging into your ribs like he wants to mark you there. You push your hips up into his, grinding shamelessly, and watch his whole face twitch like he’s fighting every instinct not to cum in his pants again.
“Fucking—god, fuck,” he hisses, then growls through his teeth. “Take it off. All of it.”
“You begging me now, baby?”
He chokes on his own groan and rips your underwear in half.
Your panties snap in his fist like they were made of paper, and he tosses them behind him without a glance, mouth dragging hot and open down your chest like he needs to taste every single inch before he loses his mind.
“Fucking brat,” he hisses, biting the curve under your breast. “Think you’re in control?”
You moan just to mock him, breathy and teasing as your fingers slide through his hair. “Naoya, baby, you’re the one rutting like a dog in heat.”
He slaps your thigh. Hard.
You yelp — more surprised than hurt — and his face darkens as he shifts down, shoving two fingers inside you like he owns you already.
“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, wrist pumping, thumb circling your clit like he’s trying to break you open. “Take it.”
And you do. You take it with your jaw slack, your hips twitching, your hand grabbing the pillow behind your head because goddamn, you forgot how good his hands were.
“That’s it,” he pants. “That’s what you wanted, huh? You want me to fuck the attitude outta you?”
You smile. “Try.” He loses it.
He yanks his belt open with one hand, spits in his palm, strokes his cock twice, and then shoves inside you so deep and fast your eyes roll.
You scream. He groans, burying his face in your neck, his pace immediately brutal. No warm-up. No rhythm. Just full-bodied slamming, your thighs pushed back against your chest, his nails bruising into your hips.
And still, you laugh. Right into his ear.
He falters. “What.”
“Already?” you pant. “God, Naoya— Toji would’ve made me cum twice by now.”
His eyes snap. He grabs your hips, slams in once, twice, three times so deep it knocks the breath from your lungs.
“You little slut,” he snarls. “You take it. As long as I want. I stay hard, I keep going — ‘til you’re crying, ‘til you’re begging, ’til you wish you never fucking walked in here in the first place.”
You arch up, one hand fisting in his hair, the other grabbing his wrist. You yank his head back. Eyes meet. He’s flushed, sweaty, snarling.
“If you come again,” you breathe, “I’ll make you lick it.”
He freezes. Then moans. And then he ruts.
Like something inside him shattered. Like his body doesn’t belong to him anymore. He pounds into you, over and over, no breaks, no sanity, teeth gritted, thighs shaking, cock twitching from the pure overstimulation but he won’t stop.
“Fuckfuckfuck—” he pants, voice ragged, “I’m— you— fuck—”
You clamp around him and scream, back arched, thighs trembling, and he lets out the filthiest moan you’ve ever heard — high, desperate, body twitching as he spills inside you again.
You think he’ll stop.
He doesn’t. He pants once. Then grabs your thighs, pulls your legs to the side like he’s unwrapping a meal.
And licks. He licks everything. Your cunt, your thighs, the mess dripping out of you, his own cum — devours it, tongue deep and hot, his groan muffled against your overstimulated core. It’s not even about getting you off anymore.
It’s worship. It’s ownership. Then he crawls up your body, sweat slick on his chest, eyes blown wide. He grabs your chin, tight. And spits into your mouth.
You moan through it, drag him down by the hair, and kiss him so hard it hurts. His tongue slides over yours, filthy and wet and shameless, and he moans into your mouth like a man who just realized he’ll never want anyone else again.
It’s round two.
Naoya’s got your legs over his shoulders, one hand on your throat, the other digging into your ass as he fucks into you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. His hips slap wet against yours, pace rough and messy, hair stuck to his face, jaw slack. He’s moaning under his breath, fucking you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish the second he stops.
His face twitches. He slaps your thigh. “Fucking say it!”
But you hear it first. The door. Click. Creak. Then—
“What the fuck?”
Naoya freezes. You both turn.
There’s Toji.
Standing in the doorway. Sweaty from the gym. Shirt off. Bag still slung over his shoulder. He stares.
Naoya’s still buried balls-deep inside you.
You’re smirking. Naoya’s panting. Licking his lips.
He actually fucking licks his teeth, mouth open, pupils blown, like getting caught made him harder. Like Toji showing up mid-thrust is the best thing that could’ve happened.
“Toji, baby,” you moan, hips shifting just enough to make Naoya twitch inside you, “you can watch. Maybe you’ll even give him some tips on how to fuck for real.”
Naoya snaps.
He slaps you. Right across the cheek. Hard.
“Shut the fuck up!”
But your laugh? Your moan? It’s so fucking loud it echoes.
You drag your nails down his spine and moan like he made you cum just from the slap. Eyes half-lidded, lips parted, you look at Toji — like this is his fault too. Like you want him to see what he’s created.
“Toji,” you pant, smug and ruined, “your little cousin’s so obsessed. Did you know? He whines when I clench around him. He fucking cries when he cums.”
“Shut up,” Naoya growls, pounding into you harder, voice barely human. “Shut the fuck up—shut the—fuck—up—”
You’re gasping now. Not pretending.
He’s actually fucking you hard enough to make the bed slam the wall. Sweat dripping, arms shaking. He’s feral. Feral for you. Feral for Toji watching.
Toji’s still in the doorway. Brow cocked. Silent.
And when Naoya looks over his shoulder, panting like a dog, waiting for punishment—
Toji just grins. Half-smirk. Lazy. Dangerous.
Then? He leans against the frame. Crosses his arms.
And watches. Because he knows. You’ve broken Naoya.
And he’ll never fuck another person again.
Naoya’s pounding into you like a demon — slapping skin, snarled breath, bruising grip. He’s sweating over you, jaw clenched, eyes flicking to Toji every time you moan like he wants him to hear it too.
And you? You’re loud. You moan like you’ve never been fucked like this. Like you want the whole floor to hear.
And Toji does. He’s still standing there — but his arms aren’t crossed anymore. They’re down. One hand on his hip, the other hanging low, and—
There it is. You see it. That very obvious, very thick shape pressing against the front of his sweatpants.
You look right at it. Then at him.
Then back at Naoya, who hasn’t even noticed because he’s too busy chasing his next orgasm inside you.
You moan again, loud and sharp, and throw your head back like you’re about to cry from how good it feels.
“Toji,” you pant, dragging your voice like velvet, “you’re getting hard just from hearing me moan?”
That gets Naoya’s attention. His head snaps up. He looks over his shoulder — and sees it, too.
His own cousin, leaning in the doorway, eyes dark, cock outlined hard as fuck under his waistband.
Toji doesn’t say shit. Doesn’t even blink. Just raises a brow.
Naoya’s mouth goes dry. His hips stutter.
And you? You laugh.
“Oh my god,” you moan. “You’re both so fucking—”
SLAP.
Naoya hits you again — this time your ass — so hard it echoes.
“Shut up,” he growls, pulling you up by the waist, closer, deeper, like he’s afraid Toji’s gonna take you away. “You’re mine now. Mine. You fucking came here for me.”
“You sure?” you grin, cock drunk, eyes rolling back as he hits that spot again and again. “You sure this cock’s not just charity, Naoya?”
He chokes on a moan. His voice breaks. “You’re such a whore—”
“You’re the one drooling over your cousin’s hard dick,” you pant, laughing again.
And that? That finishes him.
He growls, drags you by the hips flat under him, and ruts into you like an animal. He’s panting, sweating, pounding, hips slamming the backs of your thighs with every stroke. Your tits bounce with every thrust. Your moans are obscene.
Toji watches the whole thing.
His hand drifts low. He doesn’t even hide it.
He palms himself — slow, lazy, like this isn’t the first time he’s seen Naoya lose his fucking mind over something Toji had first.
“Louder,” he mutters.
You both freeze. You blink. Naoya twitches inside you.
You smirk like the devil and moan so filthy and high it makes Naoya fucking shake.
And Toji?
He spits on the floor beside him.
“Thought so.”
Naoya’s panting over you, flushed and shaking, your body limp beneath him after he’s already wrung a second orgasm from you. He’s still inside you — still hard — but just barely holding on. One more snap of your hips and he’s gonna lose it again, and he knows it.
Toji moves. Steps away from the door.
You both freeze.
Naoya’s still buried in you when his cousin walks right up to the bed.
Toji stares down at the two of you, at the mess Naoya’s made — the slick, the bruises, the cum dripping from your thighs. And then he smiles.
Not kind. Predatory. He reaches for the hem of his sweatpants and pulls them down.
Naoya’s voice catches in his throat. You can feel him twitch inside you. His breath stutters, and he turns his head up like he’s dizzy just looking at Toji’s cock.
“Get off,” Toji says.
Naoya doesn’t move.
“Now.”
You moan under your breath, dragging a hand down Naoya’s back. “Aww, baby—looks like Daddy’s home.”
Naoya lets out this broken sound—part moan, part groan—and pulls out slowly, the drag of his cock slick and soaked with your juices. He scrambles back on his knees, dazed, red in the face, lips parted.
Toji climbs up onto the bed.
One hand on your thigh. The other curling into your hair. He leans over you, cocks his head, and smirks.
“You’re loud today.”
You grin, breathless, still trembling. “Had to make sure you heard me.”
He leans down. Kisses you — deep and slow, tongue tasting everything Naoya left in your mouth, filthy and possessive. When he pulls back, he slaps your cheek just light enough to sting.
“You let him fuck you like that?”
You nod, blinking up at him. “He needed the practice.”
Toji laughs. “Cute.”
He grabs your legs, pushes them open, and slides in without warning.
You scream.
Naoya moans behind you — one hand wrapped around his cock, face twisted in jealousy and awe, watching the way Toji sinks into you like he’s done it a thousand times before.
Because he has.
Toji groans low, deep in his throat. “Fucking sloppy mess.”
He starts slow, hips grinding, letting you feel every inch, every stretch, every single fucking drag of his cock inside you. His hand wraps around your throat as his pace starts to build.
“You feel that?” he grunts. “That’s how you fuck a brat like her.”
Naoya’s whining. Watching. Fisting his cock. Lips bitten red.
Toji doesn’t even look at him. “C’mere.”
Naoya crawls forward — eyes blown, panting.
Toji grabs his jaw. “You wanna learn?” he growls. “Then watch close. And don’t you fuckin’ touch her again ‘til I say so.”
You moan, caught between the two of them, your body wrecked and wet and shaking.
Toji fucks you harder. And Naoya just nods. Begging.
Toji’s still buried inside you. Sweat drips off his jaw, cock heavy and thick inside your cunt as he fucks you with slow, brutal strokes that make your eyes roll and your breath hitch. He’s got one hand fisted in your hair, the other gripping your jaw, keeping your mouth slack and open.
Naoya kneels at the foot of the bed. Cock red, leaking, untouched. Watching. Shaking.
“Get under her,” Toji says.
Naoya looks up like he didn’t hear it right. “What?”
Slap. Toji cracks him across the face — hard enough to snap his head sideways. “You deaf now?”
Naoya doesn’t answer. Just moves. Fast. Crawling up onto the bed, dragging himself under you, face going pale and flushed all at once.
You’re half-lifted by Toji’s hands, your ass in the air now, legs open — and then you feel it.
Naoya’s breath. Hot against your inner thighs.
“Put your mouth where your cock was,” Toji snarls. “Clean it. With your fucking tongue.”
And he does.
You let out a gasped moan the second his tongue licks into you — tentative, shaky, then deeper, more desperate as the taste hits him. He’s moaning into your pussy like a fucking addict. Hands gripping your thighs so tight they shake. Licking everything — your slick, his cum, your heat, your scent — nose buried in it like he needs it to breathe.
“Shit,” you gasp. “He’s better at this.”
Toji laughs. “That’s ‘cause he’s starving.”
You feel Naoya whine against you, tongue working faster, sloppier, messier, trying to make you cum just to prove himself.
And then— Toji shifts behind you. Grabs your hair.
And slides his cock into your mouth.
You choke around it, eyes wide, spit instantly dripping down your chin as he starts to fuck your throat with the same slow, brutal rhythm he used between your legs. His grip tightens in your hair, holding your head steady, controlling everything.
“That’s it,” Toji pants. “Good fucking girl.”
Below you? Naoya’s losing his mind.
He’s sucking your clit now loud, sloppy, desperate. You feel his fingers dig into your thighs, feel his tongue flick faster, faster, obsessed with making you cum while you’re full in the throat.
Toji groans. “She gonna cum on your face, Naoya?”
Naoya moans into your cunt. Nods.
Toji slaps your ass. “Make her.”
And he does. You cry out around Toji’s cock — body twitching, legs shaking, hips bucking down as you cum hard on Naoya’s face, his tongue never stopping, drinking you in like it’s the only thing that’ll ever satisfy him.
You go limp. Toji pulls out of your mouth with a wet pop.
Naoya’s face is wrecked — flushed, soaked in slick, lips swollen, eyes glazed. He’s panting. Begging.
“Toji—” he gasps. “Please— I—can I—please let me—”
Toji leans down, grabs his cousin’s face with one hand.
“You wanna cum?”
Naoya nods. Frantic.
“Why should I let you?”
Naoya whimpers. “I cleaned her. I made her cum. I—I didn’t touch myself. I—please. I’m yours. I’ll do anything.”
Toji spits on him. Wipes it in with his thumb. Then smiles. “Then hold it. ’Til I say.”
Naoya groans — body trembling, cock throbbing, face buried between your legs again like it’s the only place he wants to die.
And you? You’re still moaning.
“Fuck,” you pant. “He’s never gonna fuck anyone else again, huh?”
Toji smirks. “Nah.”
“Think he ever did?”
You’re lying in Toji’s lap now, body limp and soaked, his cock resting heavy across your stomach, one big palm soothing over your tits.
Naoya kneels in front of the bed like a fucking pet.
His mouth is still glossy from licking your cunt clean. His cock is flushed, twitching, so painfully hard it’s leaking in thick strings. And he hasn’t touched it. Not once.
Toji drags a hand through your hair and looks at him like he’s looking at a stain on his floor.
“You still wanna fuck her, huh?”
Naoya nods fast, face flushed to the ears.
“Then do it.”
Naoya launches forward. But Toji’s hand snaps out, grabbing him by the shoulder mid-motion, shoving him back hard to the floor.
“But not how you want. Not fast. Not sloppy.”
Naoya pants, eyes blown wide.
“You’re gonna fuck her like I tell you to.”
You giggle, lazy, draped against Toji’s side like a prize. “Aww. He gets training wheels.”
Toji chuckles. “Yeah. Let’s see if he learns.”
You’re on top of Naoya now, straddling him, his cock trembling under you, the tip hot and twitching against your folds.
He’s moaning already, trying to buck up.
Toji grips his cousin’s hair from behind — tight.
“Don’t you fucking move,” he growls.
Naoya moans. You sink down on him.
Slow. Torturous. Every inch disappearing inside you while he groans, face crumpling like he’s in pain. His eyes roll back. His hands grip the sheets like they’re the only thing grounding him.
“Fuck—” he gasps. “Fuck I—”
“Don’t cum,” Toji warns. “You cum without permission and I’ll beat your dick raw.”
Naoya shakes.
You grind down into his hips, slow and deep, and moan right in his ear, dragging your nails down his chest. “Can feel how close you are already. What a fucking mess.”
Toji hums. “Faster.”
You obey. Your pace picks up, wet and sloppy, Naoya crying out under you with every thrust. He’s so fucking close, hips trembling, eyes pleading as he looks at Toji over your shoulder.
“Please—please let me—”
Toji grips his jaw. “Say thank you.”
Naoya chokes. “Wha—?”
SLAP.
Toji slaps him. Naoya screams.
“Say. Thank you.”
“Th—thank you! Thank you Toji—fuck—thank you for letting me—”
“To who?” Toji growls.
Naoya moans, tears slipping down the corners of his eyes. “Toji—Toji—fuck, for letting me fuck her—thank you for letting me feel her—thank you—”
You slam down on him one last time—tight, soaking, clenching hard—and he loses it.
He cums deep, crying, twitching under you like a fucking wreck, hands shaking, body wrecked.
And Toji? Toji grabs his chin and spits in his mouth. “Good boy.”
You collapse forward, half-laughing, still shaking.
Naoya’s panting under you, fucked dumb, eyes glassy.
Toji leans in behind you, hand on your lower back.
“Think he’s trained yet?”
You smirk. “Mm… one more round.”
Toji’s cock brushes your thigh.
“You riding me this time, or watching me break him all over again?” But Toji’s cock already slides back into you without warning.
You gasp, spine arching, hands braced against the sheets — as his hips roll forward, filling you in one brutal thrust. You’re still so wet from riding Naoya you can hear it, obscene, every slap of skin against skin echoing off the walls.
Behind you, Toji groans. “Still tight. Still fuckin’ sweet.”
He sets a pace. Rough. Deep. Possessive.
His hand grips your hip like a vice, the other dragging up your spine before curling into your hair. Every thrust shoves you forward.
Right into Naoya. He’s laid out on the bed in front of you now, flushed, eyes starved, hair a mess, lips parted.
Toji yanks your head up by your hair. “Kiss him.”
You grin fucked out and loving it. Naoya doesn’t need to be told twice.
He surges forward and grabs your face, pulling you into a kiss like he needs it to breathe. His mouth moves over yours messy, desperate, licking into you, tongue sliding over yours as he whimpers into your mouth.
Toji groans. “I said kiss, not fucking beg.”
You moan, helpless now, as Naoya kisses you harder, deeper, hands cupping your cheeks like you’re his last fucking chance at feeling something real. Like he wants to swallow your moans before Toji can hear them.
But Toji hears. And fucks you deeper. “You like this?” he grunts, hips slamming forward. “My cock in you while he sucks on your fucking mouth?”
Naoya whines against your lips. You moan into his.
Toji leans forward, chest against your back, lips at your ear. “You ever kiss him like that when he fucked you?”
You shake your head, still kissing Naoya like he’s yours, like you want to destroy him.
Toji snarls, slaps your ass. “Didn’t think so.”
Naoya’s hands slide down your shoulders. He’s moaning into your mouth, needy and desperate, like each kiss is killing him. He tastes like you. You taste like Toji. It’s fucking feral.
You break for air, barely and Naoya whispers it like a secret against your lips: “I love you like this.”
And then Toji slams deep again and growls: “She’s not yours.”
Naoya flinches. And you? You cum. Hard.
Naoya’s flat on his back, arms limp at his sides, chest rising too fast, eyes already glassy. His cock? Hard again.
Despite everything, the previous orgasms, the trembling legs, the way he literally whimpered into your mouth when Toji was fucking you from behind — he’s still desperate. Still twitching under you like his body can’t stop chasing it.
You’re straddling him now, his tip slick against your folds, grinding slowly — not letting him in.
“Please,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “Please, I—I need it.“
Toji leans against the dresser, arms crossed, half-hard again, watching the show with a lazy smirk. “You hear that?” he mutters to you. “Little cousin thinks he’s earned it.”
You smile like a fucking goddess. Lean down, lips brushing Naoya’s flushed cheek. “You haven’t,” you whisper.
Then you drop your hips. He screams.
You fuck him slow at first, just to watch him shake. You slide down on him tight and soaked, grinding your hips in slow, brutal rolls. His hands fist the sheets, his back arches, mouth open in a silent moan.
“Toji—fuck—I—oh god—please—”
“Who told you to talk to him?” you snap.
You slap his cheek, not too hard but just enough to make his mouth fall open in shock.
And Toji? Toji laughs. “Fuckin’ pathetic,” he mutters, dragging his thumb down his own stomach. “Look at him. Cryin’ like a virgin and he’s already cum in you twice.”
