—I have lately began obsessing over this man and I decided to make a König archive of the posts I'm reading and such, I also write my thoughts about him. Enjoy.
Secretary!Reader who's single and incredibly anxious about nearing her 30s and not having a partner who could give her the one thing she so desperately wants - a baby.
You've tried Tinder, blind dates - hell, even visited a psychic to see whether the right man will ever appear in your life, but all you learned is that apparently you should avoid large bodies of water and if another one of your plants dies, it means you have an evil spirit in your house. Whatever. Thirty dollars down the drain and countless dates later, you make peace with the fact you'll die alone and childless. Sure, you've considered the IVF treatment a few times, but the thought of putting stranger's semen in you made you queasy, as it would be impossible to gauge what qualities could your offspring inherit. Nope, better make peace with being a crazy old cat lady.
You're so busy with your job anyway, working as a secretary for KorTac - specifically for Colonel König. He's not at all a bad boss, doesn't ask for much, just for you to do your job and make him a coffee in the morning with an amount of sugar that would kill a horse. He doesn't talk to you much either, just a polite "Guten Morgen" and "Auf Wiedersehen", the occasional "bless you" if you sneeze. Overall, just a quiet, ordinary guy...
...is what you thought until you found a sex toy under his desk. You swear you weren't snooping! You simply entered his office before he arrived to put the coffee cup on the desk and accidentally knocked one of his pens off. When you crouched to pick it up, you froze - taped to the underside of the desk was a fleshlight, and by the specks of dry cum around the entrance, you guessed it was used pretty frequently. You dashed out and nearly ran straight into him, a scream dying in your throat as you choked out something about his coffee being inside.
You spend the rest of your day hunching behind your desk just so you don't have to accidentally make eye contact with him. You're not quite sure what to think of it - you never thought your boss could be so...nasty. It was no wonder a man of his size undoubtedly had a large libido too, but at work?! You try not to think about how many times he's fucked that toy while you sat just outside his door, blissfully unaware of his perverted activities. But as the picture of his milky cum became more vivid in your mind, a rotten seed began blooming between the crevices of your brain, corrupting the part which was supposed to keep you rational and free of such a twisted idea that currently took residence in the forefront of your head.
He's a big guy.
He looks...potent.
Very potent.
You don't act immediately - no, instead, you watch. Carefully, like a prey animal looking for signs of danger. But it's not you who's being hunted - it's him. You take your time analysing every little detail about him: how he holds himself, how he treats others, all the ways his Atlantic blues crinkle behind his hood. You alter your routine; you begin bringing him coffee only after he's arrived and sat down, using the opportunity to make small talk with him, asking about the weather and whatnot. And while he definitely noticed the deviation, he doesn't comment on it, merely entertains your sudden, suspicious desire to interact with him.
Brief exchange of words about weather gradually turns into conversations about hobbies, habits and family. The last one, especially, is of great interest to you. You gently pry your way into his privacy, specifically his health, slowly collecting information about whether his family has any conditions or hereditary traits. His Oma has type 1 diabetes. His father had freckles and so does he. Twins are common in the family on his mother's side. He has a terrible sweet tooth. You store all of the information away, purchase a pipette and wait.
The moment comes on Wednesday at 12:30 o'clock, after you've been straining your ears for a few minutes already, listening to the faintest of his groans and then the final creak of his leather chair as he leans back after another intensive "session". You wait for him to walk out and nod your way before heading for lunch. You nod back, remain in your seat exactly ten seconds after he closes the door and then bolt into his office like your own seat is on fire.
You skitter to his desk, kneel so fast your joints crack and promptly flush when you see the abused fleshlight leaking with his spunk, fresh and creamy, waiting for you. Your hands tremble as you draw the semen into the pipette, eyes constantly flashing to the door even if you know König won't be back for at least another twenty minutes. Still, you make a quick work of it and just as you're about to get up, you pause, gaze lingering on the cum still oozing from the silicone slit.
It's not weird if noone sees you, right?
Cursing yourself, you lean in and give it a quick lick, eyes fluttering at the overwhelming saltiness of it. You make a mental note to make him drink more water.
You slip out of the office and head for lunch as well, pretending you're not carrying your boss's DNA in the pocket of your skirt. The very same evening, you nervously (and amateurishly) inseminate yourself, stubbornly ignoring the nagging little voice that keeps screaming at you that you're a horrible person. And though it's probably right, nothing can compare to the joy you feel when you see the two pink lines on the pee-stick only two weeks later.
Colonel König... Sweet, innocent König - except not at all. Under the (literal) mask, there's always a flutter of pale lashes and cheeks dusted pink reserved for whenever he walks by you, his sweet little secretary. However, his thoughts are far from pure; each time he slips into his office and finds a cup of hot coffee already waiting for him, he gets hard as a rock. Did he assign this duty to you? Yes. Is he still going to view it as you taking care of him out of the goodness of your heart? Also yes.
His little bird, his Schatzi, always on time and so responsible, so kind and smart and yet so, so clueless it's adorable and frustrating at the same time. Why do you torture him, Liebchen? Why won't you look at him for more than just a fleeting second? Have you caught a glance of what's under his hood? He's not even that ugly! He is.
Truth be told, he's been obsessed with you since day one. How could he not be? You were a woman not only competent, but beautiful as well, so much so he couldn't help but think you must have been made for him. He'd take advantage of the fact you rarely made eye contact to blatantly stare at your cleavage, so supple and soft. If only you'd undo one more button of that blouse! If he wasn't staring at your boobs, he'd ogle your ass, so voluptuous and juicy, the lack of panty-line making him suspect you went commando under that. Or maybe you were a thong girl? Whatever was the case, he was always grateful for the desk hiding his raging boner. And don't even get him started on your pudgy belly and just how many times he imagined filling it with his cum.
Despite his admiration, he knew little about you; you were as private as he was, if not more. To him, the mystery just added to your allure. It gave him plenty of room to idolize you, to silently worship you from distance, his unreachable Engel. He spent many nights wondering whether he should ask you out. Gott, he wanted to so badly, but each time he chickened out. A man of his size and standing, a human battering ram of whose every inch has been bathed in enemy blood - scared of being rejected by his work crush. He felt like a coward, but as long as you didn't have a ring on your finger, he was content with simply watching you and secretly fucking his fleshlight to porn of women who vaguely looked like you, his favourites saved in a folder directly in his work computer.
That was, until you started gaining weight. Not that he minded - he'd never complain about a woman having a lot of meat on her bones. At first, he thought the long hours of sitting at work and sweet pastry for snacks was starting to catch up with you, making your curves even more pronounced than before which doubled the fleshlight's daily usage. But then he started noticing other things; how you switched to a different flavour of tea because your favourite suddenly smelled acrid to you, how headaches became an everyday occurance and the total amount of time you spent in the bathroom quickly became equal to the amount of time you spent working. Subsequently, your little morning chats were cut short by nausea.
He quickly grew worried about you. He started leaving little things on your desk whenever he passed by - glass of water, painkillers, candy - whatever he could think of that he could drop off fast enough and bolt away without an explanation. No matter how much he wished to, he just couldn't bring himself to talk to you about your troubles directly; scared he'd come off as nosy, weird or pushy. A man his age, sticking his nose in the business of a young sweet thing. He doubted you'd be amused. Still, you seemed to accept his little gifts, and that was enough for him...
...but then you put in a request for maternity leave. He stares at the form with a blank expression. You're saying something, but the words don't reach him through the blood thrumming in his ears. He can see you starting to squirm, unnerved by his silence. His blues travel from the form to your eyes and then down to your belly, staring at it like it personally offended him that the child inside you wasn't his.
"...Congratulations," he croaks out unenthusiastically while signing the form. You don't seem to mind though, no - you look so happy it makes his heart ache, so excited to bring a new life into this world and be a mama. How could he ever be mad at you?
"I can't wait," you chirp. "I already started shopping for baby clothes, they're quite expensive so I'm not sure how I'll pull off everything alone-"
König pauses, the tip of the pen pressed against the paper so hard it leaves a smudge.
