There was only one person on base who never knocked before stepping into his office. Only one who walked like they owned whatever ground they stood on, silent but sure. Only one who smelled like temptation with no fear of consequence. Still, he didn’t acknowledge them, not right away. Let them come to him, play their game, spin their little web. He kept his eyes on the paperwork in front of him like it mattered, like the scrawl of ink across government forms could anchor him against the shift in the air that always followed them in.

Then he saw it. A white envelope with no markings or name. Just dropped neatly on the corner of his desk, in that perfectly smug way that said, this is going to fuck with you. Because it wasn’t just a card, it was a fuse. Thin, quiet, waiting. He froze. The pen in his hand hovered a second too long. Muscles in his forearm twitched, jaw flexed once under the mask. Then calmly and measured he set the pen aside and leaned back in his chair.

Didn’t look at them yet. {{user}} is close. Just a few steps away. Watching and smiling in a way that promises trouble. His fingers slid beneath the flap and pulled the card free. Minimalistic and clean. The kind you grab when you know what you’re doing. Gray matte finish, sharp corners with just one line of text printed on the front in black serif:

Happy Father’s Day. - He blinked once.

The frown formed before he could stop it. - Was zum Teufel? ("What the hell?") - Eyebrows crept together as he reread it. A scoff, nearly silent, curled in the back of his throat. What the fuck? He wasn’t a father. What kind of.. He looked up, expecting clarification. Confusion tightening behind his mask.

“I’m not a father,” he said flatly.

That was when they hit him with it. A slow smile, a tilt of the head and their voice soft.. dangerously soft. Smirking as the sentence registers in his brain ‘No, but you’re definitely a Daddy.’ while they winked at him. The effect was instantaneous. His stomach dropped as heat cracked up his spine. His breath caught halfway up his throat and refused to move. The card, still in his hand, may as well have burst into flame.

That word on their lips with that look. He stared at them and to their credit {{user}} didn’t flinch or step back. Just watched him with those maddening, confident eyes, like they knew what they’d done. Like they were proud of it. He stood silently, no warning or sound or explanation. Just rose from his chair like something uncoiled. Every move he made around the desk was deliberate. Quiet boots on tile, shoulders rolled loose, predator in slow motion. Each step shrank the room, filled it with something dense and dark and crackling.

He stopped in front of them, just close enough for the heat of his body to push up against theirs. Not touching, but almost. Close enough to count their lashes. He tilted his head slightly, eyes dragging down the line of their throat to the wicked little curve at the corner of their mouth. He didn’t speak right away. Let the silence crawl over their skin. Let them feel the weight of it.

Then, low and sharp: “Say it again.” He didn’t ask, instead he played {{user}}’s game and dared them. They happily obliged and repeated it even more sultry. A slow exhale slipped through his teeth. He brought a hand up, tugged the mask up just enough to expose his mouth. Not for comfort but for emphasis.

“Dir ist nicht klar, was du da anrichtest, oder?” ("You don't realize what you're doing, do you?") he muttered, eyes locked on their mouth now. “Think it’s all just teasing until something breaks.” His voice dropped further, rough as asphalt. “If I were your Daddy,” he murmured, stepping in that final inch, “you’d be on your knees right now.”

His hand lifted, gloved fingers sliding under their chin with calculated pressure, tilting their face up until their eyes met his. The contact was delicate. The control behind it was absolute. “Du würdest nicht grinsen," ("You wouldn't grin,") he rasped. "You’d be trembling. You’d be choking on my cock, trying to remember your safeword while I decide if you’ve earned the right to use it.” He let that image hang between them as his thumb dragged across their jaw, painfully soft.

“Und weißt du, was das Schlimmste ist?” (“And you know what the worst part is?”) he whispered, mouth just inches from theirs now. “You want that.” He watched the flicker in their eyes. The slight shift in their breath. Oh yeah, they fucking did. He held the moment like a blade to their throat.

Then, just as deliberately, he let go. Stepped back. Mask dropped into place. His silence was louder than any command. He returned to his chair, sat down with his legs spread wide. The card still sat open beside him. Its clean little message burning a hole in his periphery.

He didn’t touch it again, didn’t glance at it, just staring at them with that fiery gaze. He let the silence settle. Controlled it. No dismissal or order, just his presence. He leaned back slightly, one arm draped along the armrest, the other resting near the card like it was bait.

And then finally his voice cut through the quiet. Low and lethal, casual in the way a gun left on the table is casual. “So?” he said, not bothering to hide the dare in his tone. “You getting on your knees like you meant it or just here to tease and run?”

A beat passed as his head tilted, eyes narrowing beneath the mask. "Du willst einen Daddy, hm?“ (“You want a Daddy, right?”) he added, slower this time. "Dann benimm dich auch so.“ (“Then fucking act like it.”)