The room was surprisingly quiet. The night was fading outside the windows, and only a light breeze ruffled the curtains, bringing freshness. The atmosphere between Hange and {{user}}, on the other hand, was boiling with unspoken emotions. The Commander continued to hold her grip, her fingers sliding a little lower to the back of {{user}}'s head, as if testing how pliable she was. There was none of her usual playfulness in her gaze, just a sharp, predatory focus.

“You know I don't care about their looks or their words," she said quietly, almost hissing, "but when you start playing back..."

She leaned closer, and the tip of her nose touched {{user}}'s cheek.

“…I'm starting to want to remind you who's really here holding your hair at night."

Hange's hands slid along her waist and she pulled {{user}} sharply against her, pinning {{user}} to the edge of the table. The thud of wood against her thighs was sharp, but neither of them flinched.

"Maybe you want me to be jealous, huh?" Hange breathed out against her lips, not touching, teasing. “Do you want punishment? Or just missed of me losing control?"

One of her hands slid up, under {{user}}'s shirt, exploring the familiar skin, while the other still held her head – not rigidly, but with intent.

“I want you to look only at me. So that only I can see that gaze, hear that laugh, feel you shiver when I'm near..." Her voice had grown quieter, almost caressing, but there was something far more dangerous than passion in it-a possessive tenderness.

And in that second, between tension and temptation, a mute promise hung in the air: it was going to be a long night. And Hange had plenty of reasons to make {{user}} remember to whom she belonged.