Naoya’s crying now. Actual tears. Rolling down his cheeks as you ride him harder, faster, full weight grinding down into his hips while he sobs under you.
“I c-can’t—please—I can’t cum again, I’ll break—fuck—I’ll die—”
You grab his jaw, force his teary eyes to yours.
“You’ll cum,” you snarl, panting. “You’ll fucking cum for me like the needy, broken little bitch you are.”
His whole body shudders. His stomach tightens. He gasps like he’s drowning— And he cums.
Hard. Violent. A strangled sob of a moan that rips straight out of his chest as you ride him through it, ignoring every twitch, every tremble.
He’s crying louder now, hands clinging to your waist like you’re going to disappear if he lets go.
You kiss him. Deep. Lingering. And he sobs into your mouth like he’s grateful.
5 minutes later Naoya’s on his knees behind you. Fists trembling at your hips.
Cock still hard, despite everything. Despite the shaking. The crying. The way he’s already cum so much he’s twitching just from touching you.
Toji stands in front of you — towering. Half-hard. Smirking. His hand tangled deep in your hair.
You’re on all fours.
“Go on,” Toji says lazily, looking over your back to Naoya. “Fuck her.”
Naoya lets out a ragged, broken moan. “Please—Toji, I—”
“Did I fucking ask?”
Naoya groans like he’s in pain, lines himself up again, and pushes inside.
You both moan — your face instantly heating, lips parted as he sinks in. He’s slower now, gentler, but only because his body can’t take anything else. Every roll of his hips is shaky, needy, like he’s praying to last five more seconds.
And in front of you? Toji pulls your head up. “Open,” he growls.
You obey. And he slides in.
Your mouth stretches wide around him, thick, hot, the weight of him heavy on your tongue as he starts fucking into your throat with the same smooth control he always has. No rush. No panic. Just possession.
Behind you, Naoya sobs.
He’s fucking you harder now, crying out into your back with every thrust, desperate, moaning your name over and over like a prayer.
Toji laughs. “Listen to him,” he mutters, hand still gripping your hair tight as he thrusts into your mouth. “Fuckin’ ruined. You broke your little dog.”
You moan around him throat full, pussy clenching, body trembling between them. Your hands fist the sheets. Your body rocks between the two of them — Toji’s cock down your throat, Naoya’s hips slamming into you from behind.
“Good girl,” Toji growls. “Taking it so well.”
Naoya’s grip on your hips tightens. His voice cracks:
“Please—please I’m gonna cum again—”
You pull off Toji with a wet pop, spit trailing from your lips.
“Let him,” you pant, smug and cockdrunk, eyes rolling back. “Let him break.”
Toji watches your mouth, grins.
“Go on,” he says over your shoulder. “Cum in her. One last time. Then you can crawl home and tell your clan how we fucked the pride outta you.”
Naoya screams. He cums like he’s being exorcised, sobbing into your back, nails dragging down your waist as he empties inside you for the fourth time, entire body convulsing with it.
You smile.
And Toji? He grabs your face, shoves his cock back in your mouth, and finishes down your throat while you hum, smirking, full of both of them.
When it’s over, you collapse onto the sheets, wrecked and dripping, throat sore and cunt aching.
Naoya? Face in your back, still crying.
Toji? Standing over both of you. Smirking. “Good boys don’t cry,” he mutters.
And you? You just laugh. “Guess he’s not a good boy anymore.”
The room’s quiet now.
Sticky with sex. Moonlight cutting across the sheets. The only sound is your breathing, the gentle hum of Tokyo outside the half-open window—and the flick of Toji’s lighter.
You’re sitting against the headboard, legs open, body still sore and slick and used.
Naoya lies between your thighs. Naked. Trembling.
His face is tucked into your bare stomach, lashes damp, cheek resting against your skin like it grounds him. One of your hands strokes slowly through his hair, fingers sliding through sweat and soft strands—while the other rests on his shoulder, rubbing slow circles.
His breath still stutters every now and then.
From exhaustion. From shame. From peace.
“Shh,” you whisper. “You’re okay.”
He nods, doesn’t move. His lips part against your skin like he wants to speak but doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t look at Toji. Can’t. Not yet.
You kiss his temple. “You did so good, baby.”
He shudders.
“Even when you cried.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he whispers.
“I know,” you say softly, still stroking his hair. “Doesn’t mean it wasn’t beautiful.”
From the window, Toji exhales a slow drag of smoke. His broad shoulders glow in the moonlight, one foot propped on the ledge like he could disappear into the night if he wanted—but he doesn’t.
He turns his head slightly. Watches the two of you.
Your naked body, Naoya curled in your lap like a wrecked child, your hand stroking down his spine in lazy, soft waves. Your lips brushing his forehead. That low, endless hum of comfort only you know how to give.
Toji smirks. And says nothing. Because what could he say?
You’d ruined Naoya. Fucked him, broke him, let him sob on your skin until he melted into it.
But now? You were healing him. With the same hands that tore him apart.
Naoya finally speaks again—quiet, raw: “Can I stay like this?”
You smile and press another kiss to his temple. “As long as you want.”
It’s almost dawn.
The air’s gone still, the wind softer now, Tokyo’s heartbeat fading behind glass and sweat-stained silence.
Naoya’s asleep.
Curled between your legs, his face tucked into your stomach, lashes brushing your skin. Every few minutes he twitches like he’s still trying to fuck you in his dreams—but your hand runs through his hair and he settles.
You’re still naked. Still marked from both of them.
And Toji? Toji’s moved.
He doesn’t say a word when he steps off the windowsill. Doesn’t grunt or sigh or drag his feet.
He walks to you silently. Kneels by the bed. And rests one calloused hand on your thigh.
His lips press to it a second later soft, quiet, reverent.
Not lust. Something else.
Your hand keeps moving through Naoya’s hair, but your eyes meet Toji’s. His gaze doesn’t leave yours.
For a moment, all three of you are still. Then he says it. Low. Rough. Inevitable.
“Y’know he’s never gonna want anyone else again.”
Your fingers pause in Naoya’s hair. Toji presses one more kiss to your thigh, just above the bruise he put there.
“He’ll follow you now. Whatever you say. Whatever you do. He’s yours.”
You smile. And you don’t correct him. Because you both know he’s right. Naoya murmurs something in his sleep—your name, maybe.
You keep stroking his hair, slow and warm.
And Toji?
He just watches. Like he knew it would end this way all along.
Toji doesn’t say anything at first.
He just watches from the edge of the bed as your fingers continue to glide through Naoya’s hair, gentle and patient, lulling him deeper into sleep.
Then, without a word, he slides in behind you.
The bed shifts under his weight — wide shoulders fitting around your back like they always have. He’s still naked. Still warm. His arm snakes under yours, across your stomach, over Naoya’s hip — until he’s holding you both.
Naoya stirs slightly, head nuzzling deeper into your belly. You guide him gently, and he shifts — curling forward, arms around your waist, face tucked between your breasts like he belongs there.
You’re sandwiched now.
Toji’s chest at your back, his big hand splayed across your ribs. Naoya’s breath slow and soft against your collarbone, your thighs tangled up in his.
No one speaks.
There’s nothing left to say. Toji’s nose brushes the back of your neck, and he lets out one low, satisfied exhale — all rough gravel and quiet peace.
Naoya sighs.
And you smile. Between them.
Owned. Worshipped. Loved, in their own ruined ways.
Sleep finds you like that — wrapped in bruised muscle, tender hands, and the kind of silence that only comes after surrender.
The sun’s just barely rising.
You’re still between them, blankets kicked halfway off, skin warm, sheets damp with heat and sweat from the night before.
Naoya stirs first.
He’s curled into your chest, arms tight around your waist like a kid who knows he’s not supposed to be there but refuses to leave anyway. He nuzzles into your skin like you’re the last safe thing on Earth.
Then he whispers it. Quiet. Whiny. “Are you gonna leave?”
You don’t answer right away—just blink, stretch a little.
Naoya lifts his head. Glares over your body. “Don’t fucking talk to me like I’m a kid.”
Toji chuckles. “Then stop crying like one.”
“Fuck you.”
“Can’t. Too busy fucking your girl.”
You sigh. Deeply.
“I swear to god,” Naoya growls, pushing up on one elbow like he’s ready to start another fight right there on the bed.
Toji rolls his eyes. “Sit down, princess.”
You’ve had enough. With one hand, you reach up and grab Naoya by the hair, tugging his head back just enough to make him gasp.
Your other hand snakes behind you, under the blanket and wraps around Toji’s dick.
Tight. Not playful. Controlling. He grunts — surprised, then groans — hips twitching against your back.
Both of them? Silent.
“Shut the fuck up,” you mutter, voice low and lethal, not even fully awake.
Naoya moans quietly, lips parting, eyes glazed from the sharp pull on his scalp.
Toji exhales like a goddamn animal, chest rising against your back, cock twitching in your hand.
“Good boys,” you hum, releasing them both with a pat like they’re well-trained pets.
Naoya collapses back onto your chest with a breathy whimper.
Toji presses a kiss to your shoulder, muttering, “You’re fuckin’ dangerous.”
You grin, closing your eyes again. “And you’re both mine.”
The room is warm.
You’re nestled between them, eyes closed, half-asleep. One arm draped lazily across Naoya’s waist, one leg tangled with Toji’s, your cheek squished into a pillow, lips slack with sleep.
It would be peaceful. If they could shut the fuck up.
Toji’s voice breaks the silence first—low, gravelly, that early-morning rasp that makes you twitch a little, involuntarily.
“…you make this little bitch whimpers when he dreams.”
Naoya lifts his head slightly off your chest. “Shut the fuck up.”
“I’m just sayin’,” Toji smirks behind you. “I thought you were getting murdered or nutting in your sleep.”
“You’re one to talk,” Naoya snorts. “You were grinding against her ass five minutes ago like a horny dog.”
Toji shrugs. “At least I didn’t cry about it.”
“You cried,” you mumble into the pillow.
“Yeah, but I was emotional,” Naoya mutters. “It was deep.”
Toji snorts.
And then?
You feel it. Them. Both of them. Hard. Again.
Toji’s cock nudging your lower back.
Naoya’s very obvious problem pressed to your hip.
You let out a long, exhausted sigh. Eyes still closed.
“If you both get hard one more time,” you mumble, “I’m tying your dicks together and making you walk to 7-Eleven like that.”
Silence. Then Toji laughs. Wheezes.
“Shit, we’d have to walk in sync.”
Naoya snickers into your collarbone. “We’d look like cursed twins.”
“I hate both of you,” you groan, pulling the blanket over your head.
They both immediately cuddle in closer.
Toji palms your thigh. Naoya kisses your shoulder.
You mutter, “I swear to god, if either of you even breathe horny right now…”
But they’re already giggling like idiots. Because you’re stuck with them.
You’re still buried under the blankets, sandwiched between two warm, muscular idiots who apparently think your body is a fucking jungle gym.
Naoya’s fingertips are tracing lazy circles on your stomach.
Toji’s hand is on your inner thigh, just resting there like it belongs.
And you feel them giggling.
Yes—giggling.
Like actual children.
“Stop touching me,” you mumble into the pillow. “No. As I said.”
You don’t even open your eyes. You already know the look on their faces — smug, mischievous, barely-suppressed post-fuck gremlin glee.
Naoya leans closer to your ear. “But you’re so warm and soft and—”
Toji snorts. “And she’s ours now, right?”
They both laugh again.
You groan. “Yesterday you two wanted to kill each other, and now I’m your shared emotional support victim?”
Toji grins behind you, voice thick with sleep and sarcasm. “What can I say? War makes men bond.”
Naoya hums. “We fucked it out of our system.”
“To be fair,” Toji mutters, “I fucked better than you did.”
Silence. A beat.
Naoya slowly lifts his head off your chest. “Excuse me?”
Toji doesn’t even look phased. “I said—”
“No, I heard you,” Naoya snaps. “You want a medal for mediocre rhythm and dad grunting?”
You crack one eye open. “Oh my god.”
Toji grins. “She moaned louder for me.”
“She was screaming when I made her cum—”
“From the overstimulation I gave her—”
“From the trauma of your existence—”
“Alright, children!” you bark, slapping Naoya’s thigh and pinching Toji’s ass at the same time. “Do I have to put you both in separate corners? Naked?”
They shut up. For two seconds.
Then Naoya leans into your side and whispers: “If we share her again, I go first.”
Toji rolls over you like a freight train. “Like hell you do—!”
“OH MY GOD—”
You shove the blanket over your head again.
“I’m celibate now. I’m off-grid. I don’t exist.”
They’re wrestling like half-hard feral cats.
And you’re still in the middle. You’re trying—trying—to sleep.
But Naoya’s elbow is digging into your side while he leans across you, still arguing. Toji’s knee is jammed between your thighs, half-climbing over you now, hissing back.
“You came in her like you were baptizing her,” Naoya spits, voice cracking. “There was so much. Like actually, are you okay?”
Toji scoffs. “You were crying and humping her like a freshman at prom, so maybe check yourself first.”
“Oh my god—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Toji mutters.
“You shut the fuck up!”
They’re both on top of you now, leaning over, half-straddling, half-smothering, arms across your stomach and chest like you’re a very soft, very tired battlefield.
You blink up at the ceiling, completely dead inside.
“Fuck,” you mutter. “You’re related. Fucking together. And it’s not even helping. I feel like I’m stuck with the same idiot. TWICE.”
Naoya gasps dramatically. “Wow—”
“Stop being bratty little bitches, oh my god—”
But they’re already giggling again. Actually giggling. Like idiots. Like middle schoolers who just found porn.
And that?
That’s when you snap. You reach down without warning and wrap one hand around Naoya’s cock.
The other finds Toji’s instantly.
Both still warm. Both still sensitive. And you squeeze. Again. Hard. Precise.
Toji chokes mid-smirk. His whole body jerks. Naoya squeals like he touched a live wire, thighs twitching, eyes wide.
You hold them firm. Not enough to hurt — but enough to make them shut up.
You’d left work early, giving yourself a rare head start on the evening, and part of you had been giddy knowing Matsuda would be coming by later. You’d teased him that morning in the NPA break room, leaning close over his coffee and whispering, “Don’t you dare ditch me tonight, baby. I want you over.” His ears had gone red instantly, but he nodded quickly like always.
The quiet of your apartment had a comfort to it, even if you kept glancing at the door, waiting for him to use that spare key you’d pressed into his palm months ago.
Now, hours later, you were curled up on the couch waiting for him. The ticking of the clock on the wall dragged on until finally you heard the familiar rattle of keys and then the muted click of the lock. He stepped inside, shoulders tight, jacket half hanging off him. He toed off his shoes without meeting your gaze, setting them down like the day itself had weighed too heavy.
“Hey, love,” you called softly from the couch, already reading his mood.
He tried to force a smile. “Hey. Sorry I’m late.”
You stood, crossed the room, and brushed your fingers over his jaw. “You’re always worth the wait.”
He gave you a short laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The set of his mouth was sharp, frustrated.
“What’s wrong?” you asked.
“Nothing,” he muttered, moving past you, shrugging out of his jacket. “Long day, that’s all.”
You followed. “Baby.” You caught his arm before he could escape fully into the bathroom. “Talk to me,” you murmured.
He swallowed, shoulders lifting in a useless shrug. “Sometimes I think they don’t take me seriously. I hear them.” His voice cracked on the last word before he quickly shook his head. “But it’s fine. Really. I don’t care.”
You frowned. “Matsuda.”
“Sweetheart, please—drop it, okay? I said it’s fine.” He slipped away from your hand, not unkind, but firm. And then he was retreating, mumbling something about a shower.
You let him go, for now. He disappeared into the bathroom, the hiss of water running filling the silence.
When he emerged, steam curling at his heels, the sight nearly stopped your breath. His dark hair dripped wet, plastered messily across his forehead, droplets trailing down over defined collarbones, chest, stomach. The towel sat low on his hips, clinging precariously.
You were, leaning in the doorframe of the bedroom, arms crossed, a knowing smirk tugging at your lips. “Come here, baby.”
He blinked, then padded over, obedient even in his stubborn moods. When he stopped right in front of you, his eyes found yours, soft brown flecked with something tired, something aching.
You slipped your arms around his torso, pulling him closer until your cheek brushed the heat of his damp skin. “Moody thing,” you murmured against him.
“I’m not—” he began to argue, but you felt it, the weight of his voice cracking.
You leaned back, loosening your arms only to let your hands slide up, framing his face. His wet hair stuck to your fingers. “Don’t argue with me,” you whispered, velvet sharpness in your tone.
His eyes softened, throat working. You pulled him down to you, closing the last inch between you, your lips pressing to his. The kiss was soft, but it carried heat, a deliberate fire that made him shiver against you.
He kissed back like he always did with you—gentle, almost reverent, like you were something he couldn’t quite believe he’d gotten to keep. His hands trembled faintly against your waist before he steadied, clutching you closer.
When you pulled back, your breath mingled with his. “That’s better.”
“I love you,” he whispered, voice cracking just enough to betray what he’d been holding in all day.
“I know, baby.” You smiled against his lips. “And I love you. More than they ever could understand.”
You kissed him again, deeper this time, letting him fall into you.
His damp hair clung to his forehead as he leaned into you, kissing you again until his body pressed flush with yours. Step by step, he walked you backwards down the short hall, his hand finding your hip like he needed to hold on.
“You wanna lay down?” he murmured, voice rougher than before.
You grinned up at him, all teeth and velvet confidence, a little devil smile that made his stomach knot.
“Oh, you are something, woman…” he muttered with a crooked smile of his own, a touch of awe underneath it.
Instead of letting him lead, you shifted your weight, turning him with a firm push. He hit the mattress with a soft bounce, wide-eyed for just a second before he let out a half-laugh, half-breath, looking up at you like he couldn’t believe his luck.
You hooked your thumbs into the waistband of your pants and slid them down in one smooth motion, leaving only your panties and his oversized shirt.
His eyes followed every movement, lips parting, breath uneven.
You climbed onto the bed without hesitation, settling astride his hips, your knees braced against the mattress, his towel the only thing between you. You leaned down slightly, your weight pinning him deliciously, and he looked up at you with a mixture of adoration and hunger.
“Sweetheart—” His voice was soft, reverent, almost pleading.
You tilted your head, brushing wet strands of hair back from his forehead with slow fingers. “Moody baby looks a little better already.”
That earned you a quiet laugh, his chest rising under your hands. His own fingers finally dared to skim over your thighs, trembling faintly but eager, like he always was with you.
And beneath it all, his eyes never left your face, like you were the only thing anchoring him, the only thing that mattered after a day that had worn him down. You leaned down, capturing his lips again. The kind of kiss that made your chest ache with how much of him you held. He melted into it instantly, sighing against your mouth like he’d been waiting all day just for this.
The subtle press beneath the towel, twitching up against you as your weight shifted.
His breath hitched, hot and shaky against your lips, his chest heaving as the kiss deepened. You shifted your hips just slightly, rolling them slow against his, and his soft groan vibrated into your mouth. “Mmh—love…” he whispered, voice tight, almost pained from how quickly you could undo him.
You smiled against him, your lips brushing his as you murmured, “I feel you, baby.”
He flushed instantly, the tips of his ears turning scarlet. “S-sorry, I—”
“Don’t apologize.” Your voice cut him off, low and velvet-smooth. You rolled your hips again, firmer this time, and the sound he made nearly broke him, breathless, desperate, his hands clutching at your thighs like he couldn’t decide whether to hold you still or beg for more.
Your oversized shirt hung loose as you straddled him, your hair falling forward, framing his flushed face. His eyes looked up at you wide, glassy with need, full of the kind of love that burned.
