Coin

18 || ukr/eng || I write sometimes || minors dni

[monedaa]

Honeyss, I’ve made a new account. This one will be either deleted or abandoned. If you like my works and want to see more tllh content, then you’re welcome here: https://www.tumblr.com/monedaaa

Coin (@monedaaa) on Tumblr

She/her | 18 | minors DNI | i write sometimes

[glist-eee]

The last TLLH fanart. I was in the TLLH fandom for probably over 4 months and oh my god, it was the worst fandom I've ever been in ・・・(；´Д｀)

I couldn't find much content on Tumblr or Twitter so I had to use Telegram which is mostly used by the Russian part of the fandom and it was just so awfuuuuul.

Most of the people there were genuine weirdos who seriously thought that drawing NSFW with children and praising N*zi$ made them special and different. Not to mention that most of the admins in the largest TLLH chats openly say they hate Ukrainians

I am very sad that the English-speaking part of the TLLH fanbase is very inactive because it is very difficult and unpleasant to be in the Russian-speaking one for the reasons I mentioned above (;´Д⊂)

I don't want to say that all Russians there are bad. I was still able to find some very talented and good people there who I am friends with to this day, but they are definitely far fewer in number than the bad people there (´ー`)σ

[monedaa]

Bro speaking facts

[glist-eee]

Madame Guibert (*´▽｀)

Honestly, she's one of the best and most underrated characters in TLLH

[monedaa]

TLLH — lieutenant Douglas x female reader fic.

Note: guys it’s just smut for smut, ok? There’s a creampie, kinda fluff ykyk, he’s a gentleman omg. A bit of teasing as well. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

It had been some time since you'd begun caring for the wounded British pilot. Douglas had been fortunate in his landing spot: a small, abandoned house in the woods, its walls high enough to conceal the Reich's enemy from view. Every day, you changed his bandages, your soft, womanly hands tended his wounds with care and tenderness, prepared his meals, and brought him warm blankets on particularly cold nights. Despite the language barrier, communication with the Brit wasn't too difficult: the looks and touches spoke for themselves.

Every time you tended to his wounds, you could feel the taut muscles of his flat stomach, the warm flesh hardening beneath your gentle hands, the trembling of his breath, and you could see his eyes: tired, like a wild animal cornered after a long chase. But as soon as you ran your hand down his warm side, pressed lightly on his pleasant to the touch abs, and murmured, almost purred soothing words in your native French, the British pilot immediately relaxed. He became as pliant as a tame cat, subtly leaning in search of deeper touches. His body, including his stomach, relaxed, and in addition to his well-defined six-pack, you could feel a thin layer of subcutaneous fat, accumulated due to his excessive love of sweets. Douglas raised an eyebrow in confusion every time you paused on his stomach. The unnecessary caresses caused a flutter in his chest and a heat pooling in his lower abdomen.

-

Rough, warm male hands gently squeeze your waist. He pulls you onto his lap and kisses you on the lips; the kiss tastes like red wine and whiskey from a flask. He pushes your long hair back, trailing a delicate chain of kisses from your lips to your left collarbone.

The cute dress had a fairly low neckline, and when you wore it, the pilot always tried to avoid looking at your breasts, tightly draped in the cotton fabric. But now Douglas couldn't tear his eyes away from the two soft globes, and he cupped one breast with his right hand, massaging the warm, soft flesh through the pleasant fabric. His thumb probed the hardened nipple, circling it until a trembling breath escaped your lips, plump from all those kisses.

"Is this what you wanted all along?" Douglas purrs, letting go of your breasts and pulling your dress down.

The man was already healthier. The wound on his side only ached dully when pressed, and his sprained ankle had long since stopped hurting. He could walk freely around the abandoned building in the evergreen forest, which gave you a sense of calm and satisfaction in your own work.

But he still hisses when you accidentally press on his side with your knee, trying to get more comfortable on his body.

“Pardonne-moi,” you say quickly, to which the pilot only smiles and pulls you closer.

