You need to work on your focus. Unorthodox methods of learning; König was not in the habit of rehabilitating troublemakers, especially those who were defiantly insolent, arguing with their higher-ranking comrades in debriefing. Oh, your recklessness will do you no good. König would keep an eye on that.

"Focus," he mutters, a heavy palm coming down on your thigh with a quiet slap.

The office feels stuffy, and the desk too uncomfortable, causing you to squirm for many reasons. The orders are clear and precise: repent like a bloody churchgoer. In a more professional sense, of course.

"You don't know how to focus on two things at once," true. "One more time. Tell me what you did wrong. Without stuttering."

He's such a bastard, of course. Your mistake was getting distracted and almost getting shot. That's a serious mistake for an operator. Maybe your senses weren't working at the same time, or maybe you were just an idiot, it doesn't matter. It's more important to retrain you now.

It's distracting, isn't it? His fingers slid down the inside of your thigh, drawing a sharp exhalation from your lips that König caught with pleasure. Travelling, he runs his fingers along your ribs, circling your wrist and stroking your knees. His touches are too many, König's everywhere at once, making your thoughts jumble into a mess of incomprehensible mush. A snake of tantalising pleasure slithers down your spine, not enough, but the kind that keeps you in agonising tension.

"Focus, verdammt noch mal," his palm leaves a reddish mark on the skin of your thigh and the pain sobered you for a split second, allowing you to squeeze out another vague sentence. "Speak. I won't repeat myself."

The caress borders on pain over and over, but that's the point, isn't it? Making you work through the distractions, albeit not in a professional manner. The office is closed anyway, isn't it? Not that anyone would want to check out the Colonel's place, even if the sounds were questionable.