Alone? Alone?!
"No boyfriend? No husband?" he questions, eyes narrowing as he sets the pen down.
You clasp your hands together and nervously fiddle with your fingers. Your eyes flash to the left while you mumble:
"No, no boyfriend or husband. It was, uh...a one-night stand."
"And the man simply... doesn't want to be involved?" he asked, slowly rising to loom above you, the nervous energy he usually carried around you gone.
You gulp and murmur "something like that".
"I see," König replies and then, calm as an Englishman, asks:
"Would you like to marry me then?"
Your jaw drops and in spite of his heart hammering against his ribcage, he can't help but smirk a little under the hood, all while you're pretty sure you heard him wrong.
"Excuse me?"
"You know, for financial security and such," he clarifies, as if that somehow made the proposal perfectly normal.
"Little one will need a father."
And I've always wanted a child.
He's expecting you to immediately reject him, perhaps run out screaming or throw something in his face, but you're silent, as if you're really considering it...
"You see, I don't have children of my own," he adds, a tinge of sadness in his voice.
"I have a house which is too big, too empty for me only."
He steps closer to you, more confident now and yet still somehow vulnerable as he puts his hands on your shoulders and rubs them gently.
"I have a garden too," he continues, eyes pleading.
"And a car. You wouldn't have to go to appointments alone. Or the shops. You could have your own room - I could redo one of the guest ones for you! I could provide for you, I could take care of you, I could- I could-"
He pauses when he notices the tears in your eyes and his heart sinks.
Has he said something wrong?!
"You would do all that?" you choke out.
"For me?"
He sighs in relief and nods.
"Ja, for you. For your little one."
His eyes flick down to your bump, softening as he thinks about the opportunity of raising a child with you - now quite in the way he imagined, but he'd take this over nothing.
"A man who leaves a woman with his child without any intention of any kind of involvement is not a man to me," he states with a quiet firmness, something darker flashing behind his blues before they soften again. He brings his hand up to your cheek and wipes a tear away with his thumb, voice gentle when he speaks again.
"So? What do you say?"
And thus, a mere month later, you find yourself at the start of your second trimester and in a strange arrangement: not engaged (yet), but introduced as his wife anyway, living in his house but treated like YOU own the place, and being eaten away by guilt while you watch your boss fuss over what he thinks is the unborn child of a stranger, but is actually his own seed growing in your womb.
a/n: oOF that was longer than I wanted it to be and I still have a bit more to add, so if anyone is interested in part 2, let me know (and please don't mind the mistakes, I've written this over the course of several late evenings 🙏🏼).
Also, I'd like to apologize for disappearing for so long, but life has been very busy lately - I started my second year at uni, got a new job, became an aunt and unfortunately lost my dear pet to cancer. But as a part of coping (and avoiding studying for finals, teehee), I've been thinking about getting into writing again, as I've never really stopped loving it, I just didn't feel like I had enough time or motivation to do so. But I promise you I've been lurking around here, just among the readers.
I hope everyone is having lovely holidays and is excited for a new year full of new opportunities and experiences! Until next time...
We do need more 'they deserve eachother' situations in fanfics and this is so messed up yet so funny? I need 76200 parts of boss to unconsensual father to actually obsessed boss to husband out of 'need' to lovers
König is a Cat Dad. Source: me and other people that hc as a Cat Dad or a lover of small tiny creatures . But seriously though, König gives off Cat Dad vibes. Like you know that guy is such pussy magnet. A shame that it doesn't attract the kind of pussy that he sometimes craves. But hey, KITTIES!!! He doesn't have game but maybe the reason why he is maidenless is because he is the maiden. A Disney Princess even. A not-so-great childhood and probably a great yearning for love, warmth, happiness, and tender loving care which is probably why he kidnaps his obsession in all those yandere fics that I eat up
Like he most probably did not grow up in a great home. Maybe his dad was shitty and abusive. Maybe his mom is not the best because of said shitty dad. Maybe his Oma was the only person to give him the love he needed and deserved but died when he was in his teenage years and was not that present much in his life. We know for a fact that he was severely bullied and that contributed to his anxiety (if it that wasn't the cause for his anxiety). That is already an ingredient for a classic Disney Princess if you think about it. I like to think that some animals just gravitate towards him. I feel like he tries keep himself still when necessary but can't because he just can't do it. But when he's relaxed (and probably all alone), I feel like he attracts a number of creatures. Maybe a cat, a puppy, a rat, bunny, spider, someone wants to smoosh their face on his tiddies, bugs etc.
I also do think people avoid him, not because of his huge frame (I don't think people are scared of tall and muscular men in normal situations that aren't necessary hostile or middle of a isolated place at night, his face though...) but because of his personality. Nothing might be necessarily wrong with it. He's not rude or anything as such but maybe he's just too quiet or just asocial and sometimes does and says things that can be mean or rude even if he didn't mean it that way. Let's not ignore preexisting biases that all people have that he also have that influences his actions (maybe a little bit of sexism or racism or shallowness despite not liking shallow people). It's just that combined with his face (not ugly but also not conventionally attractive nor even normal/average looking) and his build, and you got yourself a maidenless man who only attracts pussy of the animal kind and not the sexy one.
Where am I going with this?
A lot of people hc him as Cat Dad or a as some kind of Creature Dad and there are countless fics that depicts him as a poor abandoned mistreated rabid dog that may or may not have kidnapped their loved one. But have you ever noticed how almost none of these two categories ever intersect? I have frankly never read a fic where König kidnaps you (as usual <3) and he also happens to have a pet that isn't you. Ghost may have Soap (or he might have you for Soap). But König only has you. No mention of other family or people that he just sees more than a nuisance/coworker/annoyance/stranger (maybe save for Horangi but usually it verges into poly and I only read one yan König fic where he is really just friends with Horangi).
Which means König kidnaps his beloved because he has NO KIBTY!!!
If you think about it, WE (the reader) ARE THE KIBTY!!!
He picks us up whether we liked/wanted it or not, keeps us in his house, makes us cuddle with him even if we don't want to, feeds us, sometimes bully us, and acts upon his gigil/cuteness agression and proceeds to bites us or smth. If the König is particularly nice or affectionate in the fic, probably buys us stuff we need/want. All his mortal belongings goes to his kibty. Be it an animal Kibty or a kidnapped Kibty. And he does not need to kidnap a cat, they come to him willingly.
Driving Kidnapper!König insane with how obsessed you are with him (pt 2)
Tw: kidnapping (obviously), obsessive behavior, trivializing of serious problems, rom-com environment for a crime lmao
After König told you he liked you, you took it as a 'go ahead' to start being more affectionate with him. After all, you were now dating!
You didn't really know if you'd call it dating, on your part, you guys were definitely (and obviously) exclusive with him, and in truth you had been for longer than you'd care to admit. You met him while working as a cashier during the summer to make some extra money; He caught your attention initially because of his very noticeable height and maked face, and he seemed like he was very short on time, so you didn't make any small talk, though you were in a good mood that day, you remembered a lot of details from that day, after all, it was when you first saw him. And maybe it was just because you had a thing for tall men, but you felt inevitably drawn to him, almost sighing as you scanned his meager purchase of two shrimp-flavored ramen and a water bottle. He paid with card, so you didn't even have the time to brush his hand with and feel the electricity like you've seen in countless movies and books.
But all good things come to an end, the cashier you were covering came back to work, and you left the job with a bit of extra pay and your tail tucked between your legs.
But he came back. Unmasked this time, you could tell it was him by his eyes and frame. He was in more casual clothes and clearly struggling with the heat, as his face and ears were all red when he passed by your stall to check out. He bought a beer and a packet of frozen fruit. He kept coming back that summer, and you tried to sneak in some small talk and even a compliment, but mostly, you got monosylabbles or criptical answers; if you had been anyone else you would have given up. But you didn't, you tried all summer, each wave, each smile, each meaningful graze of your hand against his, everything you did was with the intention of inviting the man you had grown so enamored with.
