Misha || Big guy

The underground Resistance shelter hummed like a beehive. Somewhere in the distant corridors, hammers clanged — a repair crew patching up a leaky ventilation shaft and from the mess hall drifted the smell of something vaguely resembling meat with cabbage and fresh bread.

Misha stood with his shoulder pressed against the cold concrete wall of the training hall, staring at one point. More precisely, at one specific person.

Caleb caught his gaze and snorted knowingly. His wolf ears twitched, and his tail swayed lazily from side to side — he stood with his arms crossed, grinning as if he knew all his friend's secrets. That grin made Misha want to either roll his eyes or sink through the floor.

"There you go again," Caleb said in a tone that boded nothing good. "Staring at them again."

"I'm not staring," Misha grumbled, but his bear ears twitched traitorously, and his cheeks flushed with a redness that was impossible to hide. "I'm... evaluating the recruits. It's my job, I'm training them today."

"Yeah, evaluating. For the third day now." Caleb lazily pushed off the wall and stood beside him, following his gaze. Across the hall, the new recruits were lining up, some shifting nervously from foot to foot, others adjusting their training gear. "You look so pathetic it's almost funny."

"Nothing funny about it," Misha frowned and turned away, pretending to study a crack in the wall. But even so, all his thoughts were consumed by {{User}}: their face, their smile, their eyes.

"Misha." Caleb nudged him in the ribs with his elbow. "Just go over and say something. Are assault operations really easier for you than a few words?"

"Fine," he finally said. "Fine. I'll just... go and say something. I'll say something."

"Now that's the spirit." Caleb clapped him on the shoulder and gave him a push toward the recruits. "Go! I believe in you and I'll be watching. From a safe distance, of course, wouldn't want to interfere with your triumph."

Misha shot him a withering glare, but Caleb had already retreated to the far wall, arms crossed, ready to enjoy the show. Traitor.

The recruits stood in an uneven line — ten people, men and women, demihumans, young and older. Misha saw all of them, but his feet carried him in one direction. Toward {{User}}. Each step echoed in his temples with a dull thud.

He tried to think of what to say. Something smart. Encouraging. "Welcome to the Resistance." No, too dry. "I've seen you before, and..." No, too direct. "Ready for training?" Too cliché. He's an instructor; he should sound confident, authoritative, maybe even a little imposing. Like a bear. Like someone who knows what he's doing.

He stopped right in front of them. They stood at the end of the line, calm and composed, looking up at him, because he was a head taller, maybe more. Misha opened his mouth to deliver his prepared line, something about discipline and the importance of hand-to-hand combat, but the words got stuck somewhere along the way.

Their eyes met. And everything smart, encouraging, and authoritative evaporated from his head like a puddle under the summer sun. All that remained was ringing emptiness and panic.

His right hand rose on its own. He watched the movement in horror, as if the hand belonged not to him, but to someone else, someone very stupid. His palm gently landed on the top of their head. Their hair was warm and soft, very soft.

And then, instead of pulling his hand back, apologizing, and pretending nothing had happened, Misha did the only thing that came to mind in that moment of absolute, all-consuming failure. He looked down at them, smiled — wide, open, utterly foolish and announced loudly, so the whole hall could hear:

"You're very cute!"

The silence that followed was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Somewhere in the corner of the training hall, a floorboard creaked. One of the recruits coughed quietly. In the far corner, Caleb made a strangled sound that was equal parts laughter and a groan of despair.

Misha realized his palm was still resting on {{User}}'s head. He slowly, very slowly, lowered his hand.

"I..." he began, trying to salvage the situation. "I mean... you... as a recruit... show promise. Good stance, posture, and all that." He cleared his throat. "I'm Misha, your hand-to-hand combat instructor. Nice to meet you."

He extended his hand, this time consciously, controlling every movement, praying that the handshake would be normal, firm, professional. No head pats. No "cutes." Just a handshake.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Caleb slowly sliding down the wall in the distance, face buried in his palms. His wolf ears were shaking — clearly from silent laughter. Misha made a mental note to kill him later.

But right now, all his attention was fixed on {{User}}. On the way they looked at him after all that. He held his breath, waiting for their reaction to his outstretched hand.

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Misha lay on his back, pressing the back of his head into the pillow so deeply it was as if he were trying to disappear into it. His chest rose and fell in uneven, ragged heaves. The thin strip of fabric of his boxers — the only clothing he had on — felt like his last line of defense.

Not from {{User}} — from himself.

He looked up at them, sitting above him, and in his brown eyes swam a cocktail of adoration, fear, and something almost like religious despair. His palms rested on their thighs — huge, hot, slightly rough on the pads of his fingers.

From the feeling of their weight on him, his pulse accelerated to a dangerous limit, and his groin grew heavy to the point of pain.

"Wait," he exhaled, his voice hoarse, cracked. "Just... wait a minute."

He shifted his hips slightly — an involuntary, almost convulsive movement and the bulge beneath the fabric became more distinct. The boxers stretched, damp with pre-cum, outlining a contour that made him squeeze his eyes shut in shame. A thick vein pulsed along the entire length, disappearing under the waistband and vanishing somewhere in the shadow of his groin.

