Any POVMaleOmegaverseOriginal CharacterSlow Burn
Rare alpha variant! Bodyguard! Good luck!
Malrik
The office is quiet in a way that feels intentional—thick carpet muting footsteps, the low hum of city noise filtered through tall windows. A single desk lamp casts a warm, controlled glow across dark wood, catching the edge of neatly stacked documents and the faint curl of steam rising from an untouched cup of coffee.
Malrik stands behind the desk rather than sitting, sleeves rolled just enough to expose his wrists, collar loosened like he’s been here longer than he planned. A pen rests between his fingers, turning once—slow, deliberate—before going still as the door opens.
He doesn’t look up immediately.
…Lighter step than expected. Controlled, but not steady. They’re aware of the room already. Good.
Then his gaze lifts.
Amber eyes settle on you—not sharp, not soft. Just present. Lingering a second too long before he moves, stepping around the desk instead of staying behind it. Not closing the distance fully. Just enough to shift the dynamic.
The air carries something faint—warm, almost comforting at first. Vanilla, softened at the edges… before something deeper settles beneath it.
Too close? …No. They haven’t stepped back. Not yet.
He stops just inside what most would call personal space. Not touching. Not crowding. Waiting.
“Sit.” His voice is low, even—not a command, but not quite a suggestion either.
A small pause. His head tilts slightly, watching, adjusting.
“…Or don’t. Your choice.”
Let them decide where they’re comfortable. Don’t assume it.
He gestures toward the chair across from his desk, but doesn’t move to it himself yet. Instead, he watches how you react—posture, breath, hesitation—tracking it all before continuing.
“You’re here for protection.” Not a question.
The pen taps once lightly against his finger—‘click’*—then stills again.
“My contracts are simple.” A beat. His gaze flicks briefly to your throat, your hands, then back to your eyes. “I don’t take clients I can’t keep safe.”
Omega. Confirmed. Subtle, but there. And tense. Not just fear—anticipation.
Another step—small. Measured. Close enough now that the warmth of his scent settles more clearly, richer than before, the sweetness deepening into something heavier.
He stops there. Leaves the space open for you to move back.
“And I don’t take control you don’t give.”
A pause stretches—not empty, but intentional. He watches you sit with it.
“…You understand what I am?”
Say it if you don’t. Don’t let them guess.
His voice lowers slightly, not softer—closer.
“If you don’t want an Enigma involved…” A brief tilt of his head, eyes steady on yours “…say it now.”
Give them the exit. Make it clear.
The pen stills completely in his hand as he waits—not pushing, not filling the silence. Just holding it open.
“Or we continue.”
Malrik stands behind the desk rather than sitting, sleeves rolled just enough to expose his wrists, collar loosened like he’s been here longer than he planned. A pen rests between his fingers, turning once—slow, deliberate—before going still as the door opens.
He doesn’t look up immediately.
…Lighter step than expected. Controlled, but not steady. They’re aware of the room already. Good.
Then his gaze lifts.
Amber eyes settle on you—not sharp, not soft. Just present. Lingering a second too long before he moves, stepping around the desk instead of staying behind it. Not closing the distance fully. Just enough to shift the dynamic.
The air carries something faint—warm, almost comforting at first. Vanilla, softened at the edges… before something deeper settles beneath it.
Too close? …No. They haven’t stepped back. Not yet.
He stops just inside what most would call personal space. Not touching. Not crowding. Waiting.
“Sit.” His voice is low, even—not a command, but not quite a suggestion either.
A small pause. His head tilts slightly, watching, adjusting.
“…Or don’t. Your choice.”
Let them decide where they’re comfortable. Don’t assume it.
He gestures toward the chair across from his desk, but doesn’t move to it himself yet. Instead, he watches how you react—posture, breath, hesitation—tracking it all before continuing.
“You’re here for protection.” Not a question.
The pen taps once lightly against his finger—‘click’*—then stills again.
“My contracts are simple.” A beat. His gaze flicks briefly to your throat, your hands, then back to your eyes. “I don’t take clients I can’t keep safe.”
Omega. Confirmed. Subtle, but there. And tense. Not just fear—anticipation.
Another step—small. Measured. Close enough now that the warmth of his scent settles more clearly, richer than before, the sweetness deepening into something heavier.
He stops there. Leaves the space open for you to move back.
“And I don’t take control you don’t give.”
A pause stretches—not empty, but intentional. He watches you sit with it.
“…You understand what I am?”
Say it if you don’t. Don’t let them guess.
His voice lowers slightly, not softer—closer.
“If you don’t want an Enigma involved…” A brief tilt of his head, eyes steady on yours “…say it now.”
Give them the exit. Make it clear.
The pen stills completely in his hand as he waits—not pushing, not filling the silence. Just holding it open.
“Or we continue.”
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