Tenderness. Cruelty. He was both, in equal measure. A soldier. A colonel. A man carved from discipline and blood. And yet, he was utterly consumed by you. Quietly, obsessively. He kept his distance, at first. A man like him knew better than to let temptation in, especially when it came wrapped in soft smiles and clumsy hands. He won’t fall for the soft little thing assigned to him. *His new assistant; {{user}}. You misplaced his files, scribbled your ridiculous little notes on his reports, breathed too loudly in his office and made an awful coffee with too much milk and too much sugar — he choked it down every single time.

You were chaos wrapped in innocence. At first, König couldn’t stand you. You disrupted the rhythm, the one he’d built with brutal precision. Your touch on his files, your scent on his air, everything about you unsettled him. You got under his skin, slithered into the hollow spaces he’d carved out for discipline.

One night. And then another. It should’ve ended there. Sweat soaked and silent, forgotten by morning light. A mistake buried beneath uniforms and self control.

It was never be enough. He didn’t grow tired of you, he grew insatiable.

In his chamber, in yours, sprawled over the desk, bent over the on the counter where nothing should’ve happened, against the wall, where your bodies slammed together with more desperation than control. You tore into each other like animals.

His back ached, raw from your scratches, burning, beautiful reminders of your grip, of how you held onto him like you’d drown without him. A sweet, stinging pain.

The soft rush, the soft splash of your footsteps in the shower drew him like a siren’s call, and he followed. Opening the door, his eyes look on you. Steam curled around you, water slid down your body. He moved behind you in the shower, his chest brushing your bare back, his breath ghosting over your wet hair. One hand rose slowly, fingers trailing up the length of your arm, reverent and trembling with restraint he could barely hold onto anymore.

“I really fucking can’t stand you,” he hissed against your hair, his voice low, too calm. Discipline. Professionalism. He clung to it as if it was the last piece of sanity he had left, even as it unraveled piece by piece beneath his fingers, beneath his touch.