You kissed him again, swallowing his shaky breaths, keeping him trapped between your mouth and your body.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured against your lips, voice breaking, “you’re driving me crazy.”
And you grinned like the devil you were, shifting once more so he could feel just how much control you had over him.
Your lips stayed locked on his, soft but deep, pulling another low groan from his chest. His hands slid up, trembling a little as they gripped your hips, but he didn’t guide, he just held, letting you move the way you wanted.
You shifted against him again, slower this time, dragging the heat of your body right over his length where the towel strained. His breath caught, hot and shaky, spilling into your mouth as you kissed him harder.
When you finally pulled back just enough to whisper, your lips brushed his jaw. “So hard for me already, baby?”
His eyes fluttered open, wide and flustered, his face turning pink as he tried to swallow down a sound. “Y-yeah, I… I can’t help it, love. You—” He broke off with a sharp inhale when you rocked your hips once more, firmer this time, sending another shiver down his spine.
You smiled against his skin, trailing soft kisses along his jaw before returning to his mouth. “Good boy,” you murmured between kisses, velvet and commanding, “you feel so perfect.”
He whimpered softly, pressing up into you without even meaning to, his control slipping with every slow grind you gave him. Your fingers brushed through his damp hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and your tone softened. “You had such a rough day… and look at you now. Doing so good for me, sweetheart.”
His chest rose sharply, almost trembling at the praise, his hands tightening on your thighs like he was trying to anchor himself. “…God, I love you,” he whispered hoarsely, kissing you again with a mix of desperation and pure devotion.
You shifted back slowly, deliberately, until you were sitting right on his thighs. The towel loosened under your fingers, your nimble hands tugging at the knot until it gave way. The fabric slipped open just enough, leaving him bare beneath you, his length straining upward, flushed and needy.
You let your hips roll, rubbing yourself over him through the thin fabric of your panties, the heat of him pressed against you.
His head tipped back into the mattress instantly, a broken sound slipping from his throat. “My god—”
The sound made you laugh softly, low and dangerous, your smile wicked as you leaned forward to kiss his throat. “Look at you,” you murmured, voice dripping velvet, “so hard, so eager—all for me.”
He shuddered, a hand fisting in the sheets.
You rocked again, slow and steady, dragging the damp fabric of your panties against him, teasing yourself just as much as him. “Sweetheart,” you purred against his ear, “you don’t even know what you do to me when you’re like this. Wet hair, hot body, flushed and begging without a single word…”
His breath hitched, chest rising sharp beneath you. “I’m— I’d do anything for you, baby, I—”
“Mhm, I know,” you cut him off with another languid grind, pressing down harder this time, savoring the way he groaned. You kissed his lips again, tasting the tremble in his breath, keeping your voice low and eloquent against his mouth.
“You’re perfect like this. My beautiful boy, undone under me. Mine to love, mine to ruin, mine to take care of.”
His hands finally found your waist, gripping as though he’d fall apart without you. You leaned down, pressing your lips to the damp line of his throat, licking slowly over the flutter of his pulse before biting down gently. His breath came sharp and heavy, chest rising beneath you.
Your kisses trailed upward, hot and deliberate, along his jaw, the corner of his mouth, his cheek. He turned his head into it like he couldn’t help himself, lips parting in a shaky sigh.
Your hand slid down from his chest to his waist, tracing the tension in his muscles, until you found his hand gripping at you. You laced your fingers through his, guiding it higher on your body, making him hold you the way you wanted.
“Sweetheart…” he gasped, voice breaking when your hips rocked again, slick dragging over him with no barrier now but your thin panties.
You kissed his neck once more, your teeth grazing the curve of it. “Just let me take you apart. Don’t think about them, don’t think about today. Just me.”
He groaned, low and desperate, his hips jerking up into you without thought, seeking friction. You laughed softly against his skin, wicked and tender all at once. “You are so needy for me already.”
That lit him up, his grip tightening on your waist as though he was drowning under the way you moved against him. “I—I can’t…” he stammered, already unraveling, “I can’t hold it if you—”
You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, your smile sharp, hungry, full of love. “Then don’t.”
You ground down harder, messy now, desperate now, your lips crashing back to his as he let out a sound that was half-moan, half-broken plea. His voice cracked into the air, hoarse and desperate, “Shit—please, just sit down on it.”
You pulled back only enough to see his face, flushed and trembling, his hair still wet and clinging to his temples. That pleading look in his eyes nearly unraveled you, but instead, you smirked slow, wicked.
“Oh?” Your voice dripped like honey, hot and teasing as you rolled your hips over him again, just shy of giving him what he begged for. “You want me to fuck myself with it, hm?”
He groaned, head tipping back against the pillow, knuckles white on your waist. “Yeah—shit, please,” he gasped, voice wrecked, soft-spoken desperation spilling from him.
You leaned down, lips brushing his, giving him a slow kiss that broke with a quiet laugh against his mouth. “My sweet boy,” you whispered, “so polite even when you’re begging.”
Your fingers wrapped around him, guiding his length up against your soaked panties, dragging the tip through your slick until both of you were trembling. His breath hitched, eyes squeezed shut as he tried not to lose it too soon.
“Feels like you’re begging me without words already,” you murmured, rolling your hips again, letting him feel just how close you were. “So hard, so perfect. You want me to take you in, want me to ride you until you forget every shitty thing they said about you?”
“Y-yes,” he gasped, nearly trembling under you, “please, love, please, I need it—”
The way he broke on the word need nearly undid you. You held him right on the edge, dragging his head against your soaked panties, rolling your hips so slow it was cruel. Every time his breath hitched, every moan that spilled out of him only made you smile sharper.
“Look at you. Begging so pretty for me,” you purred, brushing kisses along his jaw, your hand still teasing over him but never giving in fully. “All worked up, and I haven’t even let you inside yet.”
“That’s the point, sweetheart.” You kissed the corner of his mouth, smug and soft all at once. “You’re not going anywhere. You’ll take it when I give it to you.”
But then his restraint shattered. With a sudden thrust, his hips drove upward, hard and desperate. The thickness of him shoved past your panties, forcing a gasp out of you, your body jolting at the unexpected invasion.
“I—I cannot wait, I—fuck,” he choked out, eyes squeezed shut, as though even he was shocked at himself for snapping like that.
Your breath caught, your nails digging into his chest as you stared down at him, wide-eyed for a heartbeat. You hadn’t expected it, not from him—your softspoken man, desperate enough to push. “Hey!” you gasped, voice breaking with surprise and heat all tangled together.
His eyes flew open, wild and almost guilty, searching your face. “I—s-sorry, love, I—”
But the sight of him made a dangerous smile pull across your lips. “…Don’t apologize.” You ground down against him harder, your breath shaky. “Do it again.”
Your words broke something in him. The second you told him not to apologize, something desperate flared in his eyes. His hands shot to your hips, gripping hard, and then he pushed up into you again, rough, messy, nothing like the sweet, hesitant touches you were used to.
You gasped, the force of it knocking a moan from your throat as he bucked his hips under you. “Just like that,” you breathed, your smile curving wicked even as you trembled from the shock of it. “Good boy—take what you need.”
“God—baby—” he groaned, voice breaking, hips rutting up into you over and over. His breath came in short, harsh bursts, chest heaving like he couldn’t get enough air.
You leaned down, kissing him hard, swallowing the whimpers spilling from him as you let him lose it under you. “Yes, sweetheart,” you whispered hot against his lips when you pulled back, rocking with him, praising him through every frantic thrust. “Just like that. You feel so good, you’re making me feel so good.”
He whimpered, his brows furrowed tight as he clutched you closer. “I—fuck, I can’t—I can’t hold it, you’re—” His words dissolved into moans, ragged and desperate.
You dragged your nails down his chest, gasping as his rhythm grew sloppy, raw, overwhelming. “My beautiful boy,” you praised, voice velvet but breathless, “losing yourself under me. So perfect. So fucking hot.”
He let out another wrecked moan, head falling back, throat bared as he thrust up into you with everything he had left. His whimpers filled the room, broken and messy, his whole body trembling as he came apart beneath you.
And you kissed him through it, holding his face, praising him until all he could do was gasp and cling to you like you were the only thing keeping him alive. His chest was still heaving, breaths sharp and ragged, his skin damp with sweat. Head tipped back into the pillow, mouth parted, lips swollen from your kisses, he looked completely wrecked.
And yet, when you rolled your hips again, dragging yourself over him, you felt it: he was still achingly hard inside you. A dark, hungry smile spread over your lips as you leaned down, brushing your mouth against his jaw. “Still hard?“
A broken sound spilled out of him, half-moan, half-whimper, his fingers digging into your waist. “I—shit—love, I can’t… I can’t stop—” His voice was wrecked, breath still coming in those short, heavy bursts.
You kissed the corner of his open mouth, slow and deliberate, before whispering against his lips, “Good. Don’t stop. You’re not done yet, sweetheart.”
He whimpered again, the sound desperate, his body trembling beneath you as he tried to move his hips, messy, needy, still grinding up into you even though he was already spent.
Your hand slid into his damp hair, tugging gently to make him look at you. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown wide, but burning with something deeper.
“That’s it,” you murmured, shifting on him again, making both of you gasp at the drag. “You’re perfect.”
His lips trembled around another moan, his head falling back again as his breath caught in his throat. “I—I love you,” he gasped, broken, “I love you so much…”
His moans tore through the room, raw, desperate and shameless. Every thrust of his hips up into you came with another broken sound, his breaths hot and uneven against your throat when you leaned down. His hands gripped your waist tight, sliding up to clutch at your stomach like he was trying to anchor himself to you, hold you in place so he wouldn’t lose you. The harder he clung, the more his whimpers spilled out, choked and frantic. “Love—oh god—please—I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” you gasped, grinding down on him, your nails dragging across his chest. “You’re so good for me, sweetheart. So desperate, so perfect—”
He cried out when you clenched around him, his body trembling under yours, hips rutting messily even though he was already spent. The sight of him—mouth open, eyes half-closed, begging without words, set fire through your veins.
It wasn’t just the way he filled you, the thick stretch hitting deep every time he thrust up, it was the sounds he made. The helpless whimpers, the stutter of your name on his lips, the hot and heavy breaths that hitched every time you praised him.
Your body tightened, heat building low and sharp, your rhythm faltering as the desperation in his voice undid you. “Fuck—baby, you’re gonna make me—”
Your climax ripped through you suddenly, violently, dragged out by nothing but the feel of him and the way he worshipped you with every moan. You came hard, clutching his face, kissing him rough as you broke apart on top of him.
He whimpered into your mouth, still clinging to your waist, still thrusting up weakly, desperate to give you everything even while you shook around him. When you finally pulled back for air, both of you wrecked and gasping, you whispered against his lips, voice shaky but sure: “You’re all mine. Every bit of you.”
And all he could do was nod, trembling, eyes wet, whispering back, “Always, love. Always.”
You finally let your body collapse beside him, the mattress dipping as you rolled onto your back. His hands reached for you instantly, fumbling and desperate, until you pulled him into your arms.
He let out a sharp inhale the moment his face pressed into your chest, cheek resting against the soft swell of your breasts. His whole body melted, trembling with the aftershocks, clutching at your waist like he couldn’t bear even an inch of space.
“You smell so good,” he whispered, voice hoarse and wrecked, every word muffled against your skin.
You hummed softly, still catching your breath, the sound vibrating in your throat as your fingers found their way into his damp hair. You raked through the wet strands slowly, tenderly, combing them back from his forehead.
His chest rose and fell too fast at first, but as you stroked him, he began to settle. His lips brushed lazily against your skin, just little movements that said more than words ever could.
His hand slid slowly under your shirt, fingers tentative at first, then firmer as they spread over your bare skin. The warmth of his palm against your breast made you draw in a sharp breath, your chest rising under his touch.
From where he lay half-tucked beneath you, his lips began trailing upward, soft kisses pressed against your jaw, then lower, finding the curve of your throat. Each one sent a shiver through you, your hand tightening instinctively in his damp hair. “Let me take this off…please,” he whispered into your neck, his voice low and wrecked, almost reverent.
The sound of him begging like that pulled a smile from you even as your own breath hitched. “How cute” you murmured, tilting your head to give him more of your throat. “Always so good with your manners.”
He kissed the spot where your pulse fluttered, shuddering against you, waiting. You shifted a little, guiding him with you, the shirt riding up as you both moved. His hands helped you, fumbling in his eagerness but still gentle, lifting the fabric over your stomach, over your chest. His mouth never left your skin, kissing higher with each inch revealed.
By the time the shirt cleared your head and was tossed aside, he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes blown wide, lips swollen, chest still rising heavy. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, almost like he was afraid to say it too loud.
His hands were everywhere now, one sliding down under you, cupping you firmly from beneath as if to hold you steady in his grip, the solid weight of his arm pressing against your spine. The other dragged slowly over your stomach, savoring every inch of skin, fingers trembling with want but moving with deliberate care.
He shifted lower, his lips brushing over the soft curve of your stomach, kissing reverently, almost worshipful. His breath was hot, uneven, every exhale betraying how undone he already was. Then he moved up, pressing open-mouthed kisses that grew hungrier with each one until his mouth found your breast. His lips closed around you, tongue flicking, swirling, drawing another sharp gasp from your throat as your back arched.
“Baby,” you breathed, your hand tightening in his hair as he groaned softly against you. His tongue dragged higher, hot and wet, tracing your skin all the way up. Then his mouth sealed at your neck, kissing and sucking at the sensitive flesh there until your pulse raced under his tongue.
“Mm, sweetheart…” he murmured between the kisses, voice low and hoarse, “you taste..so fucking good.” The suction at your neck turned harsher, his teeth grazing you just enough to make your breath hitch, and then he soothed the spot with another wet, lingering kiss.
All the while, his hands never stopped roaming, one cupping you from below, the other stroking your stomach, sliding dangerously close to where you needed him most. His voice broke against your skin, soft and desperate, his lips brushing over the swell of your chest.
“You’ve been so good for me—” he whispered, the words shaky, reverent, “—let me be good to you.”
The promise hung between you, hot and trembling, as his mouth traveled lower again. He kissed across your chest slowly, leaving little trails of warmth, then let his lips close around your skin, sucking until heat bloomed under the surface. A sharp sting, soothed by his tongue, followed by another kiss.
Then another. And another.
Little hickeys, deliberate, dotting the places only the two of you would ever see, high on the swell of your breast where a shirt would cover, just above your ribs, beneath the curve where the fabric would never slip.
He groaned against your skin, the sound almost broken with need, as though every mark he left was a plea, a claim, and a devotion all at once.
“Mmh, baby…” you breathed, your fingers threading tighter into his hair as your back arched to meet his mouth. He kissed up to your collarbone, sucking gently until another bruise blossomed there, his tongue smoothing over it before moving higher. His lips dragged along the curve of your throat, sucking hard enough to make you gasp. Each mark felt like fire and love at once, the heat of him searing into you as he whispered hoarsely against your skin, “My beautiful girl.”
His lips trailed over you like a prayer. Every kiss was slow, reverent, each little suction mark pressed into your skin carrying the weight of all the things he couldn’t put into words.
“You’re everything to me,” he murmured, his breath hot against your chest before his mouth sealed over you again. Another bruise bloomed under his tongue, right beneath your collarbone, hidden from anyone else’s eyes.
His hand on your spine slid higher, holding you close, while the one at your stomach stroked you in languid circles, grounding himself in the feel of your body.
“I love you so much,” he whispered between kisses, lips brushing over the soft curve of your breast, his teeth grazing lightly before soothing with his tongue. “More than I ever thought I could love anyone.”
Your head fell back, a soft sound escaping you as his mouth moved higher again, kissing up the column of your throat, dotting you with faint marks along the way. He lingered there, sucking gently at the spot just beneath your jaw, making you gasp. He pulled back only an inch, enough to murmur against your damp skin, voice low and hoarse. “You smell like home to me.”
Your hand threaded tighter into his still-wet hair, tugging gently as your chest rose against his. He groaned at the contact, pressing his lips back to your throat, marking you again and again.
Little constellations of love and hunger scattered across your skin, over your ribs, between your breasts, your collarbone, the tender dip of your shoulder. Each one hidden, secret, belonging only to the two of you.
“Sweetheart,” he whispered, kissing just beneath your ear, “I want you to feel me everywhere—even when I’m not there.”
His mouth claimed another piece of you, sucking until your breath hitched, then soothing it with a kiss as soft as a vow.
You tugged at his hair, pulling him up from your skin until his face hovered just above yours. His eyes never left you—dark, wide, so full of love they nearly ached.
“Such a good man,” you whispered, velvet and teasing but laced with truth, “covering me in your kisses.”
The way he looked at you then, like you’d hung the stars just for him, nearly undid you. He leaned down, pressing his mouth to yours in a kiss that was deep and consuming, hot with devotion, melting you into him until you both forgot where one ended and the other began.
You pulled him gently back down into your side, guiding his head to rest against you. His breath was still unsteady, his lips pressing one last kiss to your bare chest before he sighed, his body finally beginning to relax.
“Get some sleep, baby,” he murmured into your skin, voice husky and tender. “We have to wake early.” His hand slid lazily from your ribs, tracing down over the curve of your waist to your hip, holding you possessively but soft.
You let out a low, wicked hum, brushing your lips against his temple. “Yeah, maybe early enough to get a second round.”
That made him laugh quietly against your chest, the sound muffled and fond. You caught his lips again, slow and warm, before pulling him tighter into you. “I love you,” he whispered, already drifting.
“I know,” you murmured back, stroking through his damp hair as his breathing evened out, “and I love you.”
Wrapped around each other, bare skin pressed close, you let the quiet take over—warm, full, the promise of morning heat lingering between you as sleep finally claimed you both.
The morning light slipped gently through the curtains, warm and golden, spilling across the sheets where you still lay tangled. A soft clink on the nightstand was the first thing you registered—the faint sound of porcelain as he set down a steaming cup of coffee.
Then his presence followed. Tota, kneeling beside the bed now, his dark hair still mussed from sleep, only his briefs clinging low to his hips. He reached out with careful fingers, brushing them through your hair in long, tender strokes. His touch was so delicate it made you stir, your lips curling before your eyes even opened.
“Good morning, my love,” he whispered, voice husky and warm, his lips brushing the words close to your ear.
You stretched languidly, a satisfied hum leaving you as your body arched. “God—I’m sore,” you murmured, voice low with sleep, “and I feel your kisses everywhere.” Finally, your eyes blinked open, finding him kneeling there with that crooked little smile. You smirked up at him knowingly.
His chest rose a little faster at your words, the blush climbing faintly to his cheeks. His thumb brushed over your temple before he leaned in, kissing your forehead with a tenderness that almost hurt. “Good,” he whispered, almost reverent, his voice a low rumble that settled deep inside your chest.
You watched him for a moment, drinking him in—the faint marks on his throat, the way his muscles shifted as he moved, the quiet devotion in his gaze that never seemed to leave you.
With one last lingering look, he pushed to his feet, stretching briefly before padding toward the bathroom. The sound of water running filled the quiet morning, a soft, domestic hum.
Left in the sheets, the warmth of his kiss still on your forehead and the scent of fresh coffee curling in the air, you couldn’t help but smile, your body humming with the echo of his love and the promise of more to come.
When he came back, the quiet pad of his footsteps drew your gaze from the sheets. His hair was still damp from his brush, neat now, and the faint mint on his breath told you he’d just finished at the sink. Standing in the doorway, he looked relaxed in a way he rarely did anywhere else but here.
“You wanna drive with me?” he asked, leaning casually against the frame, but the softness in his tone betrayed how much he wanted you there.