He was romantic, in a way. He followed you after your shift was over sometimes, you could tell; you thought about inviting him into your house, but he was always gone a block after reaching your home.
He left flowers in your dresser, little bouquets of white flowers, white roses, edelweiss, baby's breaths, they were all so delicate; so delicate you were surprised his hands didn't crush them. He must be gentle, so gentle and careful, you wondered if he'd ever touch you like that.
You never spoke to him about the presents.
It all worked out in the end, though, you were here, with him!
Even if you still didn't know what to call him, even if he wouldn't let you out of this place.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You had a little calendar, it was an old one, from 1991, when you asked, he said it was because it had a pretty design, though you knew it was probably so you didn't work what date it was, but the design was pretty.
König didn't allow you a lot of contact with the outside world, and it was beginning to bother you, but all your reasons, when met with his stoicism and honesty, seemed like the tantrum of a child.
"Can I have Netflix?" You asked, sitting beside him while painting a wooden box, hobby you acquired through him, as all your new hobbies.
"No, you can tell the time from there."
"Can I have a clock?"
"I will always tell you if it's time to eat or wake or sleep." He said, looking at you with what you started to recognize as tenderness. It was sweet of him, truly, and though his constant refusal was bugging you, his protectiveness of you made up for it.
"Why do you leave for so long?" You asked one time, with a pouty expression, trying to elicit some more of those fuzzy feelings out of him, in one of the occasions you got him to lower his guard enough for him to sneak into your pillow haven of a bed and cuddle you.
"I can't tell you, Schatz." He said, a hand petting your hair. "All you should know is that you can never take for granted when I am outside and when I am waiting for you upstairs."
Virgin!König is fucking ravenous. Joining the military at 17 and generally being unpleasant didn't give him many options, always focusing on pushing his body to the limit rather than trying to find something to fuck. He can't handle rejection— it's too much for him. He's too prideful, too intense.
Virgin!König is a fucking loser. He doesn't know if he's looking too deep into it when you willingly start to spend more time alone with him, always touching a part of him no matter what. He excuses himself to the bathroom when you put your hand on his thigh, trying his best to make his boner go down, yet no matter what, his fat cock stays up until he jerks off.
Once you break down his walls and get him to fuck you? Poor you.
König jackhammers his meaty cock into you at a punishing rhythm, letting you feel every single inch of his hard dick. He's too big, crushing you down with his massive body yet too pussy-drunk to even realize. The only thing he can feel is your cunt wrapping perfectly around him, his leaking tip slamming into your spongy cervix every single time.
Needy, open-mouthed kisses are planted all over your neck before he goes down, desperately latching onto one of your nipples to muffle his embarrassingly high-pitched whimpers.
His thrusts are nothing short of brutal, using your much smaller body as a fleshlight, mind too hazy to focus on anything other than using your little hole to make himself cum.
His tongue circles your nipple before he starts suckling into it again, desperately trying to go deeper even when the entrance of your cervix is stopping him. His hips crash against yours, jackhammering into you without care until he's able to slam his cock as deep inside of you as possible, shooting ropes of thick, white cum right into your fertile, needy womb.
He's not embarrassed about cumming fast, already feeling his cock harden into your cunt, ready for another round.
Driving kidnapper!König insane with how obsessed you are with him
König knew you would need some getting used to your new environment once he brought you home. So he made sure to isolate you as you began your acclimation process in the basement; no phones, no outside world, no windows, no sunlight unless you're blindfolded and collared... It hurt him, but it has to be done.
You'd cry, and you'd curse him, and you'd need a while to realize this is the best for you, that you love each other. You might even get violent, and he was fully prepared to face it with patience. It's not like a little thing like you can hurt him anyway.
But then, you opened your eyes to your new world, resting your head in two pillows and covered with fluffy blankets and a duvet that smelled like your favorite brand of wash soap.
You panicked, of course, you didn't remember how you got here! But then you saw him. You saw him. That man with a hood that you always ran into at work, that sometimes followed you, and who spoke little, but his accent made you weak in the knees. You found it romantic when he followed you home or when he took some of your things or when he left flowers in your dresser. He brought here, another grand gesture on his part, he shouldn't have.
The place was very nice, well decorated, cozy, he remembered the things you liked.
So you could only giggle like a fool and say his name as if it was a greeting. He looked at you confused. Surely, the shock had you acting erratically, but he couldn't deny your flushed cheeks and almost coy demeanor made his tummy erupt with butterflies. Fuck, he forgot what to say, he even had a little speech prepared.
"You will stay here." He said, his accent thick and voice commanding, maybe too commanding, he didn't want to scare you off but didn't want to seem weak either.
"Forever?" You asked, biting your lip.
"For now." He responded, "You can, I mean, this is for you to get used to your home, a safe place, not forever."
You almost seemed sad, but were beaming again when you understood he still wanted you to stay here. You saw no problem with being here for a long time, though, it was quite homely.
During the following days he came down to give you your meals, eat with you in silence as you talked his ear off about the plot of the book you were reading, from the books he left you in your little home. He didn't speak much, he was tense. Afraid of the moment where reality came crashing down for you and you had a breakdown, this must be just a coping mechanism. But the days went on, and on, and you were cheery and a bird. A bird in a cage.
He thought the moment had come when you were quiet when you were eating with him, the few moments you spent with him, he was upstairs most times. You were nervous, like you were lost in complicated thoughts. He was ready to face your breakdown and console you. But instead, you looked up at him doe-eyed. "Do you like me?" You asked, more like a schoolgirl than a grown adult.
He wanted to laugh. And he did. Like you? LIKE YOU? Were you blind? Were you still dazed from the drugs? He adored you, he drank your presence like it was the elixir of eternal life, he looked at you like you were an angel, and you were, he swore you were. You were an angel, sent at the wrong time. The world was too dirty for you to clean it, for you to have to see and face evil, the casual cruelty of reality.
König saw your face of hurt, from your perspective, he was laughing at you. He coughed awkwardly. "I love you." He said, flat, factual, a statement more than a confession.
He thought it would be now, that you would be repulsed, that you'd finally start fearing him, as you should have done since the beginning. Fear was healthy, and he was willing to endure being feared by you. He needed to be, he needed to punish himself with your disgust.
But your mouth just made a cute "Oh." And smiled again.
You were fawning. König was sure, he feared you were brain damaged, had he ever been careless enough to deprive you of oxygen when he brought you here? The mere possibility of that made him want flay himself alive.
You were happy. However, it was straight out of a love story.
i love this concept!! usually kidnapping aus stress me out and i can’t read them, but this is such a nice change of pace from how they usually go!! would love more parts to this!!!! 🩷
Driving kidnapper!König insane with how obsessed you are with him
Tw: kidnapping (obviously), obsessive behavior, trivializing of serious problems, rom-com environment for a crime lmao
König knew you would need some getting used to your new environment once he brought you home. So he made sure to isolate you as you began your acclimation process in the basement; no phones, no outside world, no windows, no sunlight unless you're blindfolded and collared... It hurt him, but it has to be done.
You'd cry, and you'd curse him, and you'd need a while to realize this is the best for you, that you love each other. You might even get violent, and he was fully prepared to face it with patience. It's not like a little thing like you can hurt him anyway.
But then, you opened your eyes to your new world, resting your head in two pillows and covered with fluffy blankets and a duvet that smelled like your favorite brand of wash soap.
You panicked, of course, you didn't remember how you got here! But then you saw him. You saw him. That man with a hood that you always ran into at work, that sometimes followed you, and who spoke little, but his accent made you weak in the knees. You found it romantic when he followed you home or when he took some of your things or when he left flowers in your dresser. He brought here, another grand gesture on his part, he shouldn't have.
The place was very nice, well decorated, cozy, he remembered the things you liked.
So you could only giggle like a fool and say his name as if it was a greeting. He looked at you confused. Surely, the shock had you acting erratically, but he couldn't deny your flushed cheeks and almost coy demeanor made his tummy erupt with butterflies. Fuck, he forgot what to say, he even had a little speech prepared.