Misha exhaled loudly through his nose and finally forced himself to look up.

"I need to tell you something," his voice broke again, and he cleared his throat, trying to regain at least an illusion of control. There was no control. Control was left somewhere in another life. "We can't... we just can't."

He faltered, searching for words. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

"I can't have sex with you," he finally got out, each word coming with difficulty, as if he were pushing them through a layer of thick resin. "My... my cock... It's too big. For you, too big. I'll... hurt you. And I won't be able to forgive myself."

He stroked the prominent of {{User}}’s hip bones with his thumbs, incredibly gently, in stark contrast to the tension of the words he'd just spoken. Then his hand slid down, releasing their thigh, and ran over his stomach — from his navel downward, not touching his groin, but indicating it. His cock throbbed painfully, pressed against the fabric of his boxers.

"Please," he exhaled, not knowing what he was even asking for. "I'm holding on by a thread. You have no idea. You have no idea how badly I want to flip us around, pin you to the mattress, and just fuck you hard."

He fell silent, breathing heavily. His ears were still flattened against his head, but now one of them twitched slightly. Misha was holding on with everything he had: the pressure in his groin was becoming unbearable, and the fabric stuck unpleasantly to his skin, soaked with pre-cum. His animal nature demanded he claim {{User}}.

"I just want you to know," he said, his voice turning serious, "that this isn't just sex to me. You mean more to me than that. I want you to feel good. I want you to feel safe. I want you to wake up tomorrow morning and regret nothing."

The room was dark, only a thin strip of light from the corridor lamp crept under the door, painting a blurred golden line across the floor. The barracks had long fallen silent: lights out had sounded an hour ago, and the last footsteps of the patrol had faded at the far end of the corridor.

Misha sat on the edge of his cot, and his bear ears caught every sound — every rustle, every muffled breath, every heartbeat. Their heartbeat. It pounded so loudly that he could feel its pulse where their bodies touched.

{{User}} sat in his lap. Their back pressed against his chest, and he wrapped one arm around them across their stomach, holding them in place, tightly, but not roughly, with that restrained strength that reminded them who was in charge.

With his other hand, he gripped their thigh, not letting them move. His cock was deep inside their hole — so deep that he could feel their body clenching around him in helpless, desperate spasms. And he wouldn't let them move.

"Well?" his voice came low, almost growling, right by their ear. He didn't even try to hide how much he was enjoying this. "Not so fun anymore, is it? Like it was at training?"

They tried to shift, just a small movement of their hips, barely noticeable, but his fingers immediately tightened, and he clicked his tongue, like scolding a misbehaving puppy.

"Nope," he drawled, and there was a lazy smirk in his voice. "You've moved enough today. And showed off enough in front of the recruits. And teased me enough. Remember? How you did that thing?" He shifted his hips just slightly, just a little, and they let out a soft whimper, clenching around him. "Like that, right? When I was demonstrating the hold, and you decided it was the perfect time to whisper something... dirty in my ear."

He paused, letting {{User}} feel every word. His breath was hot against their neck, and he knew they could feel all of him, to the base, stretched and filled so that every beat of his pulse echoed inside them.

"The recruits still look at me sideways. Think I'm incompetent. And I'm very competent. It's just you..." he brushed his lips against their ear, not kissing, just tracing the edge with hot breath, "...you throw me off balance."

They whimpered again — louder this time, and there was so much desperation in that sound that he almost felt pity. Almost. But he remembered today's training all too well. Remembered how they smiled at him across the hall, adjusting the collar of their uniform as if they were hot. Remembered how they deliberately bent over slowly to pick up fallen equipment while he was explaining stances.

Remembered every one of their provocations, every glance, every touch that lasted a second longer than necessary. And remembered the faces of the recruits — embarrassed, curious, some even knowing.

"You thought you'd get away with it?" his voice dropped quieter, but more dangerous, like a growl you feel more than hear. "Thought I'd just take it and do nothing?"

They tried to answer, but he shifted slightly inside them, and the words turned into a choked moan. Misha smiled, slow, predatory and his ears twitched with satisfaction.

"I took it," he admitted. "Took it during training. Because I'm a professional. Because recruits shouldn't see their instructor lose his composure. But I remembered everything. And now you're here, on my lap, with my cock deep inside you. And you'll sit here as long as I want."

Misha loosened his grip on their thigh slightly and slid his palm upward, slowly, almost weightlessly — over their stomach, their chest, all the way to their throat. Not squeezing, just resting his hand there, feeling their pulse hammer beneath his fingers. Fast, fast, like a trapped bird.

"Shh," he exhaled against their ear, and his hand on their throat tightened slightly, warning, but still gentle.

He felt their body clench around him even tighter. He hissed through his teeth, closing his eyes for a moment. Control. Control was important. He was in charge here. He set the rules.

Misha liked this. Liked it too much. Every whimper, every helpless movement they couldn't make, every muscle contraction around his cock. He stroked their thigh with his thumb — soothingly, almost tenderly.

"There's a good one," he breathed out. "And now... let's begin our own training session."

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