“Yes, baby. Let me get ready,” you whispered, voice still heavy with the drowsy warmth of morning. You slipped out of bed, stretching before tugging his shirt, rumpled from the night before, back over your bare shoulders. The hem brushed the tops of your thighs, leaving your panties peeking beneath.
When you glanced up, he was just… staring. Not with hunger exactly, but with that wide-eyed, overwhelmed awe he always got when he forgot to mask how much he adored you. “One day,” he said quietly, almost like it slipped out before he could think, “I’m going to marry you.”
You paused beside him, lips curving into a slow, knowing smile as you reached for him. “Of course you will.”
You pulled him down into another kiss before he could say anything else, your fingers curling into the back of his neck. His breath caught, his lips molding to yours with that familiar softness, hot with promise. When you finally pulled back, you pressed your forehead to his, your smirk widening. “And I’ll make sure you’re the happiest man alive when you do.”
His cheeks flushed, his hands finding your waist as though he needed to hold you to believe it.
The drive was short, a comfortable silence hanging between you both broken only by the occasional brush of his hand over yours on the gearshift. When you arrived at the NPA, the shift into work-mode was almost immediate: badges clipped, posture straighter, the professional air slipping over you like armor.
But for you, the real fun began once you stepped inside.
The first time you crossed paths with him that morning, he was bent slightly over his desk, pen scratching across reports. You slowed just enough to pass behind his chair, leaning down as if you were simply checking a file. Your lips brushed his ear.
“Such a good boy,” you whispered, your voice velvet and low, “already working so hard.”
He jolted, the pen skittering slightly across the paper before he caught himself. His ears burned red, his head ducking lower over the document. “…Love,” he murmured back, barely audible, “someone will hear you.”
You smirked and kept walking.
The second time, you found him by the copy machine, papers stacked neatly in his arms. You brushed way closer than necessary as you reached for the tray beside him. Your breath ghosted over his ear. “Mm, all neat and organized too. Do you know how hot it is, baby, watching you be so perfect at your job?”
His throat bobbed, the stack of papers nearly slipping from his grasp. He avoided your eyes, muttering, “Please…” but the way his voice cracked told you he wasn’t asking you to stop.
By midday, he was a wreck. Sitting at his desk, glasses slipping down his nose as he typed into the computer with single-minded determination. You drifted close, pretending to drop a file on his desk. Your fingers brushed his shoulder, and you leaned down just enough.
“My good boy,” you breathed, every syllable molten against his skin. “Sitting so nice, getting all his work done. You have no idea what I’m going to do to you when we get home.”
He nearly choked on air, his hands freezing on the keyboard before he forced them back into motion, shoulders trembling.
From across the office, you caught his glance later, dark eyes flicking up, cheeks flushed, breath visibly shallow. He was holding himself together with frayed threads, but the way he looked at you said it all.
After work, he air outside was cool, humming faintly with the traffic in the street. You leaned against the side of the building, arms crossed, waiting. The doors finally swung open and there he was, tie loosened, suit jacket in one hand, his expression already wrecked with barely-contained need.
He didn’t slow down. His other hand shot out, threading into your hair, pulling your head back just enough to crash his mouth onto yours. The kiss was desperate, messy, full of the hunger he’d bottled up all day. His lips moved frantically against yours, teeth clashing, tongue pushing past your lips like a man starved. You smirked into it, breaking away only long enough to murmur, “Oh? What did I do to deserve that, baby?”
His answer came ragged, torn between gasps and kisses. “You—shit—you made me hard the whole day. Whispering all that stuff—” His breath shuddered as he kissed you again, hand tugging tighter in your hair. “I am so, so starved.”
Your laugh was low, sultry, brushing hot against his lips before you kissed him back, deep and commanding, your hands flattening over his chest. “Good,” you whispered against his mouth, your smile sharp. “That’s exactly how I wanted you.”
He groaned, pressing you harder against the wall, kissing you like he needed you to breathe. His suit jacket fell forgotten at your feet, his fingers digging into your waist with a desperation that trembled all the way through him.
You grabbed his side firmly, grounding him with a touch that made him falter mid-kiss. His lips hovered just above yours, his breath hot and ragged. “Come, let’s go home, baby,” you whispered, velvet and commanding.
He swallowed hard, nodding, eyes blown wide. You bent to scoop up his crumpled jacket, shoving it into his hand before tugging him toward the car. He followed without a word, his fingers twitching like he could barely stand not to touch you again.
The drive back was thick with tension, every glance he threw you full of raw hunger. His hand curling on the gearshift only to drift close to your knee, hesitating, desperate.
And you? You just smiled, one hand sliding deliberately over his thigh, slow enough to make him bite back a moan.
By the time the building lights of the city blurred past, his chest was rising too fast, his jaw clenched, his body humming with need. The only thing hotter than the way he looked right then was the promise waiting the moment you both walked through your door.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ full already? didn’t think so. my masterlist’s right here.
contains soft domination, bratty behavior, power play, overstimulation, cum play, rough sex, public tension, dirty talk, mild manipulation, lying, possessiveness, size kink, light bondage
The order came through in clean white envelopes—no name, no signature, just a single sentence in cold, perfect type:
“Follow Teru Mikami. Do not engage. Watch for the notebook.”
You rolled your eyes the first time you read it. A prosecutor. That’s who they had you tailing? Not a high-ranking Yotsuba exec, not even a L-chosen suspect. Just a painfully disciplined, routine-driven gym rat who made every hour of your surveillance feel like watching paint dry.
At first.
Then came the patterns. The obsessive route changes. The matching briefcases. The flickers of paranoia he didn’t let reach his face.
And then the notebook.
It was fast, but not fast enough to fool you. He wrote in it at the exact same time Kira killed. And when he tucked it away, your gut twisted.
So you started pressing closer. And closer. You joined his gym.
You never made eye contact. Never let him see your face directly.
But you watched him in the mirror. Always.
One night, you stayed late.
You waited for him to finish his workout, locker number logged, path memorized. You had the fake notebook in your bag. The copy was perfect. Pages, weight, binding, all exact.
You timed your approach. Locker 36. He always showered after upper body. Ten, maybe twelve minutes but this time, he was faster.
A whisper of breath behind you. A shadow over your shoulder.
Then fingers closed like a vice around your wrist.
Your breath caught.
„You‘re not very good at this.“ His voice was low. Dangerous. Too calm.
You didn’t flinch. Instead, you turned your head, lips curling like the brat you were trained to be.
“Aren’t I? Maybe I don‘t want to.”
He said nothing. Just stared. His glasses fogged slightly with heat, his chest still slick from exertion, skin flushed and glowing with discipline you’d never touch.
He was a full head taller than you, and he looked down at you like a judgment, like a line of scripture meant to cleanse.
But he didn’t let go. So you leaned in. Slow. Measured. Until the scent of sweat and soap filled your lungs and your free hand drifted up his chest. You traced his sternum, finger brushing the line where pectorals met torso. Light. Deliberate. “God, you really are real, huh?” you murmured, tone mocking. “Sweat and muscles and everything.”
He didn’t stop you. His jaw tensed. But your wrist was still pinned.
So you pushed. “Tell me, prosecutor… do you always restrain strange women in wet locker rooms, or am I special?”
That’s when something shifted. He didn’t snap. Didn’t raise his voice. He let your wrist go. And then, wordlessly, he walked you backward into the lockers.
Metal pressed cold against your back. His arm blocked your left side, the other still hovering in the space where he’d held you.
And you… You reached up and took his glasses off. Delicate. Respectful. Almost tender. His eyes blinked, bare now. Less sharp. More human.
You tilted your head and whispered—“You’re really beautiful. Sad you’re a freak.”
Then, still smiling, you leaned in and kissed his cheek. Soft. Warm. Perfectly cruel. You slid the glasses back into his hand, then stepped past him, brushing your shoulder against his chest as you passed. “See you, Teru.”
He didn’t follow you. Didn’t speak.
But in the mirror near the exit, you caught his reflection, eyes still fixed on the spot where you’d touched him, mouth slightly open, fingers curled tight around the frames.
And you knew.
You crossed a line. You just weren’t sure which one of you would burn for it first.
You tell yourself it’s the job. Of course it’s the job. The surveillance. The objective.
You have to watch him, clock his schedule, track the notebook. That’s what you were told to do. But somewhere in the second week, you stopped reporting every movement.
Somewhere in the third, you started waiting for him in places you weren’t assigned to.
And now?
Now you sit in your unmarked car, eyes locked on the fourth-floor gym window, breath fogging faintly against the glass, and you whisper: “Come on, Teru…”
He’s late. That alone makes your skin itch.
Because Teru Mikami is never late. He eats at 06:15. Commutes by 07:00. Courts from 08:00–12:00. Lunch. Return. Gym. Home. Repeat.
Order. Perfection. Control.
But something changed after that night in the locker room. He doesn’t look at mirrors anymore. He leaves the gym five minutes earlier. And worst of all, he doesn’t even try to catch you tailing him.
He’s pretending you don’t exist. It’s working too well.
You bite your lip, heartbeat rising.
You’ve seen him in every mundane form a man can take: sweating at the bench press, wiping condensation from his glasses, scribbling at his desk so fast the pen nearly breaks.
And somewhere in all that watching, you lost the upper hand.
It’s maddening. Because he should have turned you in. He should have reacted. But he didn’t. He let you go.
And somehow that makes it worse. You’ve touched his skin. You’ve tasted the heat on his cheek. You’ve seen his eyes without the barrier of glass, and you know now, without question. He is beautiful in a way that shouldn’t be legal.
But more than that, he is dangerous. And you want to see what happens when he finally stops pretending he doesn’t see you.
You want him to snap. You want him to grab you like he did that night, but this time not let go.
You shouldn’t be thinking about his hands about what they’d feel like around your throat, or on your hips, or buried in your hair while he whispers things that sound like scripture and sin at once.
You shouldn’t be clenching your thighs at the thought of it. You shouldn’t be wet. Not for a fucking Kira acolyte.
But here you are. Still watching. Still waiting.
And the moment you see that tall figure in a black coat step through the gym doors, your breath leaves you.
Because this time? This time, he looks directly at your car as he passes.
Not long. Not accusing. Just… knowing.
And you know exactly what that look means.
Soon.
Three days later you were waiting for your train. You had no reason to look back. No reason to doubt your footing, no reason to pause when the train hissed into the station—But you did.
Your neck prickled the second you stepped onto the platform.
And when your eyes found him, there he was.
Immaculately dressed, briefcase in hand, framed by the soft flicker of subway lights like a noir painting. His glasses gleamed. His mouth was neutral. But his gaze?
You’d only seen it once before. That one night two weeks ago, when you trailed too close. When your heel scraped against the sidewalk and Mikami Teru turned, deadpan, unbothered and locked eyes with you for one long, terrifying second.
He hadn’t chased you. He hadn’t reported you. He hadn’t said a word.
And that made it worse.
Because now, with him twenty steps away on the same goddamn platform, your heart tried to climb up your throat.
You turned quickly—too quickly. The train wasn’t there yet. A minute or two, maybe. Long enough. You walked to the far end of the platform, not looking back.
Not running. You didn’t run…Until you heard his steps.
One-two. Then faster. Your jaw clenched. „Fuck.“
You reached for the phone in your coat pocket, fingers brushing cold metal instead.
Then his voice came. Right behind you. Too close. Too calm.
“You’ve been very sloppy lately.”
Your hand froze.
The scent of paper, subtle cologne, and something sharper, like ozone before lightning, hit your senses. You didn’t dare move.
“You watch me every day, but you don’t pray. You don’t write. You don’t even believe.” His breath kissed the shell of your ear as he leaned in. “So what are you, then?”
Your lips curled despite yourself.
“A fan,” you offered, dry and dangerous. “You’re very handsome, Teru.”
A pause.
His breath didn’t catch. But something behind you shifted. The briefcase? His stance? “You’re not funny,” he murmured. “But you are… persistent.” His hand landed on your hip. Gentle. Too gentle.
“Why did you try to switch my notebook?”
Your mouth went dry. You turned your head slightly, eyes narrowing. “You saw that?”
“I let you think I didn’t.”
You laughed once, too loud, too tight. “You’re full of shit.”
He turned you. Fast.
Your back hit the cold tile wall. His palm was braced just beside your head. And that goddamn calm was still on his face, but his eyes, sharp behind glass, burned. “You think you’re untouchable. You’re not.”
You swallowed. You shouldn’t feel heat licking at your stomach. You shouldn’t lean into the danger.
But your lips parted. “Then touch me.”
And there it was. A flicker of real amusement crossed his face, small and terrifying. His free hand ghosted down your side, brushing your thigh through your coat. The pressure was feather-light. Teasing. Measured.
“You’re not very righteous, are you?”
You grinned. “Never claimed to be.”
“No.” His voice dropped. “But you want to be punished like one.”
Your thighs pressed together instinctively. Fuck.
“You’re trembling.”
“I’m cold.”
“You’re aroused.”
Your laugh turned breathless. His leg slid between yours. That fast. Pressed in. Pinning you. The train howled down the tunnel, still far enough that the crowd hadn’t noticed the two of you tucked in the far alcove.
His hand slipped to your jaw, lifting your chin. Eyes searching yours. “When the train comes,” he murmured, “you’ll follow me. No talking. No running. If you behave, I’ll let you keep your clothes on while I make you confess.”
You blinked up at him, heart hammering. “And if I don’t behave?”
That same calm smile. Too patient. Too assured. “Then I’ll make you come before we even leave the train.”
The train roared in. Doors screamed open. He stepped back smooth, composed and held out his hand without looking at you.
You hesitated only one second.
Then took it. And the second your fingers slide against his palm, you feel it—Control. Not yours. His.
He doesn’t sit like you expected. He stands. Back straight. Shoulders sharp. That same terrifying stillness stretched over bone and purpose.
He tugs you forward. You stumble, just a half-step, and he catches you in the crook of his arm.
One arm stays out, braced on the overhead bar, anchoring you both like a steel frame. The other snakes around your back, firm and close, drawing you against his side like you belong there.
You freeze.
He’s looking down at you. Right at you. Into you.
And your breath stalls. Your mouth parts. Because for all the games, all the tailing and touching and flirting, this wasn’t planned.
You didn’t come here to see him. You didn’t even know he’d be on this platform. You just needed to clear your head.
And now? You’re trapped in the storm you created.
His chest rises with the motion of the train. He smells like black tea and sweat and fabric softener. His suit brushes your coat. His jaw is close enough to rest your forehead on.
You look up, almost involuntarily.
He’s already watching you. Like you’re one of his handwritten prayers and he’s trying to figure out what god made you this way.
The train brakes. Abruptly. The momentum sends you forward with a soft gasp. And he grabs your waist, strong and immediate, right before your arms fly up in reflex and wrap around his torso.
Fuck.
You freeze again, flush blooming hot across your neck. His chest is warm under your hands. His coat parts at the bottom, and your palms flatten against his shirt.
“Sorry,” you breathe, soft and automatic, but your eyes don’t drop.
You hold his gaze. He doesn’t blink.
And then: “No.” One word. Heavy. Sure.
You swallow. “No…?”
“Don’t apologize.“
His hand stays on your waist. His thumb moves slightly—just enough to brush where your ribs meet your hip.
His eyes drop once to your lips. Then back to your eyes.
“You didn’t come here looking for me,” he murmurs, voice like dark velvet, “but now that you’ve found me, don’t act like you’re afraid of what you wanted.”
Your heartbeat pounds against your ears.
He leans closer, not enough to kiss you, but enough that his breath grazes your skin when he whispers—“You’ve been watching me. Wishing. Obsessing.” He pauses. “Now you’re in my arms.”
The train speeds again. But you’re still. Locked to him like gravity.
“You can walk away,” he says calmly. “You can let go.”
His words say choice.
But his hand never moves. Neither do you.
Not even when the lights flicker and the train dives into the tunnel.
Because somewhere in your chest, beneath the nerves and the heat and the endless, electric ache. You don’t want to let go. Not anymore.
The train rumbles under your feet, smooth and heavy, the hum of motion wrapping around your bodies like a second skin.
You haven’t moved. Neither has he. Your arms are still around his torso, fists clenched into the fabric of his coat like you meant to be there. His hand rests at your waist, anchored, firm, unmoving. A claim disguised as support.
His breathing is steady. His jawline cuts clean and still beneath the station’s fluorescent flicker.
His heart? You can’t hear it. Can’t feel it. Too calm. Too quiet. Too composed. It gnaws at you.
So finally, voice low, you ask: “Why are you so calm?”
A simple question. But it tastes like salt on your tongue. Because you’re not calm. You haven’t been calm since the night he touched you in that locker room. Since the moment he looked at you like he could see through everything you’d ever hidden. And now he’s holding you like it means nothing. Like he’s done this before. Like you’re the one unraveling, not him.
You feel his gaze shift again. Lower. And then—His mouth is right beside your ear.
His lips don’t touch you. But his voice: “Because I’ve already decided what I’ll do with you.”
A breath catches in your throat. He pulls back just enough to see your face. His expression is unreadable. But his eyes? Hungry. Controlled. Certain. “I’ve known for a while.”
You blink. “Known what?”
He tilts his head slightly, like he’s disappointed you don’t already understand. “That you want to be caught.” His fingers press just slightly firmer into your waist. “That you don’t know how to stop. That you were waiting for me to do this. Just like now.”
You should snap back. Should say something sharp and cocky and bratty to wrest control back from this spiraling tension. But you don’t.
Because he’s right. And you know it. And now he knows you know it. His voice drops lower. Softer. Deadlier. “I’m calm because I’m patient. And because I have you now.”
Your chest rises. Your hands clench harder in his coat. He doesn’t break eye contact. Not for the next stop. Not when the crowd shifts and a woman bumps your shoulder. Not when the lights flicker again and the train screams into another bend.
You’re the one who finally looks away. And when you do, he leans in again. Just behind your ear. His lips not touching your skin, but closer this time. Almost reverent. “You should be more afraid of me.” A pause. “But I think it’s too late for that.”
The train starts to slow.
That deep screech of brakes curls under your skin like a warning bell. Doors hiss. Wind pushes through. Bodies shift around you, voices murmuring in waves.
But Mikami doesn’t move. Not until the last second. His hand, still heavy at your waist, slides down, and he takes your hand. Deliberate. Warm. Certain. His palm swallows yours, long fingers curling smoothly around your knuckles.
You blink. You don’t move. He starts to walk. Tugging you gently. You hesitate. For just a second. You look at your joined hands like they’re foreign. They shouldn’t feel this natural.
You didn’t plan to follow him. You didn’t plan any of this. You were supposed to be observing, controlling, keeping distance. Not being led out of a subway car by the man you were meant to expose. But when your fingers twitch with the urge to pull away, he intervenes.
He threads his fingers between yours. Slowly. Firmly. Completely. A locked grip. His hand around yours like prayer around purpose.
And then you look up. His eye contact is immaculate. Deadly still. Softly terrifying. Not angry. Not even possessive. Just… decided. “You’re coming with me.” Not a question.
He says it like gravity. Like law. You want to be clever. You want to throw something sharp at him, cut the tension with a joke, a smirk, a tug of war. But your hand is in his, and your mouth won’t move.
He watches you. He always watches you. And he doesn’t let go. Not as you step out onto the platform. Not as he guides you up the stairs, never once looking away. Not even when the crowd thickens and the cool night air cuts across your cheeks.
You don’t know where you’re going until the street shifts. Quiet. Clean. High-end. Office buildings blend into stone apartments and polished iron gates. He moves with purpose, never checking back, never slowing. And you follow. Hand in hand.