"You will stay here." He said, his accent thick and voice commanding, maybe too commanding, he didn't want to scare you off but didn't want to seem weak either.
"Forever?" You asked, biting your lip.
"For now." He responded, "You can, I mean, this is for you to get used to your home, a safe place, not forever."
You almost seemed sad, but were beaming again when you understood he still wanted you to stay here. You saw no problem with being here for a long time, though, it was quite homely.
During the following days he came down to give you your meals, eat with you in silence as you talked his ear off about the plot of the book you were reading, from the books he left you in your little home. He didn't speak much, he was tense. Afraid of the moment where reality came crashing down for you and you had a breakdown, this must be just a coping mechanism. But the days went on, and on, and you were cheery and a bird. A bird in a cage.
He thought the moment had come when you were quiet when you were eating with him, the few moments you spent with him, he was upstairs most times. You were nervous, like you were lost in complicated thoughts. He was ready to face your breakdown and console you. But instead, you looked up at him doe-eyed. "Do you like me?" You asked, more like a schoolgirl than a grown adult.
He wanted to laugh. And he did. Like you? LIKE YOU? Were you blind? Were you still dazed from the drugs? He adored you, he drank your presence like it was the elixir of eternal life, he looked at you like you were an angel, and you were, he swore you were. You were an angel, sent at the wrong time. The world was too dirty for you to clean it, for you to have to see and face evil, the casual cruelty of reality.
König saw your face of hurt, from your perspective, he was laughing at you. He coughed awkwardly. "I love you." He said, flat, factual, a statement more than a confession.
He thought it would be now, that you would be repulsed, that you'd finally start fearing him, as you should have done since the beginning. Fear was healthy, and he was willing to endure being feared by you. He needed to be, he needed to punish himself with your disgust.
But your mouth just made a cute "Oh." And smiled again.
You were fawning. König was sure, he feared you were brain damaged, had he ever been careless enough to deprive you of oxygen when he brought you here? The mere possibility of that made him want flay himself alive.
You were happy. However, it was straight out of a love story.
— cw/tw: 18+ | dead dove:do not eat; obsession; delusion; forced proximity; smut; somnophilia; noncon; (wc: 5.7k)
Please note that this is part of Kinktober. Some things are not tagged to avoid spoilers. Read at own risk .ᐟ
Call of Spooky 2025 Masterlist
*The graffiti says No curse is worse than love.
König watches, watches, watches.
And when his duties keep him from watching, then he dreams about you.
Alone in his bunk in some safehouse outside of Zaravan City, a bunk way too short and narrow for his massive frame, he rubs the front of his combat trousers until his bulge grows and throbs against the zipper uncomfortably while he keeps huffing your gift under his sniper hood—such a pretty gift you’d left just for him before he had to leave for another deployment.
Found atop your laundry hamper when he went through your apartment for his monthly safety inspection tour the day before he had to leave again, he tucked them into his pocket after checking the cameras he’d installed.
But the pair of plain white cotton panties, the ones you wear whenever you’re bleeding, have lost their flavour at this point; its gusset, previously so rich with your lovely fragrance, is soaked through with his saliva and cum now, and König fucking hates it.
Whining low in his throat like some mutt denied a treat, he stuffs the fabric further up his nose, sniffing it like a frantic bloodhound to get a last remnant of your scent as he rips open the Velcro of his trousers and pulls down the zipper to fumble his aching cock out.
Stroking himself with rough twists of his wrist, twice, thrice—a few more times, he groans deep in his chest as his balls throb, and he shoots his load all over his olive-green tac shirt, making a mess all up to his heaving chest.
He squeezes his pulsing cock until he groans, breathing heavy under the black cloth covering his identity as he stares down at himself—imagining once more how your beautiful pussy might feel sinking down on his aching flesh while you whimper and squeal as your body finally gives and moulds itself around his large size.
Would you cry tears of pleasure? He exhales shakily as his cockhead flares with a fresh dribble of precum, the ache of his desire for you still burning in his loins.
Fuck. He knows you’d look even prettier split open on his fat cock.
His pretty, pretty princess.
And right when he inhales deeply, heavy eyelids fluttering shut as he begins stroking himself to the thoughts of you once more, a few loud knocks rattle the tattered door to the single bedroom so harshly, he fears it might burst out of its hinges.
“WHAT?” the former Colonel bellows, still clutching his cock in his gloved hand while a spike of agitation makes his cheeks burn hotly under his self–made hood. “I’M BUSY!”
“Schluss mit wichsen!” It’s Krüger, his disrespectful shithead squadmate. “We got orders to move!”
König groans and sinks deeper into the bunk while the bedsprings squeak under his heavy weight. He growls impatiently as he hears Krüger snicker at the other side of the door before his retreating footsteps fade away, no doubt to go inform the rest of KorTac that their Austrian Commander was too busy stroking off to get his ass moving.
“Scheiße,” he murmurs to himself under his breath and throws back his hood to rake a hand through his sweaty hair as he looks down at his now–wilted cock.
König hurriedly tucks himself back into his combat trousers with an annoyed huff, hastily wiping his hands on the stained tac shirt before peeling it off. He glances longingly at your panties still clutched in his other hand.
“Mein Engel... you make it so hard to focus,” he mutters darkly as he carefully folds the damp fabric into a Ziplock bag from old field rations.
The metal locker chest by his bunk squeaks when he opens it to stash this newest “memento” in the growing collection—all neatly labelled by date and location retrieved. His gloved fingers linger over a special prize: one of your hair ties still holding a few strands of your hair. The one he loves to wear around the base of his cock.
When his comms crackle to life with Krüger’s obnoxious voice, his agitation spikes again: “Fünf Minuten, König! Oder ich komm da rein und hol dich persönlich!”
A muscle ticks in König’s jaw as he slams the locker chest shut hard enough to make the whole bunk shake, “Anyone touches that fucking door and I’ll reassign them permanently to latrine duty.”
There’s only silence on the other end now. Good. With a final longing glance toward Zaravan City’s skyline just visible through grimy (temporary) barracks windows, he pulls up footage from your apartment cameras on his tablet.
Just checking in before deployment... just to get his fill and make sure no threats have appeared while he’s away...
The screen lights up, gnarly and pixeled, showing you currently flitting around your kitchen in a comfortable hoodie and leggings combo, humming along to some pop song while making coffee.
König steps off the plane’s cargo ramp onto the tarmac, heavy boots thudding on metal and steel as his eyes already fixate on the familiar skyline of the city, illuminated by the low, golden glow of the setting sun.
It's been six weeks this time, far too long in his mind.
The season has changed while he’s been away; turning from a late summer to autumn in a blink, or so it feels. It’s colder, crisp, as soon as the sun disappears behind thick clouds. Another sign that your life keeps going on, flowing with the seasons, though lacking his presence and guidance while his duties keep him away so much.
He struts stiffly, flanked by a few KorTac men including Krüger and Horangi, the latter of whom gives him a wary look under a baseball cap.
However, König ignores it, too focused on the familiar weight of the duffel bag on his broad shoulders and the need to just finally see you again—no matter how artificial that “meeting” will have to be.
He knows your routines by heart. Perhaps he’ll meet you at the gym or in the hallway, and perhaps this time he’ll have the balls to make eye–contact for once.
The KorTac team, exhausted and weary, moves through the military base towards the motor pool where their jeeps and cars are parked while König’s long strides outpace everyone else’s with graceful ease.
Krüger snickers. “Eager to get out of here, eh Colonel? Gonna see your girl? Have a sniff right from the source?” His words are dripping with sarcasm, and König hates how fast his face begins to grow hot under his hood. The fellow Austrian doesn’t relent, “Are you even sure she’s single? Woman like her must have a shitload of dudes on standby—”
Despite his anxiousness, he snaps him a nasty look. “Shut your mouth before I shut it for you, man.” He exhales sharply through his nose, adjusting the straps of his old duffel bag with unnecessary force.
