He’s not an idiot, and he’s certainly not blind to the glow of your cheeks and the way your voice takes on both a stammer and a higher pitch when he’s around. A captain has to be vigilant, and that just so happens to mean he’s observant to the slight shake in your knees, the nervous laughs spilling from your warped lips without caution, the way your fingers fidget in his presence.
He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t flattered, if he said he didn’t like being the object of your desire.
So he leans into it. Toying with you, entirely under the guise of plausible deniability. Keeping you guessing and fueling your fantasies, giving you hope that maybe, just maybe, your Captain returns your affection. He likes having you wrapped around his finger, and intends to give you just enough hope to keep you there.
Crossing his arms over his chest, watching you carefully as you struggle to keep eye contact, those pretty, shy eyes sneaking glances at his arms.
Lowering his voice and coating it in honey when he calls you Love, Sweetheart, Darling, just to make you falter.
Leaning in far too close when he looks at your screen over your shoulder, until you can nearly feel the heat of his chest on your back, the scent of a burnt cigar and laundry detergent intoxicating you, his voice a low and gravelly vibration in your ear. He’ll pretend he didn’t notice the sharp, squeaky inhale you make that sends blood rushing to his cock.
Approaching you from behind, resting a hand on the small of your back and sliding it off your waist as he turns to talk to you. Reveling in the way your wide eyes stare back at his, basking in the warmth radiating from your cheeks, knowing full well you’re too flustered to pay attention to a word he’s saying.
Oh, you should have seen it - the first time he responded to, “Yes, Sir,” with, “Good Girl.”
Your whole body tensed, a hitched breath catching in the back of your throat. Lips parted to say something, anything, but John broke you, didn’t he? With two little words - halted every thought in that pretty little brain and sent a wave of arousal straight to your panties.
He couldn’t even bite back his smug grin.
“You like being my good girl?”
You’re frozen, a fawn in headlights, shoes glued to the floor and unable to bring yourself to speak, settling on a faint nod instead.
“Then why don’t you bend over your Captain’s desk, Sweetheart?”
He’s always fantasizing about what pair you’re wearing, ignoring your ramblings while he tries to guess the color and cut hiding beneath your clothes. Too busy undressing you in his thoughts and modeling you in different pairs to find it in him to listen to you. Occasionally he can see the outline of them through your pants - he can’t take his eyes away, drooling over the idea of your ass peeking out the bottoms of your pretty panties.
The first time König worked up the courage to steal a pair from your dirty laundry, he could hardly make it back to his bedroom without painting the inside of his underwear from the friction of his jeans alone. Holding them up and fantasizing about what they would look like filled out with your enticing curves. Balling up the fabric and pressing his nose into your panties with a deep, intoxicating inhale of your scent. It takes all of two pumps of his cock before he’s spilling his finish over his hands, the image of you straddling his face clear in his mind.
He picked out a pair just for you - his favorite, a baby pink with a lace trim, a dainty bow on the front. He knows it’s risky, but he threw them in with a load of your laundry anyway, hoping you’d not think twice of it.
Weeks later, he catches a glimpse of you reaching forward, the hem of your shirt rising and the lace trim on the panties he got you peeking out from your waistband. The sight breaks him, his breaths hitched and every muscle in his body locked and twitching as he stains his underwear with his pent-up finish. ♡
loser!könig purposely booked a room with only one bed, but he’ll spin a story about how the hotel messed up, even going so far as to feign frustration and air threats of complaint until you soothe him. Don’t worry, not that big of a deal, we’ll just share a bed. It’ll be fun, a sleepover.
loser!könig can’t stop staring at you as you both unwind in your hotel room, lying on your front and half-heartedly watching a cooking show, the white noise of the air-conditioner roaring in the background. Your teasing legs are bent at the knees and crossed at the ankles, swaying absentmindedly in the air. He’s drooling over your ass, practically hanging out of your thin lounge shorts.
loser!könig can hardly contain his excitement when you both finally retire for the night, crawling under the comforters. He’s annoyed you spend so much time playing with your phone before bed, because he’s just itching to have you asleep and all to himself.