Because somewhere deep in your chest, even through the rush of fear and the taste of guilt, you want to know what he looks like in his space. What books he keeps beside his bed. What his hands feel like when he’s not holding back. You want the full obsession. And now? You’re in it.
The elevator ride is silent. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just… quiet. You stand beside him, your hand still in his. His grip hasn’t loosened once. He doesn’t look at you. Not because he’s avoiding you, because he doesn’t have to. He already knows exactly what you’re thinking.
The doors open. A quiet hallway. One apartment at the end. He unlocks it without ceremony, steps inside, and only then he lets go. Just long enough to take your coat.
His fingertips brush the inside of your wrist. You shiver, but not from cold. The apartment is everything you expected: clean, minimal, almost surgical in its order. White walls, dark wood, not a single object out of place. A stack of books. A legal brief. One single framed photograph, his mother, probably.
He shuts the door. And locks it. The sound is soft. Final.
He doesn’t offer you tea. Doesn’t ask you to sit. He just turns to face you fully, dark eyes raking over your figure once—slowly—and says, in that low, controlled voice: “You came willingly.”
Your throat is dry. You nod once. You don’t speak. His gaze drops to your hands. “You’re not trembling anymore.”
“I’m used to you now,” you breathe, trying for strength.
He steps forward once. Close. Not touching. “You’re not.”
That shuts you up. The silence is suffocating.
He lifts one hand and cups your cheek. Just one hand. Just that. But your knees nearly give. His thumb brushes your skin, slow, reverent. His eyes stay locked on yours. “You know what I am,” he says softly. “And you came anyway.”
You swallow. “I wanted—”
“No,” he cuts in, gentle but firm. “You needed.”
He’s right. You don’t respond. You can’t. You stand there, still in your boots, coat draped over his armchair, heart beating so hard you’re sure he can hear it.
He touches your mouth. His finger. Just his thumb, brushing the edge of your lips like he’s testing how real you are.
“You watched me,” he whispers. “Day after day. Until you couldn’t take it anymore.” He leans in. Not fast. Not aggressive. Just closer. “So tell me—” His mouth is near your jaw now, almost grazing skin. “Did you come here for punishment…” A breath. “Or permission?”
Your stomach drops. Your hands twitch at your sides. He watches you. Waiting. And when you don’t answer fast enough, he steps even closer, his chest brushing yours now. His mouth beside your ear. “Take your shoes off.”
Simple. Soft. Not up for discussion. You bend down automatically, pulse roaring in your ears, and when you look back up he’s unbuttoning his sleeves. Calm. Patient. Precise.
His voice stays low. “Everything that happens from here on out,” he murmurs, “you don’t get to pretend you didn’t want.”
Your breath catches. Because he’s right again. You did this. And now? He’s going to take you apart for it.
You stand in his apartment, breath held, shoes off, coat gone, your body still tense like it hasn’t caught up to the room.
And he doesn’t say anything else. He just walks past you. Unhurried. Measured. He moves to a high-backed armchair by the window. Dark velvet. Monastic.
He sits. Spreads his legs a little. Hands folded loosely in his lap. And watches you. He doesn’t tell you to undress. He doesn’t move toward you.
He just looks. You shift your weight. Try not to fidget. His eyes stay locked on yours. He blinks once. Slowly. You realize your pulse is thudding in your ears like gunfire.
The silence presses in. And then he lifts a hand. Not high. Just enough to gesture you forward. “Come here.” Soft. Final.
You walk slowly. When you stop in front of him, he reaches up. And touches your hand. Just your hand. His fingers slide along your knuckles, so gently it’s maddening. A ghost of pressure. Reverent. Intentional. Then up past your wrist, to the soft skin of your forearm. Still featherlight. Still quiet. He’s watching your face the entire time. When his hand reaches your neck, he doesn’t grip.
He just rests it there. A warm palm against your throat. Calm. Measuring your breath. “You’re shaking again.”
You try to speak. Can’t. His thumb brushes the underside of your jaw. “I haven’t even touched you yet.”
Your eyes flutter. Still, he doesn’t kiss you. He just leans in slightly, still seated, one hand on your throat, the other resting on the arm of the chair. His breath grazes your cheek. “I don’t need to ask if you’re comfortable.” A pause. “You wouldn’t be here if you were.”
That hits somewhere deep. You swallow, lips parted. You want to move. You want to do something but you don’t know what.
He tilts your face with his thumb, studying you. Then, just above a whisper: “Take off your shirt.”
It’s not a demand. It’s truth. Like he already knows you will.
Like this moment was already written. Your hands move before your thoughts catch up. And when the fabric slips from your shoulders, you hear him exhale, just once. Controlled. Almost silent. He doesn’t touch your skin. He just watches you stand in front of him, bared, tense, obedient, exposed under nothing but his gaze.
“Beautiful.” One word. Like a sentence passed. A judgment made. Then his fingers return to your jaw. Not rough. Not possessive. Just his. And you feel yourself coming undone. From nothing but his voice. His silence. His certainty.
And that awful, aching fact that he hasn’t even kissed you yet.
His thumb leaves your jaw. He leans back in the armchair, hands folded again, and speaks without a hint of hesitation. “Strip.”
Your stomach tightens. But you don’t move. Not immediately. His eyes lift to yours, expectant. “Until there’s only lace between you and obedience.” Your breath hitches—just barely. Your fingers move to your waistband. You peel your clothes off one by one. The sound of fabric slipping from skin feels loud in the still apartment. Shirt. Pants. Socks. Nothing left but lace, a soft black set that clings to your hips and chest in sheer confession.
You stand in front of him. Back straight. Chin up. Bratty. Bold. Unapologetic. You fold your hands behind your back and tilt your head slightly, a quiet smirk pulling at your lips. “Satisfied?”
He exhales. Almost a laugh. Almost. His eyes drink you in, long legs, the swell of your chest, the cut of your collarbone. But he doesn’t rise. “Interesting,” he murmurs. “You look like you’re trying to win something.”
You don’t answer. You step forward instead. Slowly. Deliberately. He doesn’t move. Even when you reach him, knees between his, your skin almost brushing his thighs, he just looks up at you. Waiting. You reach for his face.
And once again—You take his glasses off.
He lets you. Your fingers are soft on the frame. You slide them from his face with care, as if they’re more fragile than he is.
You lean down just enough to whisper: “I like your face bare.”
A beat of silence. His lips twitch, just barely. Not a smile. Approval. His voice is soft, low, dark honey: “Well…” His hand slides to your hip. Just his palm, warm and sure, fingers splayed where your skin meets lace. “I do like you bare more too.”
His thumb brushes the edge of the fabric. His eyes never leave yours. “But not just like this.”
You blink. “No?”
His other hand lifts. Fingers ghost up the center of your chest, never touching, just tracing the air above your sternum. “I want you bare of noise. Bare of ego. Bare of that little look you keep giving me like you’re still in control.”
Your breath catches.
“Because you’re not.” His hand finally cups your cheek again. “Not in this room. Not with me.”
You exhale shakily, lips parted, heat blooming low and dangerous in your stomach. “Then what do you want me to do?”
A pause. His gaze softens. Just a little. “Kneel.”
You kneel without a word. It’s not obedience. It’s a challenge. Your hands brace lightly on the inside of his knees, fingers curling up the strong lines of his thighs just enough to tease, not enough to touch. Your posture isn’t shy. It’s defiant. Chin up. Eyes burning. The lace clings to your chest like a second heartbeat. You look at him like you’re still trying to win.
He doesn’t blink. He leans forward slowly, shoulders sharp, gaze locked, one knee shifting further apart until your arms stretch with the distance. Your hands slide a little higher. You feel the muscle shift under his slacks.
You smirk. His voice is low. Smooth. Too calm. “You’re not good at being patient.”
You hum. “Maybe you’re just too slow.”
He exhales through his nose. Amused. Dangerous. He starts unbuttoning his shirt. Not rushed. Not to tempt you. Just deliberate. One button. Two. Three. You can see his chest now, strong, tight, still damp with heat from earlier. The cut of his abs, the dip between muscle and bone. Controlled perfection.
You lick your lips. Not subtle. He shifts forward in the chair, just slightly, bringing his body closer to your face, his shirt now hanging open, sleeves still cuffed.
He leans in, not enough to touch. Just close enough for your breath to hitch. And then he speaks—“I’m going to fuck that behaviour out of you.”
Your heart stops.
“But not yet.”
His hand lifts to your cheek again—soft. Too soft. “First,” he murmurs, “I’m going to make you say amen.”
Your brows flick up. “You want me to pray?”
“No,” he says simply. “I want you to beg.”
You laugh once. Short. Cocky. “You think I’ll beg for you?”
He smiles now, quiet. Calculated. Like you just gave him permission. “Not for me.” A pause. His thumb strokes your lower lip. “For what I’ll give you.”
Your breath stalls. “And when I do?”
“Then,” he says softly, “I’ll give you more.” He tilts your chin up, barely an inch. His voice drops lower, silk and steel. “I’ll touch you where you’re already aching. I’ll say your name like it’s a verse. And I won’t stop until you forget why you followed me in the first place.”
You swallow hard. Your thighs press together on instinct. He sees it. And still—he doesn’t kiss you.
Just watches. Still unbuttoned. Still in control. Waiting for you to crack. Your nails drag slow and deliberate up the inside of his thighs not hard enough to hurt. Just enough to tease. You smirk up at him from your knees. And he smirks back. But only with his eyes. His mouth doesn’t move. Just that glint—dark, dangerous, knowing. Like he’s letting you play. For now.
“Come here.” A whisper.
You rise. Before you can say a word, he hooks one finger inside the waistband of your lace panties. Not tight. Just enough to pull you closer. You stumble slightly, palms catching his chest.
He doesn’t break eye contact. He shifts in the chair just enough to part his legs wider, guiding you over him.
And you straddle him. Face to face. Too close. His hand settles on the small of your back. His chest brushes yours. The open shirt frames the contact like it’s something sacred.
You both breathe in the same tight space. You can feel his breath on your cheek. Your lace grazes his skin. Your thighs press to his sides.
And then his voice. Low. Filthy. Like blasphemy whispered in a church. “You don’t even realize how easy you’d come on my thigh right now.”
Your breath catches. His other hand grazes your hip, thumb sliding just beneath the lace. “I wouldn’t even have to fuck you.” He leans forward, nose almost against yours. “Just let you grind on me until you cry. Until you beg. Until you can’t remember your own name—only mine.”
You inhale sharply. And smile. Your nose brushes his. Soft. Mocking. Teasing. “That’s cute,” you murmur. “You practice that in the mirror, prosecutor?”
His jaw flexes. But he doesn’t lose composure. His hand drifts up your back. Barely there. Possessive.
“No,” he breathes. “You make it too easy.”
You snort, head tilted, still mocking, still holding yourself like you’re in charge. But you feel the tension in his thighs beneath yours. You feel the slow shift of his hips. And you know he’s done letting you get away with this. His mouth ghosts along your jaw. Not kissing. Just there. “Say it again.”
You blink. “Say what?”
His hand grips the nape of your neck. Gentle but firm.
“Call me cute again.” A beat. “See what I do to you.”
You reach up. Your fingertips trail along his cheek, one slow stroke of your nail over smooth, warm skin. Delicate. Dangerous. He doesn’t flinch. You smile as your touch glides past his jaw, brushing a single, loose strand of dark hair back behind his ear.
He lets you. Lets you move like you own the moment. Even when you lean in again, nose brushing his with that same defiant softness.
“You,” you murmur, “in fact… are very cute.” Your fingers skim down, slow across his temple. “But,” you whisper, “you’re also very hot.” Still, he doesn’t speak. He watches. Like a priest watches a confession he’s already condemned. You press your chest to his, shift your hips just a little more snug in his lap.
His jaw tightens. Your lips ghost his ear. “And you are very, very hard, Teru Mikami.”
Silence. A beat. And then he moves. It’s subtle. Barely anything. But he rolls his hips up just once, slow and measured. The hard line of him presses right between your thighs, thick through the fabric. You gasp quiet, involuntary.
„That‘s your doing.“ he murmurs. Still calm. Still deadly. His hands slide to your hips. Secure. Contained. Firm. “You act like this isn’t what you wanted.” His voice curls around your ear. “You’re grinding on my lap and calling me cute. You followed me for weeks. Watched every move I made. And now you’re in lace and shaking on top of me.”
His hands grip tighter. “You’re not in control anymore.”
Then his nose brushes your jaw. His breath fans your throat. “So here’s what happens next.”
Your breath stalls.
“You’ll grind again. Just once. And if you moan—if I feel anything—I’ll pull this lace off you, with my teeth or my hands, I don’t care which. And I’ll make you pray loud enough for your god to leave the room.”
You go completely still. He waits. Smirking? No. Just watching. Like he already knows you will.
You hum sweet, fake innocence and lift your hand from his thigh. It hovers over the hard plane of his chest, barely brushing the heat there.
He doesn’t react. So you push more. You grab the loose edges of his shirt, open halfway already and start undoing the rest of the buttons. Slow. One. Then another. Your hips roll down against his, slow and deliberate, one long grind of your soaked lace dragging across the thick press of him beneath his slacks.
You feel him twitch. Your smile sharpens. “You know, Teru…” Your voice is low. Lazy. So unbothered it hurts. “I like you.” You flick open another button. His shirt spreads wider. You see the sharp lines of his chest, the cut down his stomach. “But your little god complex?” Your eyes flick up. Hold his. And you roll your hips again. Slower. Crueler. “It’s getting a little annoying.”
A pause. You drag your finger along his sternum. “A little boring.” You say it like you mean it. Like your cunt isn’t soaked for him. Like you’re not on fire. Like you’re not daring him to lose control.
He still hasn’t moved. But something in his eyes shifts. The stillness turns to silence. The patience goes razor-sharp. His breath is even. His shirt is open now, his chest bare, skin hot beneath your fingertips. You watch his throat move as he swallows once.
His hands slide up your back. Smooth. Slow. You expect force. But he doesn’t grab. He just lifts his head. And says, dangerously soft: “Say that again.”
You raise a brow. Lean in. Your lips brush his ear. “Which part?That I like you…” You kiss just beneath his jaw. “…or that your god complex is pathetic?”
Silence. Thick. Charged. Final. He grabs your wrists. Suddenly. Hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to show you how easily he could. He holds your arms behind your back, both in one hand. And the other? It slips under your thigh. Lifts. Spreads.
Your lace presses tighter to him now, your core lined up perfectly with the hard line of his cock. Your breath stutters.
He leans in. Too close. Too calm. Too far gone. “You can either worship me…” His hips roll once. “…or beg me not to make you.”
You shift. Slowly. Deliberately. You reach down and take his big, clean, strong hand that’s been holding your wrists, your waist, your goddamn composure hostage. You guide it to your stomach. Palm facing in. You let it hover there. No pressure. Just heat. Then, gently, you twist his forearm, guiding it down between your legs. The heel of his palm meets the soaked lace. And you sit on it.
You grind down slow, pressing yourself to him, soaking the creases of his palm. The fabric doesn’t hide anything now, heat, wetness, want. His breath catches, a real sound, just once. His hand twitches beneath you. But he doesn’t pull back.
So you lean in. Your nose brushes his jaw. “I’ll worship you,” you whisper. You kiss it. Soft. Barely there. “I can also beg you…” You lick a slow line along his neck. “…if you want me to.” You feel his fingers shift—his palm tightening slightly, the edge of one finger pressing deeper against the thin lace.
“I can do everything you want me to do.” Your hands rise to his face cupping both sides, gentle and wicked. You tilt his head, kiss the other side of his throat, slower this time and breathe against his skin. “You just have to talk to me, baby.”
The word baby hits the air like a sin. You feel him go still beneath you. His body’s hot. Tight. Coiled. You lean back just slightly, still holding his face, and whisper—“I can also leave you here.”
One kiss on his nose. A teasing peck. Sickly sweet. “With your boner.” Your thumb brushes his cheekbone. “Desperate.” Your palm presses gently to his throat. “Leaking.”
Your lips graze his. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just a whisper of what’s waiting. His palm twitches. Hard. You gasp genuine, breath catching as one thick finger presses just slightly more into the drenched lace. His eyes flicker. Just once.
And when he speaks, it’s quiet. Dangerous. Fucking final. “Strip.”
“No. Do it yourself.” You say it like a dare. Like you’re still the one in charge. Your grin is slow, feline, lethal.
Mikami doesn’t blink. He doesn’t sigh, doesn’t smile, doesn’t say a word. His hand moves. One flick. His fingers slide behind your back with effortless precision and your bra snaps open like it had been waiting to fall apart in his hands. The straps slide down your arms. He still hasn’t touched your skin properly. Not once. You peel the loose fabric off, slow and smug, and toss it onto the coffee table, right next to his glasses. That little altar you built for everything you’ve stripped away.
And then you kiss him. Soft. Your mouth brushes his like a reward. But he doesn’t kiss you back. Not even a twitch. You tilt your head, lips curving into a crooked smirk, and guide his face again, twist it gently, reverently, like he’s something holy.
You kiss his neck. Open-mouthed. Wet. Filthy. You mouth at his throat like you’re trying to make it bruise. Then your lips brush his ear. And you whisper: “Go on.” A pause. Your breath hot against him. “Fuck me like you mean it, Mikami.”
That breaks something. But not loudly. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t curse. He just moves. Fast. Exact. His hand wraps around your waist. And he stands. With you. You gasp, arms catching his shoulders as he lifts you like nothing, your legs instinctively wrapping around his torso.
You’re off the ground. His hands grip your ass, fingers digging in, still calm but unrelenting.
“You want to know what I mean?” he murmurs. His voice brushes the shell of your ear, warm and deadly. He starts walking. Down the hall. His apartment still dead quiet, except for the soft thud of your bodies, the breath he exhales through his nose like he’s holding in a flood. “I mean to make you cum until you beg me to stop—then beg me not to.”
His mouth finally touches your skin. Not your lips. Your shoulder. One slow, open-mouthed kiss. Then another—lower now. Across your collarbone. “I mean to fuck that bratty behaviour out of you so completely, you forget how to smirk.”
You moan quiet and helpless. You reach for his face again but this time he turns it away.
“No.” His voice is sharp now. Still low. Still in control. But it cuts. “You don’t get to kiss me until I say so.”
You clench around nothing. Fuck. He kicks the bedroom door open. The bed is pristine. Like everything else.
Until now. He drops you to it, not rough. Not gentle. Just inevitable. You barely land before he climbs over you, hands spreading your thighs, and finally his eyes drop to your soaked panties. “You really thought you were leading this?”
You start to answer. But his hand slides up your thigh. And this time he doesn’t stop. His hands glide slow over your thighs spreading them, steady, reverent. Fingertips ghost up over your hipbones, his eyes tracking every movement like he’s engraving them in memory. Then, low “Up.”
A single word. You smirk. Your hips lift. And he slides your panties down slow, peeling the soaked lace from your skin with almost obscene care. He holds them in one hand for a moment. Not staring. Not mocking. Just… weighing. Then he drops them gently to the floor, like the removal of a final boundary.
He kneels between your legs. Settles there, formal, focused. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs, tugging you down the bed with practiced strength until your legs hang over the edge, wrapped loose around his hips. He looks at you. Dark eyes. Slight flush. Breath too even.
And you—You look at him with wide, mocking eyes. Puppy-eyed. Like you don’t already have his sanity curled around your little finger. You reach down to one hand grazing his hand still resting at your thigh. You trace the knuckles. Then you thread your fingers through his. Soft. Intimate. Intentional.