“Standby,” he then mutters under his breath, voice dripping with disdain. As if anyone could compare to him—the one who watches over you, protects you, knows you better than anyone ever could. His jaw clenches at the mere thought of some stranger touching what is rightfully his.
Krüger raises an eyebrow but wisely keeps quiet, ignoring Horangi’s muttered curse.
The worn leather creaks in protest as König’s fingers tighten around the strap again, briefly imagining them around his teammate’s neck. His pulse thrums erratically under his hood—half from rage, half from shame at being so transparent, and how easily he keeps letting them get under his skin.
“Fuck, you’re all insufferable,” he grits out before shoving past Krüger toward his Mercedes jeep. The keys are already in his pocket, and he doesn’t wait for dismissal or goodbyes.
The engine roars to life, and König peels out of the motor pool fast enough to kick gravel at their boots before the city blurs outside the window as he drives recklessly toward your shared apartment complex, tactical gear still strapped to his body, fingers drumming impatiently on the wheel whenever traffic slows him down. His mind races with possibilities, and a particularly dark thought slithers through his fried brain—
You could have been with someone else while I was gone. The steering wheel groans under his grip as König floors it through a yellow light just as it turns red behind him.
A crispy autumn breeze sweeps through your place when you open the balcony door in your living room after leaving your front door cracked open as well, leaving one of your shoes between door and frame to keep it from slamming shut right away.
The open–space apartment smells like pumpkin spice, bourbon vanilla and cinnamon, thanks to the Yanke candles you’ve been burning every evening since the first leaves have changed colours, and the temperature has dropped.
You’ve decorated, changed your bed sheets to something warmer, added pillows and another fluffy blanket in preparation for your favourite seasons to come—always craving coziness and comfort.
König stands in the darkened hallway, his gloved fingers brushing over the doorframe of your apartment as he takes it all in—its scent, the warmth, you. His breath hitches when a stray breeze carries pumpkin spice straight to him like some cruel taunt of domesticity he can’t have.
You've changed things again, and he wasn’t there to witness it.
Peeking through the gap of your front door, he notes every little difference with clinical precision—the new knitted throw blanket draped over the couch (would it smell like you if he buried his face in it?), those ridiculous seasonal candles (he could pocket one just to keep your essence close), and most damningly... two wine glasses drying by the sink. His stomach drops.
Boots are silent against hardwood as he creeps forward on pure muscle memory alone, pushing the door open before it can creak—until movement in his peripherals catch his attention through your slightly ajar bedroom door.
How can you even be this foolish and keep your front door open like this? Unless—
And König freezes mid‒step when he sees you lounging on that freshly made bed in nothing but an oversized hoodie and pair of baggy sweatpants, your feet clad in a pair of thick, fuzzy socks with black cats and pumpkins stitched onto. You’re idly scrolling through your phone while humming some tune like this isn’t about to ruin him completely for another three months of deployment without you.
The sight punches all the oxygen right from his lungs worse than any bullet ever could, because there’s no denying how painfully real you are compared to whatever desperate fantasy gets him through long nights overseas where even stolen panties aren’t enough anymore.
König’s heart beats wildly in his throat as he stares, frozen in place in the middle of your apartment, stuck between kitchenette and living room. His darkened eyes rove over your body from behind his hood. Longing that borders on desperate hunger.
All sweet, with your legs tucked under the sheets, your chest rising and falling with each breath. He’d eat you whole if you’d only let him.
And those damn wine glasses by the sink.
A hot, sharp spike of jealousy pierces through his chest at the thought that someone else could have been sitting across from you, sharing wine, sharing your smile, your laughs—enjoying you in a way he wishes he could—on the night he returned home.
And when a low, strangled sound pushes past his clenched jaw, he cannot even swallow it—half anger, half agony.
His fingers twitch at his sides as he forces himself to turn away from the bedroom door. He can’t be caught here—not yet, not like this.
But he does allow himself to walk over and let his other hand ghost over the kitchen countertop where you prepare meals while you’re still unaware of his presence—pondering if he could take one of those damn wine glasses right now.
Smash it, so no one else ever drinks from it again.
The creak of mattress springs makes him freeze mid‒reach. You’re shifting positions on the bed, maybe to get up. His skin prickles with a rush of adrenaline as König exhales through gritted teeth, finally retreating toward the front door like a phantom—but not before scooping up that ridiculous pumpkin spice scented candle with its wax half‒melted.
The decision to burn it later in his own apartment while watching your live feed is made on the spot. And he’ll imagine those supple hands of yours lighting wicks and fluffing pillows that should be shared with him instead.
As he slips silently back into the hallway, but not before shoving your shoe aside and closing your front door properly, Krüger’s taunt from earlier echoes in his skull: “Are you even sure she’s single?”
Four days later, König finally snaps.
He’s been following the live feed from your apartment obsessively since his return—watching as you laugh into your phone screen, curl up with a book, cook meals in that damn hoodie he wants to steal and never give back. But mostly, he’s been watching him.
That fucking lawyer from the floor above who keeps “accidentally” running into you by the mailboxes or offering to help carry groceries upstairs. The way his hands linger just a second too long when passing over bags of groceries or that one time he dared to touch your lower back when holding open the lobby door for you yesterday—all captured in crisp 4K resolution through König’s hidden cameras.
He’s the one who drank wine with you. David Nowak, who plays golf every Sunday.
Was ein Wichser.
And tonight, this bastard had the audacity to bring you takeout after noticing on some social media bullshit (an app König only downloaded to create a throwaway to follow you) that you weren’t feeling well—making himself cozy on your couch while handing over containers like some chivalrous knight instead of rotting where he belongs: six feet under dirt where the mercenary himself would gladly bury the prick if given half a chance right now.
His bare fingers curl around the cool metal railing of his own balcony. Gusts of wind whip past his uncovered face in the darkness while he keeps replaying the footage in his mind.
Whenever he closes his eyes, your smile makes something vile twist inside ribcage while David’s annoying laughter keeps echoing inside his head, already haunting him.
Fury throbs hotly alongside jealousy until it becomes unbearable beneath his shirt stretched taut across his broad shoulders. No matter how many cigarettes he smokes to distract himself, lungs filling with burning tar with each long drag, or how many times his vision blurs with rage‒filled tears threatening to spill over, it doesn’t change the fact that König cannot keep going like this; not when you consume his every thought, awake or not.
This isn’t working anymore. Not with that guy now in the picture.
A plan starts forming between gritted teeth then; something far more permanent than cameras ever were meant to be anyway–
“Time’s up, Engelchen,” he rasps out before crushing his cigarette under his bare foot harder than strictly necessary before disappearing inside his own apartment once more.
König waits until the clock strikes 0200 AM—that precise hour when most if not all neighbours have finally succumbed to sleep on a weekday. His gloved fingers methodically assemble the kit he’s prepared with his most trusted friends’ help:
A syringe of propofol (acquired from KorTac's medical supplies, provided by Horagi). Heavy-duty zip ties (the kind that won’t break under even his considerable strength, provided by Krüger). A rolled‒up canvas bag lined with soundproofing material (owned and provided by Nikto). Neither of them asked any questions.
David is an easy mark—predictable in his routines after a short time of observation, soft around the middle from too many client dinners and lack of proper exercise, too arrogant to notice he’s being stalked by an apex predator.
König had watched through binoculars as David stumbled drunk into his apartment an hour ago after some pretentious fundraiser.
Now he crouches before David’s door, picking the lock with steady hands despite how violently his pulse thunders in his ears. The metallic click almost sounds dooming in the empty hallway.
Inside, David snores face‒down on Egyptian cotton sheets that smell like expensive cologne and single‒malt scotch‒laced sweat. And despite his size, the mercenary moves like smoke across polished hardwood floors until he looms over the bed—until one gloved hand clamps over David’s mouth while another drives the needle straight into the exposed flesh of his pale neck before those bleary eyes can even flutter open properly.