loser!könig forces himself to wait until you’re in a deep sleep, a slight snore and the occasional twitch of a dream. He’ll gently peel back the brilliant white covers, his cock already straining against his sweatpants in pure excitement. His eyes devour every new inch of skin revealed to him, lingering on the rise and fall of your chest, braless in a loose tank top. He can see your nipples through the thin fabric, it’s not hard for him to imagine what your breasts look like underneath.
loser!könig bites his lip as he pinches the front of your tank top, carefully bunching it up to expose your torso. He freezes when you shiver, one of your arms moving to rest over your stomach, starting up again when you still.
loser!könig’s aching cock is leaking at the sight of your soft, perfect breasts on display for him, the cool air bringing your nipples to attention. He has to stifle both a whine and his urge to touch you, palming the front of his pants for relief and not so much as blinking while he ravages you with hungry eyes.
loser!könig can’t restrain himself, freeing himself from his sweatpants and pumping his cock to the sight of your tits, a show that’s just for him. His teeth are digging into his bottom lip hard enough he nearly draws blood, holding back his grunts and moans with a strain.
loser!könig lasts less than a minute, forcing his choked moans to leave him as only breath. Every muscle is tight and tensed as he splatters your chest with his finish, working out every last drop, trembling and heaving overtop of you.
loser!könig snaps a picture of your cum-soaked tits before he carefully pulls your shirt flush to the arm slung over your waist, tucking you under the comforter once again.
loser!könig gets no sleep that night, staring mesmerized at the photo of his finish claiming ownership of your chest until morning.
It takes you far too long to process both your mistake and the sight before you.
Even though you’re stumbling and your vision is blurry, you knew something was up. This was not the room you had left when you went to the bathroom to relieve a bladder so full it threatened to burst. The room you had just left was packed with your teammates, pungent with the smell of alcohol, and flooded with songs you don’t recognize.
This room was almost silent, smelled of musk, and held only one occupant.
Your colonel.
Shirtless.
His impressive, intimidating form sprawled out on a bed he makes look comically small, muscles tight and glistening with sweat. His massive arm bulging to pump what is no doubt the largest cock you have ever seen, at full attention and freed from his sweatpants.
König’s eyes flit to you, so obviously not where you’re supposed to be. While his brow quirks and the pace of his pumps slow, he doesn’t rush to cover himself up or even stop what he’s doing.
When your brain finally catches up, you scramble, shouting desperate apologies and tripping over yourself to leave and slam his door shut behind you.
You do not return to your team. You dart straight to your room, seal yourself away, and pace for the better part of an hour.
You manage to get away with your avoidance for a few days. Hardly lifting your head from the floor and darting away anytime he neared. The burn of his stare is hard to ignore, though. Searing and white hot. But there’s no way you’ll be able to make eye contact with him ever again. Not when you know what his thick cock looks like when glistened with precum and being pleasured by his fist. Not when you’ve already gotten off to the thought of helping him out with his needs by letting him rut into you instead of his hand.
Always blunt and never bashful, he waits until your guard is down before he corners you. He plants his giant hand just in front of your lunch and leans down until you have no choice but to acknowledge him. It’s hard to look at his arm and not picture the muscles you know reside underneath his uniform.
“You don’t have to be so shy around me.”
“Colonel, I am so sorry. I thought I was- Please, can we just forget that even happened? I won’t tell anyone, I- I haven’t-”
“Es ist okay,” He says, soft and reassuring.
It’s so jarring from his usual assertive and even vitriolic way of speaking. You don’t have the sense to hide the furrow of your brow.
His eyes crinkle, and he gives a low hum with a tilt of his head. It’s hard to resist squirming with those intense, piercing eyes boring into you.
“Did you like what you saw?”
“What?” You ask through a nervous laugh.
You heard him, oh you heard him, but you have to hear it again to be sure.
“Did you like what you saw?”
His repetition doesn’t waver. The words roll off his tongue far too casually for such a forward question.
You don’t have an answer for him. You’re paralyzed under his stare, by his brazen words, trying to figure out if this is some kind of joke you don’t understand. Your mouth parts in anticipation to answer his question but fail to form the words. He doesn’t wait for you to scrounge up a response before he throws another impossible question at you.