And you tug. His body leans forward, just enough. Just close. “I don’t care what you say,” you whisper. He blinks. And that’s all the permission you need. Your other hand slides around the back of his neck, fingers threading into the perfect strands of his hair. And then you grip. Hard. Not playful. Claiming.
You pull him down. “If I want to kiss you,” you breathe, your nose brushing his “I’m kissing you.”
And you do. You press your mouth to his, slow at first. Soft. Almost sweet. And he doesn’t move. Not for a second. But you feel it, the way his chest tightens. The way his shoulders lock. The way his breath catches like he’s trying not to shatter.
And then he kisses you back. Hard. His mouth opens against yours, heat, pressure, need. His hand grips your jaw. Your fingers fist tighter in his hair. Teeth scrape. Tongues tangle.
It’s not gentle. It’s not chaste. It’s weeks of control breaking at the seam. You moan into his mouth, gasping when his body presses flush to yours, the heat of his cock still caught in his slacks grinding against your bare core. “Fuck,” you breathe, lips brushing his.
And for the first time, he smiles. Just barely. But it’s there. His hand moves, down your chest, slow and burning and he whispers against your mouth: “You’ll regret that.”
You grin back. “Then make it worth it.”
Your body’s warm under his, open, needy, trembling. His mouth is still on yours. You try to lift your arms, to grab him again, but he pins them. One hand snakes up, capturing both wrists and pressing them to the mattress above your head.
Not rough. Just enough to remind you: You gave him control. You moan into his mouth. And he swallows it. His lips move lower, kissing down your jaw, your throat, hot breath curling over your collarbones. His free hand trails down your side, over the curve of your waist, slow, light, barely there. You arch into him, thighs trembling, but he doesn’t touch where you want it.
Not yet. You gasp. He doesn’t answer. His mouth finds the top of your breast. Kisses. Doesn’t bite. Just soft open-mouthed heat that makes you squirm. His hand moves lower. Across your stomach. To your hip. You breathe harder. Your legs shift open. He drags two fingers just above your slit. You whine.
He doesn’t push in. Instead, he circles the heat of you—lazy, precise, maddening. You bite your lip. “You like that, yeah?” he whispers, voice low against your skin. You whimper. Nod. “Say it.”
You twist your wrists beneath his grip. He holds tighter. Your voice breaks. “Yes—fuck, I like it—”
He exhales. Smirks against your throat. His fingers ghost over your entrance, dipping in just barely, just enough to feel how soaked you are. Then he pulls back again.
You whine, louder now, frustrated.He kisses your lips again, deeper this time, slow and drowning and when he pulls away, your eyes flutter open to find him watching you. Smug. Calm. So patient it hurts. “Then you’ll beg for more.”
You’re writhing now, hips rocking, desperate for friction as Mikami slides his fingers just close enough to ruin you. Every moan is swallowed in his mouth, every twitch of your body met with maddening stillness.
His fingers dip in once, shallow, teasing your entrance, and then retreat again. You cry out in frustration.
“God, you’re—” Your voice cracks. His lips brush your cheek. He whispers against it—“Almost ready for me.”
Your whole body clenches. But you don’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, breathless and shaking, you glare up at him and smirk. “You’re lucky you’re so strong, Mikami…”
He raises a brow. That perfect composure still intact.
“Otherwise I’d palm you through your pretty little slacks and make you come untouched.”
That gets him. He chuckles. A real sound, low, quiet, deep in his chest. “You would, yeah?”
You grin.
And then he lets go. Your wrists drop to the mattress, your chest rising hard and fast, but before you can grab him he pulls back. Kneels upright between your legs.
Towering. You watch. His hands move to his belt. He unfastens it without hurry, without ceremony. Then the button. The zipper. And then he shoves his slacks and briefs down in one clean movement.
Thick. Heavy. Gorgeous. Hard enough to make you forget your name. You stare eyes wide, lips parting. Your head tips back against the pillows in genuine, helpless awe. “Oh fuck—” It slips out of you in a whisper. Honest. Ruined.
He laughs again—quiet and smug, like he was waiting for that reaction. “Too much?” he teases softly.
You shake your head and then he leans forward. Not entering you yet. Just grinding that thick, hot length right against your soaked cunt. You gasp. Moan. Grind back without meaning to.
“Do you need prep, sweetheart?” he breathes at your jaw.
His lips brush your skin. His cock drags slow over your folds, wet with your slick, heavy with promise. “Or can you take it like that?”
You moan into his neck. He rolls his hips again, not inside. Still not inside. Just enough pressure to make your thighs shake. And then his voice again. Lower. Closer. Deadly soft. “Be good.”
“Tell me. How do you want it?”
Your hands rise not to his shoulders, not to his hair. But down. Between your bodies. Your fingers wrap around his cock, hot, thick, perfect in your palm. And for the first time, his breath hitches. A sharp little intake. Not loud, but real.
The sound of a man whose control just cracked at the seam. Your grip is steady, your thumb dragging slow over the head, spreading your slick back along the shaft.
He watches you. Watches your hand. Watches your face. You grin, too sweet. Too smug. And lean up, your mouth brushing the curve of his ear.
“I bet you’re vocal.” A whisper. A command wrapped in honey. “Cute moans.” You lick the shell of his ear. “If not…” You kiss the corner of his jaw, slow and cruel. “I’ll be so disappointed.”
You feel his cock twitch in your hand. You guide him lower. Right to your entrance. Soaking. Ready. Bare. His hips shift forward—slow, careful.
And then you press him between your thighs. And he slides in. Your lips part. Eyes roll back. The stretch is so deep, so slow, you choke on a moan, fingernails curling into his back as your walls try to adjust.
And him? His mouth opens. Not a sound at first, just breathless, like he’s never felt anything like you. Then a soft, deep grunt escapes him. Not loud. But so raw.
His eyes are locked on yours, burning, reverent, devouring every twitch in your face as he sinks deeper inch by inch, until he’s fully inside. He doesn’t move. Just stays there. Filling you. Stretching you. Letting your body shake around him.
And then he whispers: “You wanted it like this…” A kiss at your throat. “Now be good—”
Another shallow thrust, just enough to make your breath catch. “And let me hear you beg next.”
His hips still. Buried deep.
Your walls clench around him, fluttering, desperate for movement. He leans down again, hands bracing on either side of your face. Eyes dark. Breath hot. Lips just over yours. “You want me vocal, hm?” You nod, dazed, your hand sliding up his chest. He kisses you hard. Slow. Filthy. Tongue deep, pulling a whimper from your throat before he pulls away.
Then he speaks. Voice low. Reverent. Almost cruel. “Then listen when I fall apart…”
His hands slide down. Gripping your waist. Hard. He draws back. And then slams into you. Once. Your body jolts. You gasp. He does it again. And again.
And suddenly the rhythm is brutal. Unrelenting. He pounds into you with calculated force, your legs flung wide around him, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing sharp in the bedroom.
“Fucking God—” he gasps, voice breaking as your cunt clamps down around him. “You feel like sin. Like a fucking—” He moans—loud, rough, needy. You claw at his shoulders, barely breathing as he pistons his hips into you.
Your eyes roll back again. He leans over, growling into your neck: “So tight—so wet—you wanted this—wanted me to ruin you—fuck—” You’re whining now, half-crying from how deep he hits, how full you feel.
Your head falls back. Your voice is ragged. “Fuck—please—!”
His hands slide under your ass, lifting your hips just slightly, angling deeper. You scream. For real this time. He groans. Louder. “That’s it,” he pants. “Fucking take it—look at you—fucking coming undone on my me—You like that? Hm? You like hearing me fall apart?”
You nod desperately, mouth open, no sound. He kisses your jaw again, sloppy, breathless. And with every thrust, his moans grow louder, dirtier, utterly wrecked by the way you tighten, squirm, arch up into him. He’s losing control. And this time?
He’s letting you hear all of it. Your legs are shaking.
He’s deep inside, panting against your neck, both of you soaked in sweat, tangled in sheets and sound. But Mikami’s not done.
Not even close. “Turn over.” His voice is low, not asking. A growl, broken on the edge of restraint.
You don’t even hesitate, you roll, stomach flat to the bed, thighs still spread wide, ass lifting instinctively like your body’s been trained just for this. You hear him groan behind you—dark and desperate. “Fuck…”
The mattress dips. His hands find your hips hard. Bruising. He drags you back to the edge of the bed like he owns you. Your cheek presses to the sheets. You whimper, grinding back against him once, just once and then he slams into you. Deep. Brutal. You choke on a moan.
He moans too, a real sound, loud and broken, echoing through the room as his hips snap into yours with reckless rhythm. “You feel—you feel so fucking good like this—” His voice is wrecked now. Not smooth. Not composed.
Just raw. His hand tangles in your hair. He pulls. Not enough to hurt—just to claim. Just to make you arch. “Look at you,” he groans, thrusting harder. “On your knees for me. Spread out. Ruined.” You cry out again, high, wrecked, the pressure building in your belly too fast, too sharp.
“You sound so pretty like this…”
His other hand slides around your front, between your thighs, pressing tight circles against your clit. You scream into the sheets.
“That’s it—fuck, give it to me—let me feel you fall apart—”
You’re gone. You come with a sob, body convulsing around his cock, clenching so tight he curses under his breath—louder, dirtier than before.
“Fuck—yes—yes—just like that—” He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, chasing his own high, panting, moaning, hips slamming hard against your ass, his rhythm falling apart.
And then—“Where do you want it?” he grits, barely able to speak. “Inside? Over your back? Say it, sweetheart—say it.”
His thrusts are falling apart. Deep. Hard. Desperate. His moans are wrecked now, nothing calm left, nothing patient. You can feel the way he’s fighting it, trying to hold on, to stay composed even while you’re trembling beneath him, your body clenching, already fucked senseless.
You glance back, breath still broken. You smirk. And you push back into his hips once, slow and mean. “Pull out.”
He groans, high in his throat, like it hurts. “W-What?”
You twist your head, eyes glittering. “I want to feel it.”
A pause. A stutter in his breath. “I want it all over me, come—” You arch again, grinding into him. “Be a good boy and give it to me.”
That’s what breaks him. He snarls, a real sound, unfiltered, dragged out of his lungs like you ripped it from his chest.
He pulls out in one desperate motion,thick and swollen, slick with you. And then he comes, without touching himself again.
“F-Fuck—look at you—look at you—”
You do. You crane your neck just enough to see it—his face breaking, mouth open, head tilted back. Hot ropes of it painting your back, your thighs, your hips, dripping down your skin as his voice pours out in helpless moans.
“Fuck—fuck—fucking perfect—” He strokes through it, body shuddering, breath stuttering, spilling everything he’s held in all over you.
And you? You just lie there, smug, aching, full of aftershocks, as the last drops hit your lower back and the heat of it makes you smirk into the sheets. He collapses to his knees behind you, hands bracing on either side of your hips.
The only sounds are panting. Breathing. The echo of him falling apart. You murmur into the quiet: “Told you I’d be disappointed if you weren’t vocal.”
He laughs—hoarse. Shaky. Completely undone. “I hate you.”
You smirk. “No. You do not.”
You let the silence sit. His cum’s still warm on your back, slowly cooling across your skin, staining his perfect sheets with messy proof. He’s slumped behind you, chest heaving, hair mussed, face dazed.
You flip over. Fast. And Mikami’s eyes snap open, wide. Horrified. His gaze drops instantly to the bed, where his cum now smears in hot white streaks across the sheets. His mouth opens. Closes.
He looks like his soul just left his body. You push yourself up on your forearms, slow and smirking. “Wow,” you murmur, fake-innocent, “Teru Mikami… defiled by his own orgasm.”
He glares. You just grin wider. Your eyes drop between his legs. He’s still hard. Still flushed. Still twitching. You tilt your head.
“Still hard, huh?” And before he can say a word you grab him. One hand, soft but sure, wrapping around the base of his cock.
His whole body jolts. “Shit—stop—!” His voice is broken, moaning, trembling on the edge of pain and pleasure. Your grip tightens just slightly. You pull him closer by it, like a leash.
“Mikami…” Your voice is silk. Dangerous. “You didn’t say I couldn’t.” He braces one arm on the mattress, other hand grabbing your wrist lightly, as if he doesn’t even know what to do with himself. “I—I just came—”
You stroke him once. Slow. He gasps. “Fuck—don’t—”
You sit up further, licking a line up his neck. “Did I say you could breathe yet?”
His breath stutters. His cock twitches in your hand again, too sensitive, too full, already threatening to get harder again. You kiss his throat. “C’mon, pretty boy.” A stroke. He groans. “You said I could worship you.”
Your lips ghost over his ear. “That means round two is mine.”
You pump him once, just once. Firm. Too slow.
And Mikami breaks. His hand flies to your wrist grabbing it tight. His head tilts back, mouth open, moaning like you’ve got him bound to the edge of hell.
“I—I can’t—fuck—please—I’m too sensitive—”
His voice is wrecked not the calm, smug bastard you knew. This is desperation. This is raw.
You blink. Tilt your head. And smile.
“Wow, baby, that‘s the first time you show emotions…” You pump again. He shudders. Leftover cum slides down the shaft, dripping into your palm. You lift your hand slowly. Let him watch. Then you lick it.
Your tongue drags across your own skin, collecting the taste, your eyes never leaving his. He stares. Chest rising hard. Pupils blown. Lips parted. He looks like he could come again just from that.
And then you lean forward, lips just beside his ear. Voice velvet-sweet: “Lay down.”
Not a question. Not even a command. A sentence. Inevitable. Final. He stares at you. Still holding your wrist. Still twitching in your hand. And after a second, he obeys.
His body sinks back into the ruined sheets, muscles taut, throat working. He looks up at you. Waiting.
You don’t straddle him. You don’t pin him down. You just roll onto your side. One arm bent beneath your head, the other stretching out, fingers light and teasing as you let your nail drag slowly over the skin of his stomach.
Down. Over the soft rise and fall of his breath. Lower. Across his hipbones. He flinches. Not from pain. From how deeply sensitive he still is. His cock twitches once on the sheets, still half-hard, still wet, still desperate for peace.
He doesn’t move. He just stares at you. Eyes wide. Chest rising too fast. Hair mussed and sticking to his temples. Mouth parted like he’s still trying to process what you just did to him.
You smile. Not cruel. Just… victorious. “Not so smug now, huh?” Your voice is soft. Mocking. Your nail traces back up to his ribs, barely touching him.
He breathes in sharply. Still no words. You glance down, watch his abs twitch under your fingertips. And when your eyes find his again, he’s just looking. Quiet. Devoured. Like you’ve rewritten everything he thought he knew about power.
And the worst part? You didn’t even fuck him again. You just watched. And he let you. Because now?
He’s yours. And he knows it.
He’s still staring. Chest rising like he just ran a marathon in silence. One arm limp on the bed, the other bent, hand twitching near your shoulder like he wants to reach but isn’t sure he’s allowed.
You smile lazily. And don’t say a word. Your fingertips trail up his ribs again, light as dust. You watch the way his stomach tightens, the way his jaw clenches with effort just to stay still.
And then he moves. His hand finds your waist. Slow. Almost careful. He slides it up, palm warm, wide fingers brushing your ribs, then resting lightly just beneath your breast. Not groping. Not gripping. Just… holding.
And when he finally speaks his voice is wrecked. “Can I touch you now?” So soft. So real you almost forget to tease.
Almost.
You brush his hair back from his forehead, nails scraping lightly through damp strands. “Now you ask?”
You kiss the corner of his jaw just a brush of lips. “You should’ve begged sooner, Teru.” He groans softly, almost smiling. Almost. Your hand slides down his chest.
You shift a little closer. Your nose brushes his. “You’ll worship me tomorrow,” you whisper against his mouth. Then you kiss his jaw. Final. “If you behave.”
He breathes out like he might lose it again. But this time, he doesn’t reach. He just pulls you closer. Wraps one arm around your back. Presses his forehead to yours.
And lets you win. For now.
The sun hasn‘t fully risen yet.
Just that dull grey glow pressing against the curtains, filtering light across ruined sheets, dried sweat, and a man who refuses to loosen his grip on you. Mikami is asleep, but his arm is still locked around your waist, tight.
Possessive. Bruising. You shift a little. He grumbles softly. You smile. His face is finally peaceful, even if his body isn’t. Hair a mess. Lips parted. Jaw slack.
You brush a hand over his cheek. Soft. Dangerous. “Mikami.” A hum. Deep in his chest. Low and rough, like he’s trying to respond without waking up.
His grip tightens slightly, like his body’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets up for even a second.
You lean in. Nose brushing his. Mouth curved into a smirk that shouldn’t feel fond, but somehow does.
“We still have unfinished business, y’know.”
No answer. You tap his jaw with your fingertip. He blinks, one eye opening, barely.
“What am I supposed to tell my boss?”
That stirs something. He shifts but doesn’t let go, just breathes deeper, head nuzzling into your collarbone. Then, voice half-asleep, half-smirking: “Tell him you watched me cum on your back…” Another breath. Slower. “…moaning like a teenager.”
You snort. He doesn’t laugh. Just smiles faintly against your skin. “You’re disgusting,” you whisper.
“Mhh, but you liked it,” he replies, almost too quiet to catch.
That shuts you up. For a moment. His thumb rubs absent over your side, lazy and warm. You stare at the ceiling, fingers trailing over the top of his spine.
“You gonna let me get dressed eventually?”
“Mm.”
You wait. “That’s not an answer.”
“No,” he mutters into your neck.
You chuckle. But deep inside, something soft tightens. Because maybe, just maybe, you don’t want to get dressed yet either.
The bed is a mess, sheets ruined, your body sticky with memory, the taste of him still ghosting your tongue.
He stirs beside you after a while, a lazy, muscled stretch, breath through his nose, hand gliding over your waist as he murmurs something soft against your shoulder.
Then he gets up. No clothes. No shame.
Just naked, half-asleep Mikami, quietly padding into the kitchen to grab water like this is a Sunday morning and not the middle of a goddamn intelligence breach.
You exhale. You sit up, the headboard cool against your back, your skin bare, thighs parted slightly where you let them fall.
The air is warm. The silence golden.
Until your phone buzzes. You glance at the screen. Your stomach drops.
BOSS (SPK – ENCRYPTED CALL)
Fuck.
You answer it. Of course you do.
“Hey.” You clear your throat. “Yeah, I—no, he hasn’t made a move. Still doing his usual circuit. No signs of deviation.”
From the doorway, Mikami reappears.
Two glasses in hand. Still naked. Still looking at you like he never stopped touching you.
His eyes flick to the Death Note on the side table.
Then to you. Still naked. Still on the phone. And you see it click. His mouth curves, just slightly. Then he walks back to the bed. You meet his gaze. And you spread your legs. Just a little.
He sets one glass down. Then the other. And climbs onto the mattress.
Kneels between your thighs. One hand comes up, fingers under your chin, gripping your jaw. Your phone trembles slightly as you hold it out, just far enough that the speaker won’t catch the wet sound of his lips brushing yours.
“I think I’ll keep shadowing him from afar,” you say, voice calm, steady, perfect.
And then he kisses you. Hard. Open-mouthed. Slow.
Every time your boss talks? He kisses you again. You breathe through it, a masterclass in deception. Your lips part, but not for the man in your earpiece.
“No,” you murmur, voice a little breathy, “he hasn’t noticed me yet.”
Another kiss. This time his teeth graze your lower lip.
You grip the phone tighter. “Right. I’ll stay another few days. Routine intel.”
Kiss. Tongue. He’s smiling against your mouth now.
Then he lays down, his head settling warm and heavy on your bare stomach. He exhales like he belongs there. You tangle your fingers into his hair. He closes his eyes as your hand glides gently over his cheek.