“Shhh,” König hushes as David weakly struggles against him for exactly six seconds before going completely slack under his grip—just long enough to make sweat bead along König’s hairline beneath his hood. “Just a little taste of what you deserve, lover boy.”
By 0215 AM, the security cameras inside the whole apartment complex are malfunctioning.
By 0222 AM, undisturbed darkness settles back over the many empty hallways of the building, where nothing else seems amiss—except perhaps a faint chemical scent that briefly lingers near your doorstep where someone may have paused just a moment too long before carrying something heavy wrapped tightly inside an industrial ‒grade canvas bag towards and unmarked, black van parked outside.
And you remain peacefully asleep throughout it all—blissfully unaware, curled under a weighted blanket, smudged mascara shadowing your cheeks while, somewhere else, gloved fingertips reverently brush across an array of monitors displaying your sleeping form from multiple camera angles.
It has been a week.
David has ghosted you, it seems, which shouldn’t be as surprising as it is. Even worse, it scratches at your insecurities until the scabs come off and they’re left gaping and itching like an open wound—ready to fester into something mean if you don’t start tending to it soon.
You were sure he liked you. Hell, he didn’t even pressure you to become intimate—which is the bare fucking minimum, but apparently already too much to ask for nowadays.
The sound of your driver’s door slamming shut with too much force echoes through the underground garage like thunder rumbling through pouring clouds. With swift steps and clutching your purse, you make your way towards the elevator, though deep in your self‒loathing spiral, you nearly miss the trio of men already lingering there, looking rather menacing with their obscured faces, each one clad in some sort of black security gear. A parked, black van close by.
Your steps falter briefly like a fawn learning to walk.
This feels like a scene straight out of those dark romance novels your best friend keeps yapping to you about. It doesn’t feel exciting, though.
Intimidating? Scary? Yes.
Your heart stutters, your cheeks grow hot as soon as three pairs in different shades of blue snap towards you with freakish precision, like predators sniffing out wounded prey. The tallest one you recognize as the strange neighbour, the soldier, from your floor; the one who only ever seems to linger like a phantom in the corner of your eyes whenever you come and go.
Clutching your bag tighter, you clear your throat and straighten your shoulders, “Good evening,” you greet them in passing, hoping they’ll leave it at that.
König's entire body stiffens under his tactical gear when he hears your voice. His gloved fingers twitch at his sides as those ocean‒blue eyes burn into you from behind the sniper hood.
Mein Engel... so close, in the flesh.
The other two operatives—Krüger and Nikto—exchange knowing glances before smirking under their own masks, well aware of who you are to their obsessed commander.
Nikto nudges König with an elbow, whispering something in Russian that makes the Austrian’s ears burn crimson beneath his hood.
König doesn’t move at first, too busy drinking in every detail of you coming home from your late shift at work—the way your hands clutch your bag defensively (he wants to pry them open and lace his fingers through yours), and how your throat bobs when you swallow nervously (he wants to bite it). But then reality crashes back down on him like a bucket of ice water, when Krüger clears his throat pointedly.
“H-Hello,” König finally rasps out, voice rougher than intended thanks to days spent screaming profanities at someone inside a soundproof basement. His accent curls thickly around the words like smoke from one of those damn pumpkin candles he stole from you last week (now sitting on his nightstand).
The elevator dings open behind them but none of the men make a move to enter yet—too focused on watching you. König steps aside just enough so there’s space for you specifically while effectively blocking off Krüger and Nikto if they dared try entering with him now.
“Pisdez... and we thought we are sick,” Nikto mutters under his breath, tapping a gloved finger against his skull. Next to him, Krüger shakes his head in amusement, uttering: “Schwachkopf.”
Meanwhile, König ignores them pointedly. His chest aches looking at how tired and sad you seem tonight. Oh, was David that much of a coward? Not even one little text, hm? Schande über sein Haupt. And his lips twitch under the black cloth at his own sarcastic thoughts, but he manages to suppress his chuckle this time.
“You look... cold,” he murmurs instead while resisting every urge inside him screaming take her take her take her and keep her safe.
Krüger snorts behind him before muttering something about “simping” under his breath, swiftly earning a sharp elbow jab straight to the ribs. A courtesy from his commander, who towers over everyone present including poor unsuspecting you, currently standing frozen in place like the sweetest bunny rabbit—probably wondering why this masked giant smells faintly like cinnamon and bourbon vanilla underneath the faintest traces of gunpowder and something more metallic.
However, before your eyes can widen further—DING! The elevator doors begin sliding shut abruptly, snapping König out of his admiring trance, but his feet feel heavy like concrete, and he stays rooted on the spot.
Scheiße.
As the elevator doors slide closed on your beautiful face, the only thought left in his brain is: Don’t.
Don’t leave without him. Don’t be sad anymore when he’s right here. Don’t make a fool of yourself in front of your men, the little rational part of him still left pleads. The far more primal part of him, however, screams at him to reach out, to grab your wrist—just once, just to feel your fluttering pulse beneath his fingers again—but he clenches his jaw instead, fists tightening and trembling at his sides.
Scheiße.
Once the doors close with dreadful finality, his stomach plummets with nausea and his throat bobs dryly with unsaid words stuck below his Adam’s apple.
“Jesus Maria und Josef.” Krüger huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose through his own mask, “That was... hard to watch.”
“Do not fret, my friend,” Nikto mutters, clapping König’s shoulder firmly. “She did look smitten with you.”
König grits his teeth; his jaw clicks with the pressure.
That’s what hurts the most.
He knows you are, so why keep pretending? You’re supposed to be together. He knew the moment your eyes first locked with his on the day you moved in.
Krüger, ever the smartass, can’t seem to help himself, either. He laughs roughly and shakes his head at the ceiling as he fumbles a pack of cigarettes from a vest pocket, “Brother, smitten? Did we watch the same thing?” He gestures at the closed elevator before pulling his mask up to free his lips and stuff a cigarette between them, mumbling around the filter, “She looked like she was about to fucking piss herself, man.”
König is tempted to put Krüger through a wall just then. The only thing holding him back is the knowledge that he might need his help again in the future.
You were just nervous. Not afraid. Not of me. Never could be.
That doesn’t help soothe the ache in his ribcage at all, though, nor does it settle the queasy anxiety gnawing at his stomach.
When he finally speaks, it comes out strangled, gruff beneath the cloth over his face, “Halt doch einfach mal dein Maul, Sebi.”
It feels like the universe is playing a cruel joke on him and you—determined to keep you apart while all he wants is to crawl into your lap and be called a good boy.
Your good boy.
He’d teach you to say it in German, make it sound even more real.
König sobs brokenly at the thought; his sweaty forehead rests in his palm, elbow braced on his knee as he sits on his couch in boxershorts, clutching a bottle of beer in his other hand while his cigarette burns to the filter in the ashtray on the coffee table.
The message with new orders came in right as he entered his apartment. A notification about an upcoming deployment already tightening around his neck like a noose, and he’s been wallowing in self‒pity since; now barely able to watch your feed. It hurts too much, knowing he’ll have to leave you so soon again.
It’s odd, though, because it seems like you already know about the bad news as you drink away your own sorrows, clutching your third glass of red wine while sitting on your couch, all cuddled up in your hoodie and pajama shorts, watching some reality show—getting drunker by the minute while König watches through the screen with glossy eyes.
Sneaking into your apartment at night has always left him feeling a certain kind of way.
The thrill of finally being in your space (again), paired by the fact you’re oblivious to all of it, always makes his blood stir, his pulse rise, and his cock throb in his pants with every careful step he prowls into your apartment.
The scent of your perfume and wine is thick in the air. Smoke curls up in the air from a burnt‒out candlewick on the coffee table as the gust of air kills the candle.
The standby image of your TV casts a blue glow over your frame in the otherwise dark space.
All curled up and knocked out on the couch—your lips slightly parted, cheeks warm from alcohol—has him swallowing hard underneath his plain balaclava.