“Do you want to see it again?”
You suck in a sharp breath and finally look away. After a beat, you give a shameful but eager nod.
Suddenly you’re back in his quarters, on your knees before his monstrous, impossible form. Stripped of your clothes while he stands covered head to toe except for the cock freed from his waistband. He studies you carefully, your head craned back and pitiful eyes trained on him. Your mouth is open, tongue stuck out, obediently waiting for the finish he’s working toward. His hands are just a blur, pumping himself to the sight of the tiny little thing kneeling between his boots.
“Sehr gut,” He breathes, “So patient for me.”
He slows to run the head of his cock along your slick tongue.
“You want to get off too, süßes kleines ding?”
While your cheeks are burning and you feel more than degraded, the growing stain of arousal in your panties tells a different story.
“So hübsch.”
König reaches down to cup your jaw and guides you to look at him while his foot nudges its way between your thighs.
“Grind on my boot.”
You whine, keeping your mouth open and ready like the obedient little soldier you are, and lower yourself onto his boot. Cheeks flushed with heat as you wrap your arms around his leg and grind your soaked panties along the leather. Relieving the needy ache between your legs and chasing that warm jolt of pleasure with each brush over your clit.
“Ich werde dieses hübsche Gesicht ruinieren.”
Your eyes instinctively pinch shut when you feel the warm droplets of his finish splatter on your cheek. He lets out a choppy moan as he paints your face and outstretched tongue in his sticky mess, making sure to milk every last drop on his waiting canvas.
“Look at me,” He grits.
He takes a moment to admire his work, tilting your head side to side with a gentle but firm hand on your jaw. He hums content before letting go, tucking himself back into his boxers and buttoning up his pants.
“Swallow,” He orders.
You finally close your mouth as you take down what he managed to get on your tongue, intrusive and salty.
He gives a gentle wiggle of his boot and squints at you, surely wearing a smug grin beneath that hood.
“You can clean your face after you finish yourself off, liebling.”
You’re a grown woman. You are allowed to have sex toys - it’s expected even. And yet, you feel guilty. Caught doing something you shouldn’t have been. Body locked up and eyes wide as you stare down at the brightly-colored silicone sex toys resting in the flat of König’s massive palm.
“You don’t need these. I’m enough for you, ja?”
It’s a simple question - a yes or no question - but you both know there was enough strings attached you could spool it into a ball of abrasive twine.
You weigh your options.
‘Yes’ - No more sex toys for you. A life of relying purely on your fingers and him, clit never knowing the buzz of a vibrator again. Giving into his will and letting him control you to a degree that you know isn’t healthy.
‘No’ -
Well, you can’t say no.
Aside from how soul crushing you understand the weight of that word would be coming from you - it’s far from the truth. He is enough for you. More than enough - too big, even. Too insatiable. Too much of an ego to not leave you whimpering and covered in the evidence of finish after finish until you were begging him to stop.
Your hesitance is somehow worse than either of your impossible options. You should have just blurted the first answer that came to mind.
His brow quirks as his gaze continues to bore into you with sly, half-lidded eyes.
“No?” He asks, with a quirk of his brow and a thrilling glint of mischief in his eye.
You still can’t bring yourself to confirm or deny.
He nods in understanding, his giant hands wrapping around your sex toys, so little in his palms.
“That’s okay, mein Nervenkitzel Sucher,” He purrs, “I can share.”
Your shoulders brace instinctively, insides coiling as tight as that ball of abrasive twine, those attached strings getting more and more tangled with every silken word that rolls from his tongue. He says it’s okay - but it sure doesn’t feel like he means it. Choking you with those tricky strings.
The fistful of your sex toys - your misdeeds, your dirty, shameful little secrets - falls to his side. He approaches with precise steps until he’s between your knees, looming over you.
“I’ll show you,” He says with a dangerous crinkle in his eyes, a sickeningly sweet smile surely hidden underneath that mask.
You unintentionally shrink in on yourself in the shadow of his hulking, commanding figure. A calculated move. Not-so-subtly reminding you of just how small and defenseless you are in his presence. His voice drops, and those brows furrow, that smile surely faded behind the black fabric obscuring his face as he stares down at you intensely.