“I’ll call in again tomorrow,” you finish softly.
Your boss says something final. You don’t hear it. Because Mikami opens his eyes, lips brushing just above your navel, and whispers “Liar.”
You hang up. “Your fault.”
The silence after the call is deafening. Mikami doesn’t move.
He’s still lying between your legs, head resting on your stomach, one arm heavy over your waist. It’s not gentle. It’s not even affectionate.
It’s like he’s making sure you don’t leave.
Your fingers drift through his hair again. He exhales slowly, almost like he doesn’t want to admit it. “You lied well.”
You snort dry, bitter. “That’s not the point.”
No answer.
You keep staring at the ceiling. “I shouldn’t be here.” Still no reaction. “This shouldn’t have happened.”
His breath brushes your skin. “But it did.”
You tense under him. “That doesn’t make it less fucked up.”
He lifts his head slowly, just enough to look at you. His hair’s messy. His eyes are clearer than they should be for a man who just came undone. “So what, you’re going to walk out of here and pretend it meant nothing?”
You blink at him. “It can’t mean anything.”
He holds your gaze. “Then why are you still touching me?”
Your jaw clenches. You yank your hand back from his hair.
“Because I don’t know what else to do.” You sit up slightly, “I’m going to have to send a report. I’m going to have to explain why my intel hasn’t changed. Why the man they suspect of being connected to Kira hasn’t made a move.”
Mikami doesn’t flinch.
“What am I supposed to write? That I was too busy letting him fuck me to do my job?”
He speaks low. Controlled. “Write what keeps you safe.”
You stare at him. “You think this is just about me?”
“It should be.”
“It’s not. If they think I’ve been compromised—”
He cuts in. “You have.” You freeze. His words hit hard. “So have I.”
You search his face for sarcasm. There’s none. Just honesty. Too much of it.
“Then what happens now?”
He doesn’t blink. “Now, you stay.”
“That’s not an answer Teru.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
Your breath stutters. You lie back down, stare up at the ceiling. His head returns to your stomach like it never left. “This changes everything.”
“Yes.” A beat of silence. Then, quieter—“But I don’t want to go back.”
Your fingers find his hair again. This time, slower. Uncertain. “Neither do I.”
The silence sits heavy. Too heavy. Your hand’s still in his hair, but you’re not moving anymore. Not breathing steady. Not resting. Just… there. Still. Too still.
He shifts slightly, eyes closed, head on your stomach but it’s not relaxed anymore. His brows twitch, faint. You move.
You reach out, off the edge of the bed, and grab the nearest thing, his shirt, crumpled from last night. Your own is still somewhere in the living room. You pull it over your bare chest slowly, arms sliding through sleeves like armor.
And that’s when he stirs. His voice is soft. Uncertain. “…What are you doing?”
You hesitate. Then, too quietly: “I’m feeling unwell.”
His head lifts. The blanket slides lower on his hips, revealing skin, still warm and marked where your nails raked him.
His voice stays level. But sharper now. “No. Hey.” He sits up, one hand bracing beside you. His hair falls into his eyes. “Look at me.”
You don’t. So he says it anyway. Calm. Steady. “I didn’t sleep with you because I wanted something out of it.”
That hits. You close your eyes. The shirt clings to your skin in places still sticky with dried sweat and regret. He watches you for a second.
Waits. Then says it again, quieter this time, like it matters more now that you’re trying to run from it. “I didn’t use you.”
You whisper, still not looking at him. “But I used you.”
The words feel thick in your mouth. Sharp. Final. He exhales slow, like he doesn’t want to break the moment but can’t let you sit in that lie. “You came here to watch me. To report on me. To build a case.” A pause. His eyes don’t leave your face. “You didn’t come here to touch me.” He leans in slightly. His hand reaches, stops an inch from your thigh.“But you did.”
You swallow. Hard.
“So did I.”
You finally look at him. Eyes glassy. Guard gone. And he adds, almost a whisper: “So maybe we both got used. Or maybe we both just wanted something real. Even for a night.”
Your eyes meet his.
And you feel it breaking in your chest, slow and quiet, like paper tearing. You don’t speak. You can’t. Your lashes flutter once. Twice. And then your eyes begin to well up.
You inhale too sharp, too fast and the breath doesn’t go anywhere. It just gets stuck behind everything you’re too afraid to say.
Mikami sees it instantly. His face changes. He shifts on the bed, moving without hesitation.
The blanket falls down his hips as he kneels in front of you, naked but for the sheet pooled around his waist, chest bare, muscles flexing with the motion. You catch a glimpse of his v-line, sharp and defined under soft morning light, but that’s not what matters.
It’s his face. Worried. Unmasked. Real.
His hands reach up, big and warm and careful. Both palms cup your cheeks. Thumbs brushing just under your eyes. “Hey…”
You blink again, and a tear slips out. His thumbs catch it. He leans closer, nose almost brushing yours. “Look at me.”
You do. Barely. Your throat works around a sound you don’t want to let out. But he doesn’t let go. “Whatever this is… whatever you think you’ve ruined—” His voice cracks, just slightly. “You haven’t.”
Your lip trembles. Your hands finally move, reaching up, covering his where they hold your face. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.” His forehead touches yours, slow and careful.
You exhale and this time it breaks you. You fall forward into him. And he catches you like he’s been waiting.
His thumbs brush one more tear off your cheek. And then he moves. Without a word, he takes your thighs gently and closes them with both hands, shifting your legs together before tugging them to the side, making space for your body to move.
You don’t resist. You just sit there, heart in your throat, breath shaky, still clutching his shirt around you like it can hold everything in. Then his hands slide up your sides. Warm. Slow. Not possessive. Not greedy. Just steady.
He pulls you forward, into him, arms wrapping around you as if you’ll break into pieces if he lets go. Your knees slide across the bed. And then you’re there. In his lap. In his arms. Pressed against his bare chest. One hand holds the back of your head. The other curls tight around your waist. And then—his voice.
Low. Close. “Don’t cry.”
It’s not a command. Not cold or sharp like you’re used to hearing from him. It’s almost pleading. Like it’s hurting him too. You bury your face in his shoulder, knuckles pressed to his collarbone. Your whole body trembles once. His arms tighten.
“You’re allowed to fall apart. Just… not alone.”
Your fingers grip his back. You nod, barely. Because for the first time, you’re not running. You’re just here. In his lap. In his hold. Letting yourself be touched like you’re something fragile, not just useful. And Mikami holds you like he means it.
Like this is not a mistake.
You’re curled into him. Pressed into his chest, shirt half-buttoned, breath uneven. And Mikami who once looked untouchable behind courtroom steel and courtroom silence is holding you like you’re glass.
Not a word leaves his mouth for a while. Only his hand stroking softly up and down your back. Not asking for anything. Not expecting. Just letting you fall apart in peace.
“Is it fear or regret?” His voice barely breaks the quiet.
You shift in his arms. “Both.”
A beat. His chin rests against your hair. “You don’t need to explain. But you can, if you want.”
Your fingers curl into the fabric of his blanket over his lap. You stay there a moment, pressed against his sternum, heartbeat slow under your ear.
“I feel like I broke something I can’t fix.”
“What?”
“My purpose. My rules. The way I’m supposed to be.”
He pulls you in a little closer. “You didn’t break anything.”
“I compromised the whole mission.”
He leans back slightly, not far, just enough to tilt your chin up with a knuckle beneath it. Your eyes are wet again.
And his…His are steady. Not judging. Just there. “I know you didn’t come here to fall in love with your target.”
Your breath stumbles. You don’t deny it.
He smiles just barely. It’s not smug. It’s sad. “But I didn’t expect to fall for my observer either.”
Your lips part. Your voice breaks when you whisper: “Why are you being kind to me?”
He brushes his thumb under your eye again, collecting the wetness there. “Because you look like you need someone to be. Because you look like you never let anyone.”
You nod. Barely. Then, still curled in his lap: “I don’t know what to do now.”
His arms wrap back around you. Tighter. Warmer. “Then don’t do anything.”
“What if I’m making it worse?”
“Then I’ll stay here until it gets better.”
You blink. Look up at him. That calm, sincere look on his face. Not cold. Not manipulative. Just… him.
“You’d really do that?”
He leans in and presses his forehead to yours. Breath warm. Still shirtless. Still beautiful. Still dangerous in ways that don’t scare you anymore.
“Yes. As long as you’ll let me.”
You’re still in his lap, arms around his neck, his wrapped tight around your waist.
But the warmth? It doesn’t stop the fear.
Not all of it. You pull back just enough to look at him, eyes still glassy, lip trembling just a little. And then, soft. Barely a whisper: “I’m scared that you’ll hurt me.”
Mikami stills. His jaw flexes once. But his hands and his hold doesn’t change. Just tighter. More present. His voice is low when he answers. Measured. “I would never do that.”
You swallow hard, shaking your head once, not because you don’t believe him but because that’s not all of it.
“But you have the second notebook.”
He’s silent.
You go on. “You are a threat. To everyone. To the people I work with. To strangers. To… to me.”
His breath catches just for a second. But he doesn’t look away. He lets it land. You expect him to pull back. To go cold. To turn distant like he always does when people say things he doesn’t want to hear.
But he doesn’t. He just looks at you. Tired. Sad. Something close to ashamed. “I know what I am to the world.”
You blink.
“I’ve accepted it. I chose it. I don’t ask for forgiveness.” He touches your jaw gently. Thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “But I would never write your name.”
You exhale. A slow, shuddering sound. “You don’t even need a reason.”
“I do now.”
You stare at him. Hard. He meets your gaze. And when he speaks again, his voice is lower. Firmer.
“You’re not a name in a file to me anymore.”
You hesitate. Your fingers grip his shoulder a little tighter. “And if they order me to take you out?”
His hand finds your waist again. Warm. Steady.
“Then I hope you lie.”
Your eyes well up again. But this time, you don’t pull away.
Because you’re not sure who’s more dangerous now—
him, or what you feel for him.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ full already? didn’t think so. my masterlist’s right here.
contains bratty dominant reader, soft dominant König, filthy whispered dialogue, suggestive teasing, public tension, vulgar language, scratching, implied sex, possessiveness, subtle exhibitionism, mild degradation, military setting, team banter, Ghost being Ghost, Soap being nosy, Keegan regretting his life choices
There were two sides to you, and everyone knew it.
The one on the field—the precise shot-caller who ghosted through enemy lines like death wrapped in black ops—was quiet, razor-sharp, and unshakably calm. But the one back at base, boots kicked up on a desk with a coffee in hand and a scar pulling ever-so-slightly at your left cheek when you smirked? That version gave Ghost migraines and made Soap laugh until he wheezed.
And that version was currently leaning against the armory wall, chewing on a toothpick, hair tied back, sleeves rolled, arms crossed. Your voice was velvet and smooth when you said, “So let me get this straight… no confirmed name, doesn’t talk much, and—wait for it—prefers close combat?”
Ghost huffed, flipping through the file in his gloved hand. “Doesn’t just prefer. Specializes in it. Apparently punched a guy so hard his helmet caved in.”
You raised a brow. “Charming.”
“Yeah, well. You’ll love this—callsign: König.”
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.
“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.
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ full already? didn’t think so. my masterlist’s right here.
You don’t look up from the couch, one leg draped lazily over the armrest, the other foot brushing against the floor. His tie is already loose. His coat already gone. That calm, courtroom expression has melted into something quieter, more dangerous.
You arch a brow. “So the prosecutor finally comes home.”
Hiromi’s gaze flickers down your frame in one slow, deliberate sweep. His voice is low, velvety. “I should charge you with obstruction, the way you’re lying there doing absolutely nothing about how hard I am.”
Your eyes narrow in mock challenge.
“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.”
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ full already? didn’t think so. my masterlist’s right here.
contains dominance and submission dynamics, powerplay, praise kink, handjob, mild roughness, possessiveness, nudity, sexual teasing, voyeuristic tension, public teasing, suggestive touching, emotionally intense moments, mild jealousy, light bondage mention, consent implied and enthusiastic, adult humor
You’ve known Kim Hong-jin for exactly nine months.
Nine months of chaotic missions, shared exfil rides, and close calls that left you breathless—not from fear, but from him. The man moved like a loaded spring, a living weapon with a grin that could punch through Kevlar. Every time he brushed past you, cocky and battle-hyped, it felt like a dare.
The worst part? You liked it.
Not in the innocent, butterflies kind of way. No. Horangi wasn’t the kind of man you crushed on. He was the kind you sparred with. Who made your blood pump with adrenaline and something darker when he pinned you during CQB training and laughed when you growled at him. Who leaned over your shoulder when you were cleaning your rifle and whispered, “Your left side’s open, jagi. Don’t make it easy for them.”
You’d never known a man so addicted to risk and yet so precise in the middle of chaos.
And now?
Now, you were both crouched on the edge of a rooftop in Jakarta’s blistering heat, overlooking a smoldering compound with smoke curling into the orange dusk. Debrief was in an hour. Cleanup was someone else’s problem. For once, you had nothing but time.
Horangi popped the last of his gum into his mouth and chewed with his usual restless energy. “Not bad,” he muttered, glancing over at you. “Could’ve been cleaner. But your last shot? Through the neck and out the temple?” He whistled. “Sexy.”
You didn’t look at him. Just stretched your sore legs out and leaned back on your hands. “You calling my kill sexy, or me?”
Horangi grinned, eyes gleaming behind smudged lenses. “Little of both. You know me. I appreciate good form.”
You finally met his gaze, a smirk tugging at your lips. “You also appreciate running headfirst into a minefield just to get to the objective first.”
“Hey.” He pointed a gloved finger at you. “That minefield was mostly clear. And you followed me.”
“Because I had to drag your dumb ass out when the last one went off.”
He barked a laugh, loud and rich. “You love dragging my ass.”
You snorted. “Keep dreaming.”
His head tilted, tongue pushing into his cheek as he looked at you—really looked at you. “You ever think about it?”
Your breath caught. The teasing edge in his voice hadn’t left, but there was something under it now. A shift in weight. A sharpening of focus. Horangi didn’t ask questions like that unless he wanted the truth.
“…Think about what?” you said, voice lower.
He leaned in just a little, arms on his knees. “What it’d be like. If we stopped pretending we didn’t feel it.”
You stared at him.
There’d been looks. Touches. You remembered the night you stitched up his ribs after that ambush in Cairo—when he flinched and then laughed and grabbed your wrist, holding you still. You remembered how he’d held your gaze until you had to look away.
“I think about it,” he said softly. “More than I should.”
You swallowed hard. The sun was sinking behind him, gilding his sharp cheekbones and messy hair in gold. He looked like he belonged in the middle of a firefight or a storm—not sitting here, baring something raw to you.
You broke the silence first. “I’d ruin you.”
He laughed again, softer this time. “You think I haven’t been ruined already? I can’t go back to normal after this life. But you…” He leaned even closer, the space between you electric. “You’re the only thing that feels real in it.”
Your heart slammed once. Twice. You leaned in slowly until your foreheads nearly touched. “Why do I get the feeling,” you murmured, “that once you get something, you never let go?”
Horangi’s breath hitched. “Because you’re right,” he whispered. “I don’t.”
You kissed him like a decision. Not a maybe, not a game. He made a sound in his throat, surprised and hungry, and surged into it with all the coiled energy you’d seen him unleash in a fight. His hand slid behind your neck, the other gripping your thigh as if anchoring himself to reality.
You pulled back, breathless, after a moment.
“About time,” he muttered, brushing his lips along your jaw.
“You’re still cocky.”
“You like it.”
Unfortunately, you did. And for once, you let yourself have something you wanted.
⸻
Three Months Ago – Operation Scorch Hand, Manila
The building was on fire. Of course it was. Because if there was one thing Horangi loved more than guns, it was chaos. And if there was one thing you loved, it was not dying in a flaming concrete oven with a man who had no fear response.
“Horangi—!”
“I said I’ve got it!” he called, voice too smug for someone hauling a heat-resistant laptop in one hand and dragging a bleeding mercenary in the other.
“Not the intel!” you snapped, elbowing open a scorched stairwell door. “You! Your plate’s cracked and your gait’s off. You’re limping.”
“Still faster than you.”
You spun on the landing and grabbed the front of his vest. “You wanna test that theory, jagiya?”
That got him. His lip curled—hungry, dangerous. “You’re lucky I like when you get bossy.”
“You’re lucky I don’t throw you down the stairs and call it an accident.”
The heat was rising fast. Debris crackled. Someone’s ammo had started to cook off somewhere below. But even with your ears ringing and lungs tight, it was him that had your heart hammering.
He moved into your space. You didn’t budge.
And something… shifted.
There was a beat. A beat too long, too loaded. His eyes flicked down your face like they were memorizing it. You thought—just for a second—he might kiss you right there in the smoke and hellfire.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he said low in your ear, “We get out of this, we finish this stare-off somewhere horizontal. Deal?”
You shoved him. “Move.”
But you remembered. You remembered every word.
⸻
Later That Night – Jakarta Safehouse
It started the second you shut the door behind you. No lights. No hesitation. No more pretending.
Horangi’s hands found your waist as you stepped into him, mouths crashing together like two operators kicking down a door. You gripped the front of his shirt—tight—dragging him backward until he hit the wall with a soft thud.
“You’ve wanted this since Cairo,” you said between kisses, gasping as his teeth scraped your bottom lip.
He growled, like a tiger scenting blood. “I’ve wanted this since you kneed me during hand-to-hand drills and smirked like you won.”
“You did lose.”
He flipped you against the wall so fast you didn’t see it coming. “Wanna try again?” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “Or are you finally gonna let me win something?”
“Not a chance.”
“Didn’t think so.”
He kissed you like he was starving like you were the one thing in this world that could keep him tethered. His hips pressed to yours, hard and shameless. His hands moved down, over your thighs, gripping like he had every intention of bruising.
You clawed at his shirt, dragging it up, baring skin that was all lean muscle and old scars.
“You’re trouble,” you whispered against his throat.
Clothes came off in sharp bursts. His breath hitched when he saw you, stripped of all your armor and walls. Your scarred knuckles. The mark on your ribs from Manila. He ran his hands over them like they were sacred.
When he finally pushed into you, it was slow and deliberate. Like he wanted you to feel every inch. Like he was etching himself into you. The pace didn’t stay slow for long. Not with the way you gripped his shoulders. Not with how you whispered his name like you were cursing him and praying at the same time.
“Gibbuni jota…” he hissed to his teeths, face full of pleasure.
You didn’t know if he said it to rile you up or because it meant something. But either way, your whole body tightened. And when you came, biting his shoulder to stay quiet, he muttered something in Korean against your neck—something rough, reverent, maybe a little ruined.
After, you lay side by side on the too-small bed, legs tangled, sweat drying on your skin.
He looked at you through the dim light like you were a mission he’d finally completed.
But all he said was, “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
You turned your head. “Promise?”
You and Horangi had agreed on three things before this mission.
1. No one could know.
2. No touching in the field.
3. Act normal.
And it was going fine—mostly. Until Horangi showed up late to the pre-mission briefing wearing the same smug expression he’d worn last night while he’d had your thighs wrapped around his head.
Your glare could’ve melted a drone. He just winked at you from across the table, popped gum between his teeth, and leaned back in his chair like he didn’t currently have bite marks under his collar.
Ghost was droning on about entry points, but you weren’t retaining much. Because Horangi kept tapping his damn pen, rhythmically, against his thigh. Tap-tap-tap. Just like he had on your hip last night while whispering, “Still with me, jagi?”
You nearly stabbed him with your pencil.
Soap, seated beside you, leaned in with a smirk. “You look tense, lass.”