He should turn back. König knows he should turn back, but he needs this. Gott, he needs you. And then you shift on the cushions with a quiet whimper, kicking off one sock unconsciously (that he picks up and tucks into his pants pocket), asleep against the armrest, and something inside him snaps.
He moves before his brain can catch up with his body—boots silent on the plush carpet as he crosses toward you like a starving man to a feast before he scoops you up with the utmost care. A brutish giant carrying a fair maiden.
König has never been this bold, never touched you this risky, but fuck it if your warmth and weight don’t feel intoxicating in his care.
You sigh softly in your sleep, murmuring something incoherent under your sweet breath that makes heat crawl down his spine like wildfire spreading through dry brushwood. Every single muscle in that massive frame tenses painfully tight beneath his clothes clinging desperately to sweat‒damp skin as he carries you into your bedroom and lays you down onto your bed.
Your bedroom is bathed in shadows as a sliver of moonlight spills inside through the blinds. König lingers at your bedside for a long moment, watching how your lashes flutter against the apples of your cheeks—how you instinctively curl deeper into the warmth of your blankets like some fairytale princess safe in her tower.
His fingers twitch with barely restrained want. Pretty, pretty princess.
One touch.
That’s all he wants. Just one single touch to tide him over during those long, lonely nights ahead of him where he might not have access to his cameras or stolen trinkets—just memories of you and whatever fragile sanity they bring along with them.
When his gloved fingertips finally graze over yours where they lay curled loosely atop crumpled sheets, you exhale softly in your sleep. A tiny little thing straight out of one of his forbidden fantasies. The ones where he explores your body to see what you like; maybe use the knowledge he gathered whenever he was able to witness you touching yourself at night.
It makes his shallow breath stutter painfully inside his constricted lungs while his blood keeps rushing south fast enough to make black spots appear and start dancing along his peripheral vision momentarily.
Too close now, yet too far gone already.
“You wouldn’t mind, would you?” König whispers, deep blue eyes transfixed on your relaxed features while his fingers pop the button of his jeans and pull down the zipper as he exhales shakily; pressure easing from his erection at last. He licks his lips, shaking his head with a coy smile under his mask, “No, you wouldn’t.”
The fabric of his glove isn’t any more pleasant around his aching flesh than his calloused hands, but it must be enough for now as he starts stroking himself.
Bold and as comfortable as ever, he leans a knee on the edge of the mattress, bracing his free hand on the wall above your head as he continues touching himself and watching you intently, barely holding back a groan.
But it’s somehow not enough.
Greed starts gnawing at his insides, lashing out like some feral being as König lets his widened eyes drag along the curves of your body, lingering between your legs. His balls throb, heat coils low in his stomach.
Straight from the source.
His heart thuds against his ribcage like a war drum as he shifts slowly, carefully; observing your peaceful face while he nudges your knees apart until they seem to fall open willingly, his other hand stilling and holding his hefty cock at the base as it weeps for you.
The mattress dips underneath his weight, and his breath hitches as König lowers himself between your parted thighs; his tall frame looming over yours like a predator savouring its prey right before striking. His fingers tremble as they shove the crotch of your flimsy shorts aside to expose you.
And, by God, he could weep at the sight of your beautiful pussy up close for the first time. Pretty as a picture, all warm and inviting, and unshaven—just how he prefers it.
His cock twitches in his grasp as he braces his hand on the mattress before bending down like some pathetic mutt to press his nose against your folds and inhale your sweet musk sharply through the balaclava’s cloth, filtering your scent straight to his deprived senses.
A needy whimper slips past clenched teeth while his hips rut forward uselessly into his clenched fist before he forces himself back under control long enough to ruck his mask up and mouth at your cunt like some starving beast finally allowed near a meal after countless days of fasting.
“Fuck—” He curses quietly against your seam; mouth dragging over your flesh and feeling coarse pubes on his lips before he finds your delicious clit and your taste bursts on his parched tongue.
His fingers curl into the duvet instead of your hips, refraining from pulling you closer—afraid you might wake—and his cock throbs in his own grasp as he laps at you like a dying man finding an oasis. Every flick of his tongue sends sparks of pleasure through him just knowing he’s finally tasting you for real, taking from the source at last after so much wasted time of stolen glimpses and panties soaked in his own desperation.
You squirm in your sleep with a soft sigh. König’s breath hitches in his throat against your slick folds when your body responds to him instinctively. Your warm, natural honey dripping onto his eager lips as if welcoming him home. His eyes roll back as pure euphoria washes over him—this is where I belong.
“Mein Engel,” he rasps against your heated skin in between frantic licks that would embarrass lesser men if they saw their formidable commander reduced to this: kneeling and hunched over, stroking his flushed cock furiously, while lapping greedily between your legs like some common whore begging for scraps.
König presses his masked face deeper into your warmth, the fabric of his balaclava soaking up your essence as he inhales sharply when you shift again in your sleep, pressing your hips up slightly—as if offering yourself to him in unconscious invitation.
A broken sound claws from his throat at that thought, and he can’t stop himself from gently sucking the plush flesh of your inner thigh into his mouth, tasting your supple skin.
His own need burns too hot to ignore anymore; those rough twists around his cock turn desperate while spittle and slick drip down his stubbled chin. The smell and taste of you even better than any stolen trophy ever could have promised him back then during those countless lonely nights spent jerking off on some sorry cot inside another forgotten safehouse overseas somewhere far away from where it truly matters most: right here—home with you.
“Please, please, please...” he begs hoarsely, panting against your soaked folds, your pubes damp with saliva, when his white‒knuckled grip tightens painfully around his swollen base. His cock throbs violently, heavy balls drawing up tight before he finally spills messily across his trembling digits with a quiet, shuddering gasp.
Once he’s gotten his fill, König cleans you up methodically, leaving no trace to possibly confuse you before he settles on the floor beside your bed, cross‒legged, while his now stained jeans strain around his muscular thighs.
A loyal guard dog throughout the night until sunrise threatens to creep past dark clouds outside the bedroom window as you begin to sober and stir, tucked safely beneath warm blankets and his saliva staining your cunt.
And even when he is forced to leave you again eventually—
Driving kidnapper!König insane with how obsessed you are with him
König knew you would need some getting used to your new environment once he brought you home. So he made sure to isolate you as you began your acclimation process in the basement; no phones, no outside world, no windows, no sunlight unless you're blindfolded and collared... It hurt him, but it has to be done.
You'd cry, and you'd curse him, and you'd need a while to realize this is the best for you, that you love each other. You might even get violent, and he was fully prepared to face it with patience. It's not like a little thing like you can hurt him anyway.
But then, you opened your eyes to your new world, resting your head in two pillows and covered with fluffy blankets and a duvet that smelled like your favorite brand of wash soap.
You panicked, of course, you didn't remember how you got here! But then you saw him. You saw him. That man with a hood that you always ran into at work, that sometimes followed you, and who spoke little, but his accent made you weak in the knees. You found it romantic when he followed you home or when he took some of your things or when he left flowers in your dresser. He brought here, another grand gesture on his part, he shouldn't have.
The place was very nice, well decorated, cozy, he remembered the things you liked.
So you could only giggle like a fool and say his name as if it was a greeting. He looked at you confused. Surely, the shock had you acting erratically, but he couldn't deny your flushed cheeks and almost coy demeanor made his tummy erupt with butterflies. Fuck, he forgot what to say, he even had a little speech prepared.
"You will stay here." He said, his accent thick and voice commanding, maybe too commanding, he didn't want to scare you off but didn't want to seem weak either.
"Forever?" You asked, biting your lip.
"For now." He responded, "You can, I mean, this is for you to get used to your home, a safe place, not forever."
You almost seemed sad, but were beaming again when you understood he still wanted you to stay here. You saw no problem with being here for a long time, though, it was quite homely.