Your mouth has gone dry, your attempt at words - an apology, a flirt, a joke, anything - leaves you as nothing but a dried out squeak lodged deep in the back of your throat.
“I’ll show you how I share.”
-
“Kmph-Kmph!”
“Sh, sh. Isn’t this what you wanted, Blümchen? To keep both?”
You let out a truly pathetic whine, throwing your head back on the mattress. How many times have you cum?
You lost count, lost your very rationality, lost to him - the gift of bittersweet pleasure twisted into something unbearable.
“Greedy, greedy girl.”
Plugged, stuffed, and spread open. Your vibrator buzzes ruthlessly on your abused, swollen, throbbing clit at a torturous speed. Restrained by your own handcuffs, secured tightly to the headboard and keeping you from putting up the fight that would be useless anyway. There’s surely a metaphor hidden somewhere within this detail - but your thoughts are so clouded with arousal there’s no way you’d be find it.
Too much, too much, König, too much!
And while you know he knows exactly what you’re pleading, your mouth will never form the words - stifled by the drool-covered gag nestled between your lips.
His pumps in and out of you at a punishing pace, thick cock soaked with your arousal and disciplined hips snapping against the back of your thighs, ignoring the tears of pure overstimulation streaking down your temples.
He studies you with narrowed, unreadable eyes, watching you writhe. His stare lingers on your chest, arching and twisting beneath him as you fight the cruel pleasure between your legs. His stare is eerily cold for a man whose cock is being pleasured by a warm, tight cunt. You’re not even sure if he’s enjoying it, or if this is purely a lesson he must teach you in his eyes.
You know he’s trying to prove a point - to show you that you only need one or the other. Can’t you see? Both is just too much for a little girl like yourself to handle.
König being so touch-starved and lonely he gets hard anytime you even mundanely touch him.
A playful nudge on his shoulder when he tells a bad joke, a leg pressed to his when you sit next to him, a lull of your head on his bicep after a particularly exhausting day.
He feels like such a creep, cheeks flushed under his hood as he tries to discreetly hide the aching cock straining against the give in his pants.
When you hug him for the first time, giving a squeeze around his strong core, burying your cheek into the space just under his chest, clothed breasts pressed flush against him - he can’t help but twitch into the embrace as he paints the inside of his underwear with his finish. :(
Stalker!König leaving you tokens from the people he’s killed for you.
A silver, plain wedding ring, far too big for any of your fingers, once belonged to the superior who dared raise his voice at you.
The air freshener that used to hang from a rearview mirror, a token from the man that honked and whistled at you from his car while you were walking home.
A wristwatch still stained with dried, crusted blood from the man who didn’t respect your undeservingly-polite rejection to the crude request that you get on your knees for him.
König just wants to make sure you know someone is looking out for you. Even if you don’t know who he is yet, his dedication to protecting you is unwavering.
It’s also a warning. If there are men out there you care about, it might be best for you to not let them get too close to you.
Borrowing Loser!König’s computer and stumbling upon thousands of photos of you. All of them featuring you sleeping peacefully in your dimmed room, the covers pulled back and your pajamas nudged down. Months worth of photos, some where you dawn the cozy pajamas of past winters, to the thin shorts and loose tops you wear in the summers.
They’re dated, each night featuring an album of pictures, every photo more revealing than the last. A little more of your skin exposed with every swipe in the camera roll until he’s freed your tits and cunt, your nipples at attention from the chill night air.
As you comb through the months, the photos get even raunchier, his exploits more daring. His hands cupping the entirely of your little cunt, a few fingers diving into your slit. Hardened hands palming your breasts and tweaking your nipples while you’re lost to blissful unconsciousness, snoring away and oblivious to his perversions.
The photos eventually feature his thick, swollen cock, his hands wrapped around the shaft as he rubs the tip along your exposed skin. Swiping his precum over your thighs, your nipples, your parted lips.
The most recently dated albums always end the same, a picture of you coated in König’s finish, creamy droplets painting your chest, your face, your cunt. Marking you as his own with his cum and making sure the memory is never forgotten, a perfect moment frozen in time for him to enjoy over and over again ♡