He kisses you hungrily, making your head spin and your scarlet lips part. Seizing the moment, the pilot slips his tongue inside, running the wet tip over your teeth, outlining sharp white fangs, engaging in a wet dance with your red tongue. Muffled sighs from your mouth go straight to his lips; he swallows them, devours them, feeds his passion, and squeezes your bare thighs.

He only pulls away when you pat him on the shoulder a few times, but even then his lips never leave your body for a moment.

He kisses the mole on your neck; you frown, unable to withstand the pleasure of his wet lips on your white skin. He draws constellations with his lips on your shoulders and chest, leaving love bites here and there.

Douglas was far from artistic; he preferred solving complex math problems to visiting art galleries and looking at paintings. But as he pulled away from your silky skin, his brown eyes sparkled with lust and a hint of admiration. Yes, red hickeys and bites, instead of paint, looked delightful against white skin instead of an easel. True art, right there on his lap.

Finally, his hands reach the flower between your thighs. He slides his index finger between your labia, pressing his thumb against your clit, which vibrates softly with arousal. You whine and want to hide your face in his neck, but with his free hand, he holds your chin, forcing you to look him in the eyes.

"I want to see you," Douglas whispers, stroking your rosy cheek. You feel the pleasant smoothness of his leather glove on your face.

The fingers continued to stimulate your bundle of nerves, which only made you whimper and push your hips forward, wanting more, causing the pilot to smile wider.

"How impatient you are," teases the Brit and kisses your forehead. He removed his hand from your vagina, noticing with pleasure and surprise how you'd wetted his glove, even through your panties.

Two thumbs slide under the lace fabric and you lift your hips up, allowing him to remove your panties.

Taking off his gloves, Douglas placed two fingers at your opening, causing you to shudder. But the pilot doesn't penetrate; he continues to stroke your labia, sliding his middle finger near your opening, causing you to thrust your hips forward in a futile attempt to feel his fingers inside you. You whine in frustration, lifting your hazy gaze to his face. You notice how contentedly he's grinning.

"Ce n'est pas juste," you mutter in French, frowning your fine eyebrows. “Je t'ai sauvé, je me suis occupé de toi, et c'est comme ça que tu me traites.”

Douglas laughs, not quite understanding all the words, but getting the gist perfectly.

“What should I do with you…” the Brit sighs, finally inserting his fingers into you one by one.

He pauses for a moment, feeling the wetness enveloping his index finger. Slowly, he thrusts in and out, feeling all your tightness and sticky love on his fingers. His middle finger follows, stretching your walls painfully pleasant.

Slurping sounds and girlish moans mingled with the birdsong, your soft hands gripping his shoulders tightly. Uncontrollable moans escaped your lips as the pace of his fingers, clenching and unclenching inside you, became too pleasurable.

Burying your face in his neck, you don't notice the quiet delight with which Douglas plays with his fingers, like a child who has just found a treasured toy for Christmas. The squelching sounds, the soft moans, and the pliancy with which your body accepts his fingers call to something primal in the subcortex of his mind.

He pulls his fingers out, making you whine with the feeling of emptiness inside. The man quickly removes his belt, taking off his pants and underwear with it.

The Brit didn't need to wet his fingers, as they were still glistening with your juices, and he slowly runs his palm over his cock. You notice the pre-cum on the pink tip of head.

Douglas exhales hoarsely as he enters you. The walls of your vagina squeeze tightly inside him, and he stops halfway, trying not to cum from the dizzying pleasure. His hands gently grip your hips, holding you in place. He lifts his pelvis, pushing deeper inside.

You squeeze him from the inside, as if trying to hold him in place, not wanting to feel the emptiness. Douglas exhales heavily, wraps his arms around your waist, and begins to move. His hands gently caress your shoulder blades, long fings tracing your spine.

“Relax,” he whispers, kissing your lips, rocking his pelvis.

Your movements are natural and smooth, like a quiet stream. He frowns as your hips slam together in a well-oiled rhythm. His eyes never leave yours; he watches, open-mouthed, as your breasts sway each time the head of his cock pleasantly brushed against your cervix, as your luxurious locks cascaded down your slender shoulders, as your mouth parted each time Douglas made you feel good.