During the following days he came down to give you your meals, eat with you in silence as you talked his ear off about the plot of the book you were reading, from the books he left you in your little home. He didn't speak much, he was tense. Afraid of the moment where reality came crashing down for you and you had a breakdown, this must be just a coping mechanism. But the days went on, and on, and you were cheery and a bird. A bird in a cage.
He thought the moment had come when you were quiet when you were eating with him, the few moments you spent with him, he was upstairs most times. You were nervous, like you were lost in complicated thoughts. He was ready to face your breakdown and console you. But instead, you looked up at him doe-eyed. "Do you like me?" You asked, more like a schoolgirl than a grown adult.
He wanted to laugh. And he did. Like you? LIKE YOU? Were you blind? Were you still dazed from the drugs? He adored you, he drank your presence like it was the elixir of eternal life, he looked at you like you were an angel, and you were, he swore you were. You were an angel, sent at the wrong time. The world was too dirty for you to clean it, for you to have to see and face evil, the casual cruelty of reality.
König saw your face of hurt, from your perspective, he was laughing at you. He coughed awkwardly. "I love you." He said, flat, factual, a statement more than a confession.
He thought it would be now, that you would be repulsed, that you'd finally start fearing him, as you should have done since the beginning. Fear was healthy, and he was willing to endure being feared by you. He needed to be, he needed to punish himself with your disgust.
But your mouth just made a cute "Oh." And smiled again.
You were fawning. König was sure, he feared you were brain damaged, had he ever been careless enough to deprive you of oxygen when he brought you here? The mere possibility of that made him want flay himself alive.
You were happy. However, it was straight out of a love story.
Driving kidnapper!König insane with how obsessed you are with him
Tw: kidnapping (obviously), obsessive behavior, trivializing of serious problems, rom-com environment for a crime lmao
König knew you would need some getting used to your new environment once he brought you home. So he made sure to isolate you as you began your acclimation process in the basement; no phones, no outside world, no windows, no sunlight unless you're blindfolded and collared... It hurt him, but it has to be done.
You'd cry, and you'd curse him, and you'd need a while to realize this is the best for you, that you love each other. You might even get violent, and he was fully prepared to face it with patience. It's not like a little thing like you can hurt him anyway.
But then, you opened your eyes to your new world, resting your head in two pillows and covered with fluffy blankets and a duvet that smelled like your favorite brand of wash soap.
You panicked, of course, you didn't remember how you got here! But then you saw him. You saw him. That man with a hood that you always ran into at work, that sometimes followed you, and who spoke little, but his accent made you weak in the knees. You found it romantic when he followed you home or when he took some of your things or when he left flowers in your dresser. He brought here, another grand gesture on his part, he shouldn't have.
The place was very nice, well decorated, cozy, he remembered the things you liked.
So you could only giggle like a fool and say his name as if it was a greeting. He looked at you confused. Surely, the shock had you acting erratically, but he couldn't deny your flushed cheeks and almost coy demeanor made his tummy erupt with butterflies. Fuck, he forgot what to say, he even had a little speech prepared.
"You will stay here." He said, his accent thick and voice commanding, maybe too commanding, he didn't want to scare you off but didn't want to seem weak either.
"Forever?" You asked, biting your lip.
"For now." He responded, "You can, I mean, this is for you to get used to your home, a safe place, not forever."
You almost seemed sad, but were beaming again when you understood he still wanted you to stay here. You saw no problem with being here for a long time, though, it was quite homely.
During the following days he came down to give you your meals, eat with you in silence as you talked his ear off about the plot of the book you were reading, from the books he left you in your little home. He didn't speak much, he was tense. Afraid of the moment where reality came crashing down for you and you had a breakdown, this must be just a coping mechanism. But the days went on, and on, and you were cheery as a bird. A bird in a cage.
He thought the moment had come when you were quiet when you were eating with him, the few moments you spent with him, he was upstairs most times. You were nervous, like you were lost in complicated thoughts. He was ready to face your breakdown and console you. But instead, you looked up at him doe-eyed. "Do you like me?" You asked, more like a schoolgirl than a grown adult.
He wanted to laugh. And he did. Like you? LIKE YOU? Were you blind? Were you still dazed from the drugs? He adored you, he drank your presence like it was the elixir of eternal life, he looked at you like you were an angel, and you were, he swore you were. You were an angel, sent at the wrong time. The world was too dirty for you to clean it, for you to have to see and face evil, the casual cruelty of reality.
König saw your face of hurt, from your perspective, he was laughing at you. He coughed awkwardly. "I love you." He said, flat, factual, a statement more than a confession.
He thought it would be now, that you would be repulsed, that you'd finally start fearing him, as you should have done since the beginning. Fear was healthy, and he was willing to endure being feared by you. He needed to be, he needed to punish himself with your disgust.
But your mouth just made a cute "Oh." And smiled again.
You were fawning. König was sure, he feared you were brain damaged, had he ever been careless enough to deprive you of oxygen when he brought you here? The mere possibility of that made him want flay himself alive.
You were happy. However, it was straight out of a love story.
My default reader is a cis female because, well, I am (it's more complicated than that but irrelevant.) But what I write, unless explicitly stated, can be interpreted as gender neutral in general.
I was rereading this post I made and realized that I used "wifey" to refer to reader, and realized that, honestly? Wifey is a gender neutral term when it comes to König.
Let me explain: König is very traditional and will unashamedly seek out to recreate traditional wife-husband dynamics, regardless if he's in a het relationship or not. He'll call you his wife, no matter your identity.
And it's not even to emasculate you, if you're a man or male-leaning in your gender identity; you could be just as beefy as him, be topping him every night and he'll still call you wifey if he's the one providing for you (or will think about that way, if you don't want him to keep calling you that.)
In my opinion, he wouldn't have a problem with being the wife if for some reason you come to the situation where you're the breadwinner and he's staying home. (This unless we're talking about kidnapper/lovesick König, ofc.)
I don't know. He just gives me massive "I want to be a husband" vibes.
Stalker!König x sick reader, inspired by this drabble by @thekingsarchive
Stalker!König who didn't intend to reveal himself to his pretty little liebling yet. After all, he hadn't finished preparing all the supplies he'd need to keep them in his cabin. A new pet wasn't a short-term commitment, after all.
But you were sick. Too sick to take care of yourself, poor thing. When you'd first fallen ill, König had watched anxiously through the cameras he'd installed in your apartment as you stumbled around, getting yourself juice and heating up canned soup on the stove. He'd already had to slip into the apartment while you were asleep once, to make sure you'd turned off the stove burners. It was a good thing he had, Liebling. You'd left the heat on, the broth long boiled away, bits of noodle and chicken scorched black on the bottom of the pan. You didn't even know how much danger you could have been in if he wasn't here to protect you- that's what distressed König most. But you were in no shape for a scolding. He'd wanted to carry you away right then, tuck you into bed in his cabin and lavish you with care like you deserved, but he'd held back. He reminded himself adoptions should never be made hastily, that he needed to wait until everything was in place.
He'd contended himself with cleaning up the mess you had made in the kitchen, waiting until you were deep asleep to sneak to your bedside, replace all your empty glasses with fresh water and juice, making sure you had snacks and medicine within reach.
It took another day and a half before he broke. König had watched through the cameras as you got sicker and sicker. You had long since downed the fluids he had left for you, even nibbled on a few of the crackers he put out. But in the following day, you didn't get up to get more. Just laid in bed, sleeping for hours and hours. He could see very little of you, pitiful little lump you were under the covers, but even so he could see your form trembling as chills rocked through you once again.
"Come on, Liebling." He begged you through the the screen of his phone, comically small in his massive hands. "Get up. You need food and water if you ever want to get better."
His own words surprised him. König hadn't begged for anything since he was a small child. What were you doing to him, Liebling? Ultimately, that's what decided him. He might not have been completely prepared for you, but you clearly needed him in this moment- even more than he needed you.
His heart raced with excitement as he made some final adjustments to the supplies he had gathered for when he collected his pet. He would be there to nurse you back to health soon, Liebling.
Part 2 coming sooner rather than later given that I've been writing these instead of my essays for finals
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