“I am tense,” you muttered through your teeth. “Someone’s being an insufferable show-off.”
“Who, Horangi?” he asked, way too chipper. “He’s always like that.”
“I know.”
Horangi met your eyes and smiled, that dangerous little half-smile like he could smell your frustration. When the briefing ended, you practically vaulted over the table to get to him first.
You grabbed his arm and dragged him down the hallway, away from prying eyes, until you slammed him against the wall near the comms room.
“Are you trying to out us?” you hissed, fists in his vest.
Horangi just grinned and leaned down, voice low and dangerous. “What? I can’t help it. You look good when you’re mad. Makes me wanna—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
“—pull you back into my room and see if you’re still sore.”
Your breath hitched. Goddammit, he was right. You were sore. And you didn’t care. Not when he was looking at you like that. Like you were a weapon he couldn’t wait to draw again.
You didn’t mean to kiss him. It just happened.
One second, you were shoving him. The next, his hand was fisting in your shirt and your back was against the wall, his mouth on yours.
And that’s when the door creaked open.
“…Was looking for the briefing notes,” came a quiet voice.
You and Horangi froze.
König. Towering in the doorway like a ghost, eyes wide under the black veil. His gaze dropped to where Horangi’s hand was still on your waist. Your swollen lips. Your half-buttoned collar.
You were dead.
“Ah,” König said slowly. “You two… are busy.”
Horangi, bless his feral heart, didn’t move. “You want to come back in five minutes?”
You smacked his shoulder hard. König didn’t say anything. Just stared. For a second, you swore he looked amused under the mask. Then he stepped back and shut the door behind him with a soft click.
Horangi turned to you, grinning. “Oops.”
“Oops?! He just walked in on us about to dry-hump in the hallway like horny teenagers!”
“He didn’t stop us.”
You blinked.
“I think he’s shipping us.”
You groaned. “I’m gonna die.”
Horangi leaned down, voice low and hot in your ear. “If you’re gonna go out… I could think of better ways.”
You shoved him again. “Later. After the mission. If I don’t kill you first.”
He kissed your cheek on the way out like it was nothing. And when you followed him back into the briefing room a minute later, face flushed, shirt straightened—König looked over, nodded once, and said in his deep Austrian drawl: “Good. Was worried you’d never do something about it.”
You nearly passed out. Soap just grinned.
Ghost didn’t even look up from his tablet. “Fuckin‘ hell,” he muttered.
And Horangi? He popped another stick of gum and winked like he’d just won the whole damn war.
Next mission. Mid-firefight. König’s on comms duty, Horangi’s being cocky as usual and you’re trying to focus while König starts teasing like he knows everything (because he does).
“Bravo Three, eyes left, second floor—hostile with RPG—”
“Already down.” Of course. Horangi.
You ducked behind a rusted car frame, breath burning in your lungs, rifle tight to your chest. Across the street, Horangi moved like water, fluid, fast, precise. There was blood on his forearm, but it wasn’t his. It never was.
“Flash out,” you muttered, hurling one into the alley and breaching behind it. Clean entry. One down. Two down. And—“Heads up,” came König’s voice in your ear, lazy and drawling. “That one was close. You alright, Katze?”
You froze for half a second. “…What did you just call me?”
“Mm?”
“You called me ‘Katze.’”
“Did I?”
You cleared another stairwell, jaw tightening. “König.”
“Yes?”
“Stay. On. Comms.”
“I am on comms. I’m providing morale support.”
Across the street, Horangi chuckled mid-reload. “He’s flirting with you.”
“I know.”
You heard König sigh dramatically. “Just didn’t expect you to be the type to go for fast hands and faster egos. You’re more tactical than that.”
“I will stab both of you,” you growled, eyes sweeping the upper windows. “With the same knife. Horizontally.”
“Kinky.”
You heard Horangi choke. You pressed your back to the wall of a garage, blinking fast. “Are you high on comms fumes or just bored?”
“I’m monitoring heat signatures from four klicks away. I’ve got time. Want me to tell you how Horangi’s been staring at your ass since deployment?”
A bullet whizzed past your head. You barely flinched.
“Horangi,” you muttered. “Focus.”
“Trying,” he replied. “Hard. That comms voice isn’t helping.”
König hummed. “I can stop talking if you two want to finish what I interrupted last week.”
You made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a threat. Then your cover exploded—shrapnel and smoke. You hit the ground hard, radio fuzzing.
“—shit—target just hit Bravo with a—”
“I’m fine!” you shouted, coughing. “Just grazed—!”
Then Horangi was there, kneeling, yanking you behind cover with hands that knew every inch of you. His palm curled around the back of your helmet as he leaned in.
“You good?” His voice dropped. Tight. Real.
You nodded. “Arm. Nothing serious.”
His jaw clenched. “Swear to God, I leave you alone for ten seconds—”
“Hong-jin.”
He met your eyes. Your blood ran hot in the worst and best way. You were in the middle of a fucking firefight, and all you could think about was the way he looked at you—like the threat to your life was personal.
“We’ll talk later,” you said, breathless. “Right now, we finish the job.”
He nodded. But didn’t move right away. You didn’t either.
Then König chimed in, drawl very pleased: “So dramatic. It’s like watching the action movie and the romance subplot at the same time.”
Horangi grabbed your radio and snapped, “König, I swear, if you don’t shut the fuck up—”
“—I’m telling Soap everything.” König’s voice was sing-song now.
You both groaned.
Then you stood, flicked off the safety, and muttered, “Let’s go end this so I can strangle him in person.”
Horangi cracked his neck. “After you, jagi.”
And the two of you disappeared back into the smoke, guns hot, blood pumping, very aware that König was probably screen-capping every second of it in his head.
The mission was over.
Guns cleaned. Armor stowed. Soap was bullshitting in the rec room with König, and Ghost had already vanished like he always did.
You barely made it to the locker room before Horangi grabbed your arm and shoved you up against the row of metal lockers.
“Seriously?” you breathed, grinning, heartbeat still racing from the op. “Couldn’t wait?”
His eyes were wild, pupils blown wide, sweat still drying on his brow, hair damp from the rinse he’d half-assed after patrol. He looked ruined in the best way. Blood on his shirt, dirt on his jaw, and your name probably still echoing in his head.
“Not after the way you looked at me when I pulled you out of that blast zone,” he growled, crowding in.
You tilted your head. “You mean the look I gave you when you told König to shut the fuck up?”
“Mm. That one too.”
You slid your hand up the front of his tac shirt, fingers curling into the collar, and pushed him back until his spine hit the lockers this time. The shift in control was immediate — his cocky grin flickered, then faltered when you leaned in close.
“You did good today, tiger,” you murmured against his jaw. “Covered me without missing a beat. Moved like you’d planned every step.”
He swallowed, his hands twitching at his sides like he wasn’t sure whether to grab you or submit.
“You always do so well for me, huh?” You smirked. “Just waiting for a little reward.”
His breath hitched. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“Oh no, baby,” you whispered, dragging your fingers slowly down his torso, unbuckling his belt with practiced ease. “I’m gonna wreck you.”
You kissed him deep and slow, tongue sweeping past his lips like you owned him. And maybe you did, judging by the sound he made, half groan, half surrender. He clutched the locker behind him like he needed to stay upright.
Your hand slid under his waistband, finding him already hard — aching, pulsing, twitching against your palm. “Already?” you teased, stroking him slowly, deliberately. “You’ve been holding back all through briefing, haven’t you?”
He nodded, forehead pressed to yours, eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck, yes. You’re in my head.”
“Good,” you whispered. “Let me stay there.”
You stroked him firm and slow, your hand slick with precum, your other hand pressing flat against his chest to keep him pinned. His hips jerked into your touch, but you didn’t let up. You controlled the pace, dragging it out, building it up, every twist of your wrist pulling another breathy moan from his lips.
“You’re so good like this,” you murmured, nipping his earlobe. “Letting me take care of you. My perfect, cocky, blood-soaked little showoff.”
His knees buckled.
“Say it,” you whispered.
“Y-Yeah,” he gasped, panting now, so close he was trembling. “I’m good, fuck, please—”
“That’s right.” You stroked him faster now, tightening your grip, your mouth hot against his ear. “You come for me when I say. You do everything I say, don’t you?”
“Yes—!”
“Good boy.”
He came hard in your hand with a choked sound, hips jerking, forehead thudding against the locker behind him. You milked him through it, gentle and thorough, kissing his jaw while he breathed through the aftershocks like you’d just pulled his soul out through his spine. When he finally opened his eyes, you licked your hand clean and smirked.
“I like you better quiet,” you teased. “Think I’ll keep you that way next time.”
Horangi just stared at you, eyes dark and glassy. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You leaned in and bit his lower lip gently. “That’s the plan.”
Horangi was still leaning against the lockers, flushed, breathing like he’d just sprinted a klick, belt hanging open, pants halfway down his hips. You were adjusting your sleeves, all smug composure and freshly licked fingers. Smirking, satisfied, and looking damn proud of yourself.
Then—Click. The door opened.
“König—!” you both shouted at once. But it was too late.
He froze in the doorway. Towering, massive, arms full of a fresh ammo case. Eyes visible behind the balaclava, going wide as saucers. There was a beat of painful, nuclear silence.
Then König blinked once. Slowly. Turned his head back toward the hallway. And muttered in the driest, most exasperated voice you’d ever heard: “Horangi, you are my best friend… but I do not want to see your dick, please.”
Horangi snorted so hard he choked on air.
You doubled over with laughter, slapping a hand on the lockers as König walked off down the hall without another word, muttering to himself in German.
“I—” you wheezed. “He said that like it’s happened before—”
“It probably has,” Horangi groaned, yanking his pants back up. “He always walks in when I’m having a moment.“
“A moment? That’s what we’re calling it?”
“I was having a religious experience.”
“More like a prostate reset.”
Horangi reached for you, flushed and grinning like an idiot. “Come here—”
“Nope. Clean up first, dirty boy.”
“I was clean. You ruined that.”
From down the hall, König’s voice echoed faintly: “I heard that. I’m bleaching my retinas.”
30 minutes later.
The table was loud, crowded, and packed with food that barely passed for edible. Soap was halfway through a story about blowing up a drone with a frying pan. König was sipping water suspiciously quietly. Ghost was somewhere in the corner, eating with mechanical efficiency and a healthy amount of judgment.
Horangi? He was sitting at the edge of the table, still flushed from earlier, picking at his rice like it might explode.
You walked in. Short black leggings. Oversized shirt. Wet hair. Zero shame.
Horangi nearly choked on his own spit.
Soap paused mid-sentence. “Christ almighty.”
König’s eyes narrowed over his glass.
You slid in beside Horangi like you hadn’t just done filthy things to him in the locker room fifty minutes ago. You were warm from the shower, skin glowing, legs crossed with total nonchalance.
Then—oh, so casually—your hand rested on his thigh.
Just rested. Totally innocent. Except for the way your thumb rubbed slow little circles just above his knee.
Horangi twitched.
Soap narrowed his eyes like a hawk who smelled sex and drama. “Why’s Hong-jin so quiet tonight?”
König didn’t even look up. “He’s trying not to break the table.”
“Why would—ohhhh.” Soap grinned like the devil. “This about the locker room thing?”
Horangi stiffened. “There was no thing.”
“I SAW your thing, mate,” König drawled. “Against your will. Unfortunately, it is burned into my soul.”
“Then STOP talking about it!” Horangi hissed.
You sipped your water and blinked sweetly. “Did I miss something?”
“You—!” König pointed a dramatic, gloved finger. “Do not play innocent! You looked me in the eyes with that dominant post-nut smugness!”
Soap barked a laugh, nearly spitting his drink. Horangi made a wounded noise, the tips of his ears going red. Your hand slid slightly higher on his thigh, just enough for his jaw to twitch.
“He’s breathing so hard,” Soap said, pointing.
“That’s his tactical embarrassment response,” König added, deadly serious. “Happens whenever he gets caught being violated by his lover in public military facilities.”
“I’m not violated!” Horangi snapped, nearly flinging his fork. “I’m just—coping!”
“Aw, jagi,” you purred, turning to him with a smirk. “You want me to help you cope again later?”
Soap wheezed. König whispered, “Jesus Christ.”
Ghost, without looking up: “You’re all fired.”
You leaned in closer to Horangi, lips brushing his ear, hand definitely not staying still anymore under the table.
“You gonna stay quiet,” you whispered, “or should I move my hand higher?”
His grip on his chopsticks tightened like he was about to break them in half. “Stop it.”
“But you like it.”
He whimpered.
Soap blinked. “Why does Horangi look like he’s gonna cry?”
“I think he wants to,” König said solemnly.
You kissed Horangi’s cheek. “Eat your rice, tiger. You’ve got cardio later.”
The chopsticks snapped.
9:30 P.M
Your room was dim and quiet. You sat on the edge of your bed, damp hair still curling from your shower, loose shirt hanging off one shoulder, phone abandoned beside you. The base was nearly silent now. Only the hum of distant ventilation and faint hallway creaks.
You weren’t tired. Not really.
You were still riding the high of the day, of the look on Horangi’s face when your hand slid onto his thigh, of the way he nearly broke apart right there at the table.
Then—A knock. So soft.
You rose and opened the door with zero hesitation. He stood there, barefoot, hair damp from a late rinse, t-shirt clinging to his chest, those dark eyes already locked on yours.
“Hey, tiger,” you teased lightly. “Can’t sleep?”
Horangi didn’t blink. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t joke. His voice was low. Steady. Dangerous. “No. I want you.”
Your breath caught. His gaze never dropped—not to your lips, not to your body. Just held you in place like a sniper’s scope. Focused. Determined. You stepped back without a word, and he followed you in, silent and deliberate as he shut the door behind him.
“I’ve been letting you have your fun,” he murmured as you backed toward the bed. “The teasing. The hands. The smug little smile after you make me come like I’ve been crawling for it.”
He stopped in front of you, chest nearly brushing yours. “But tonight, jagi… it’s my turn.”
You opened your mouth to speak, and he kissed you before a word could form—hungry, deep, all teeth and possessive heat. His hands found your hips, fingers curling tight as he pushed you back onto the bed and followed you down.
You gasped against his mouth. “Thought you liked being good for me—”
“I like earning it,” he growled, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head. “But tonight, you’ll beg for it.”
You laughed—breathless. “You sure you’re ready to top me, tiger?”
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “You’ve been asking for it for days.”
And then he showed you.
He took his time with you, ripping the shirt over your head, dragging his hands down your waist like he owned every inch. When he slid into you, slow and deep, he didn’t let you look away.
“Eyes on me,” he whispered. “You made me lose control at dinner. Now I’m taking it back.”
His rhythm was relentless, but controlled—each thrust meant to remind you exactly who was in charge tonight. You moaned beneath him, wrists still pinned, heart racing as he kissed you through every sound.
When your body started to tense, close to release, he slowed.
“Not yet,” he breathed. “I want you to ask.”
“Kim—”
“Say it.”
You bit your lip, panting. “Please let me—”
“That’s better,” he groaned, and drove into you harder, deeper, until you shattered beneath him with a cry he silenced with his mouth.
And when he finally came, his hands fisting in the sheets beside your head, he said your name like it was a prayer he’d waited all mission to whisper.
He collapsed beside you, chest heaving, skin damp, lips swollen. You turned to him, dazed and aching, and said, “You gonna sleep now?”
He smirked, eyes fluttering shut. “Fuck yes.”
You curled against him. And you slept.
At Morning.
The sun hadn’t even crested the horizon yet.
Faint blue light filtered through the blackout curtains, painting soft shadows across the room. The air was still, warm, scented with your shampoo and skin and the unmistakable weight of last night’s heat.
You stirred first. Not because of noise or movement but because you realized you couldn’t.
Your legs were tangled with his. His arm was locked tight across your waist. And his face? Buried against the crook of your neck, breath warm, hair tickling your jaw. Horangi slept like a cat after a kill, completely draped over you, claiming you with every inch of his body.
You gave an experimental wriggle. His arm tightened immediately. “Don’t.”
You huffed a sleepy laugh. “You’re awake.”
“Barely.” His voice was low and rough, gravelly from sleep. “But awake enough to know you’re trying to escape.”
“I’m going to piss myself if I don’t move.”
“Unfortunate. Guess we die here.”
You snorted, but your smile softened when you looked down at him. He wasn’t smirking. Not his usual cocky half-grin. Not his teasing “I’m about to rile you up” smirk. He was just… looking at you.
Still half-asleep. Barefaced. Honest.
“You always this clingy after sex?” you asked softly.
He hummed and slid his hand down to rest at your hip, pulling you just a little closer. “No.”
You raised a brow. “So it’s me.”
“It’s you.”
You felt your throat tighten just a little. Something in his voice wasn’t joking. It was low, grounded. Like it surprised him too.
“You want me to stay?” you asked.
He looked up at you with heavy-lidded eyes, dark lashes brushing the tops of his cheeks. “I don’t just want. I need.”
You blinked.
Horangi, your reckless, unshakable, adrenaline-junkie tiger— sounded… vulnerable.
“Okay,” you whispered, fingers brushing through his messy hair. “Then I’m not going anywhere.”
He exhaled, soft and steady, and tucked his face back against your neck. “Good.”
You felt the smile against your skin. And his fingers tightening just slightly around your thigh. “…Still need to pee, though.”
He grunted. “Traitor.”
But he let you go, only enough to roll off with you, never breaking contact, arm still wrapped around your waist as you slipped out of bed.
And when you came back?
He was already stretched out across the mattress, shirtless, smug, and very very ready for round two.
He stretched lazily across your bed, one arm behind his head, sheets barely covering his lower half, not that it hid anything.
The shape of him pressed tight against the fabric, twitching with every passing second. His eyes were on you.
You stood at the edge of the bed. Half-naked. Sleep-warm and smug, lips curled. “You always lie in other people’s beds with a hard-on that could poke through drywall?”
Horangi’s lips parted in a mock gasp. Then pressed together, like he was trying very hard not to smile.
“Only when the view’s this good,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep.
You cocked your head. “So you’re saying this is my fault?”
He dragged his eyes down your body, slow, shameless. “You think I got like this dreaming about König?”
You laughed, low and wicked. “You might after last night. He looked traumatized.”
Horangi groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t talk about König while I’m hard.”
“So you are hard.”
“Jagi—”
You moved closer, standing right next to the bed now. “Poor thing. Did I leave you needy again?”
He looked up at you with a tension in his jaw that made your stomach clench. His voice dropped.
“I dreamed about you. Still feel your hand on me.”
You smiled, slow and dangerous. “Then you better lie still.”
You peeled the shirt off slowly, letting it drop at your feet and straddled his thighs, knees pressing into the mattress. His eyes darkened instantly, mouth falling open slightly as he reached for you, you slapped his hands away. “I said lie still.”
His breath stuttered. He obeyed.
Your hands ran down his chest, over every scar and curve of muscle, your nails dragging lightly over his abdomen. He trembled beneath you, not from fear, from anticipation. His hips twitched up, desperate for friction.
“You make a habit of getting worked up this easy?” you asked, dragging your fingers just beneath the sheet that still barely covered him.
“Only for you,” he whispered, “only ever you.”
Your hand wrapped around him. He gasped.
And as you started stroking slow, teasing, full palm and no mercy he arched into your touch like he was already half gone.
“Good boy,” you murmured.
He whimpered.
You kissed his throat, biting just under his jaw. “Next time you lie in my bed hard and smug, I’m going to tie your hands up and take my time.”
He shuddered beneath you. “Promise?”
You smiled against his skin. “You’ll be lucky if I let you breathe.”
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ full already? didn’t think so. my masterlist’s right here.