“You know what I want,” the pilot whispers sweetly, massaging your clitoris faster, which makes you press against him harder.

Want to say something, but only moans and sighs come out of your mouth as the orgasm hits you in a huge wave.

You breathe sharply, quickly. You can't think—you don't want to think—you can only squeeze him harder, as your hips shake with a blissful orgasm, as he pounds into you with deep, rough thrusts.

"Fuck," he breathes, squeezing your hips tighter. He bites your shoulder, muffling the deep, throaty sound that sounds like a growl before he comes inside. You feel his cock shaking against your walls, feel his warm cum filling you from the inside.

Breathing heavily, he kisses your shoulder where the bite mark was, numbing the pain. Douglas caresses your hips, his lips traveling to your red cheeks.

"Sorry, I made you dirty," he said awkwardly with a funny smile, pulling out of you. You felt the mixture of his cum and your juices slowly drip down your inner thighs, staining them.

But it doesn’t matter as a blanket of peace and pleasure covered you completely, and you limply lay down on Douglas, carefully avoiding his injured side. He smiled, stroked your back, and kissed the top of your head.

[monedaa]

TLLH — Colonel von Krieger headcanons.

Your strict math professor ౨ৎ

You're always nervous at the door, hesitant to enter the classroom and take the advanced math exam. Professor Krieger is incredibly strict, always expelling students who peek at their cheat sheets or, worse, offer him large bribes. He's failed more than one student, and he's certainly capable of failing you, too.

꒰୨୧꒱

He doesn't always understand students' handwriting, and if the professor is in a good mood, he'll ask one of his colleagues to decipher it, but if he's in a bad mood, he'll simply deduct a point. Douglas always looks at him disapprovingly, since the blond man himself doesn't have the best handwriting, but he doesn't dare say anything about it.

꒰୨୧꒱

His white shirt is wrinkled, his tie is awkwardly knotted, and his gray hair is a complete mess. He loves his job at the beginning of the year, but hates it when he has to grade a whole bunch of exams. He barely has time to sleep; he lives on coffee and fast food.

꒰୨୧꒱

His parents always wanted their son to be an accountant, just like his father. Krieger didn’t resist much, since his parents are the authority and the law. He sadly gave up on his dream of opening his own flower shop, and his biology knowledge was limited to school level.

꒰୨୧꒱

He always did well in school and at university. In ninth grade, while explaining a particularly difficult algebra topic to his classmates, he realised he wanted to become a teacher.

꒰୨୧꒱

Taught at a school for a while, but couldn't stand the unruly children and toxic colleagues, so he decided to apply to a good university. The colleagues are better there, and the students know what they want and what they're getting into.

꒰୨୧꒱

During lunch, he dines with his architectural design professor, Madame Guibert. She always invites him to dine at a café near the university, and Krieger always accepts. He takes the brunette's arm and leads them to their usual seat by the window. They order a large entree for two, and afterward, he demands to pay for the meal. Although Guibert appreciates his gentlemanly behavior, she always wants to pay for herself, which leads to lighthearted and silly arguments.

꒰୨୧꒱

His office always has various plants on the windowsills and fresh flowers on the desk. He carefully waters his flowerpots weekly, knows how to care for them, and isn't ashamed to admit his love for such a "feminine" hobby.

꒰୨୧꒱

Students try not to be late for his lectures or skip classes. He has an excellent memory for faces, and if he saw you in your first class but you weren't in his third class that same day, expect trouble.

꒰୨୧꒱

He spends a lot of time in the library and often borrows books on botany during vacations, enjoying expanding his knowledge of biology. Flowers will always remain his primary and most beloved passion.

꒰୨୧꒱

Krieger started smoking at 16 and still smokes at 41. You smell the strong tobacco odour as soon as you enter the classroom, and you wrinkle your nose, but you still sit in the front row, not wanting to miss a single sentence from the professor and trying to understand him well.