Hi, I'm Sarah | 35 | She/Her | Bi | Current Obsession: Call of Duty - König amd Ghost | Masked Men | Tiktok | Land of Ishness | Self Care & Mental Health | 18+ Blog, Please respect this, No minors | Pro-shipper | Books are my blood, music my breath and fandoms my love.
this fic took too long to commit to digital paper than it should have, but it's done, so let's focus on that.
i have incorporated a few of the headcanons i listed in another dedicated post. or, at least, i tried.
synopsis: a strange routine has settled between you and colonel könig, your direct superior. one unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome, after you got over the shock elicited by the reserved, dreadful giant seeking you out for comfort you did not imagine him needing… and the fact that he seems to need it from you more often than you from him. but an unspoken agreement is still an agreement.
warnings: unethical power imbalance, ptsd, dub con to full con, muffdiving for comfort, maledom to malesub, crying, heavy petting, orgasm control and denial, könig is a pet, slight degradation, praising, humping, cum eating, dispassionate fingering, second-person narration in present tense, no gender mention, but reader assumed to be afab, military-related inaccuracies, probably.
word count: 3887
A/N: if you're unsure whether to read this fic or not, here's something about me that might help you decide:
i like my porn grotesque and sentimental;
i like my men dangerous, submissive, pathetic (affectionate) and in tears.
a less blurry tentakönig than his previous appearance is once again here to kindly remind us that the following is aimed at an adult audience. please, respect this.
you are walking with a couple of new recruits along one of the corridors of the base’s building. from out the windows, the light hardly makes a difference, too weak at this early hour to lighten the interiors. chill still blankets you like dew on the grass outside: it hasn’t abandoned you since you woke up for drills.
this isn’t the fastest route to report for training, but there is still time, so you don’t fret. you chat lightly, nodding here and there in spite of the little interest you have for the banality of the noobies’ small talk, when the sound of heavy footfalls echoes ahead.
you hear him before you can see, the sight of colonel könig’s imposing frame following close behind the sound of his stomping gait. your comrades hesitate only a moment, going quiet and halting to salute the higher-ranking official. you don’t.
you are too busy taking in könig’s haunted eyes locking on you, a shiver running down your spine as soon as you notice how crazed they look. two dark pits in the holes of his mask, staring ahead through heavy eyelids smudged in black. your body has stopped moving before your brain could take stock of it; his pace has only increased.
there is not a doubt left: you are his target.
the colonel ignores the recruits and, without even slowing, seizes you by the waist with an arm, lifting you bodily and dragging you along with him. you do not fight it. instead, you gesture towards the hesitant others to go on without you and, after an awkward glance exchanged with one another, they are swift to follow your unspoken advice.
if something unethical is going on between an official and a private, neither of them wishes to witness it. the less they know, the safer their positions within their employer’s company.
you watch their shadows disappear on the wall, behind a sharp corner, and the bitter stench of tobacco mixed with acrid breath hits your nostrils, even through the fabric of the colonel’s mask. it makes you think how many hours he has been up, how long he has been storming the base looking for you, how many times he has choked the desire to drag you from your cot in the middle of the night with yet another cigarette for that smell to linger so thickly…
until the distraction of smoking stopped being enough to help him hold back.
he drops you to your feet, unceremonious, back against wall and falls to his knees, masked head reaching above your waist as he hastily unbuckles your belt. it jingles sharply in the gloom of early morning quiet, the padding of his thick gloves hindering the deftness of his movements, but not his will.
«colonel…», you hazard, voice small. but all you receive in response is more of his frenzied panting and a jolt as your belt is finally torn from your trouser’s loops.
one of his hands disappears under the trail of his mask, teeth pulling at glove, before brash fingers are back to tug at your button and zipper. you relent, disliking the idea of having to request another standard-issue uniform so soon and manage to get your hand under his, removing every obstacle along his way.
könig barely glances up at you in approval. he swipes down trousers and underwear in one pull with a groan. you barely see the pale, scarred skin of his lower face flash in the dim light as he lifts the dangling ends of his mask just enough, that his head already dives between your legs.
his thick fingers hold the softer flesh on your inner-thighs apart with such urge you sense with certainty you will find them bruised, as the colonel easily covers the length of your cunt with the flat of his tongue, uses it to spread your lips, so his can attach to your soft, delicate folds and suck enough to make you ache in both discomfort and desire.
«colonel…», you try again to little avail, the wet, smacking sound of his mouth on yours getting louder as he presses his lips, his chin, hard against you, his panting soon turning to satisfied groaning.
«make me…», he rasps hot against your skin while snatching one of your hands and planting it firmly on top of his own head, pale stubble of hair stinging your palm through the neck-hole of his t-shirt-mask.
as if you could really make colonel könig do anything in this state.
so desperate that his hips thrust back and forth of their own accord. they have been since the moment the colonel dropped in front of you to lose himself in his self-assigned task. they always do when his lips can taste your juices – or those of any other, you presume. they fuck empty air, occasionally swatting your legs as he laps at your cunt with wanton greed unknown to you before you and the colonel were introduced, large, gloved hand still covering yours, squeezing your fingers as he fantasises about you forcing him to pleasure you, like he requested.
it’s more of an instinct, an uncontrollable tic for him, than a genuine attempt at release for himself. he doesn’t even register how he could dry-hump your boot to get himself off, so completely taken by his visceral hunger for you while in the unshakable grip of whatever darkness stirs within.
the one that guided his actions so far. the one that guides his actions often.
you are certain he revels in the feel of your sex against his tongue more than you in the feel of his tongue against it; as if every lick and suck brought him closer to a salvation otherwise denied.
this confirms the initial suspicion that formed in your head as soon as you looked at his grey, dire eyes as he came at you like a battering ram: another one of his night terrors. another phantom lingering in his wake.
you don’t know what it is he sees in the back of his skull every time he blinds himself from sight, when exhaustion claims him and he has no choice but to succumb to it. that is the one thing that still remains a mystery and you won’t prise. you can imagine the horrors, you have seen it before, and that is not the kind of information you force out of someone, no matter how erratic they behave because of it.
his messy slurping is getting out of hand; the way he traps your lips and folds in his teeth and pulls on them, before burying his tongue in your slit to harangue your too-sensitive nub with his nose becoming unbearable; his feasting off of you far rougher than usual.
«col--- könig!», you finally call, voice stern, and his head lifts, chin glistening with spit, before the lower hem of his mask falls back down, sticking to it.
he looks at you as if he were seeing you for the first time today, fury, if not sated, at least subdued, for now. the troubled look so vivid in his eyes moments ago dulls enough that it’s only a pale, threatening glimmer on their glassy surface.
you carefully pinch the hem of your clothes, slowly lifting them to cover up. he stops forcing your thighs apart, so you can adjust your uniform around your hips, gaze still boring into his as you refuse to avert it from his unreliable nature, hoping it will be enough to stay his brash hand.
instead, he helps you with the button, then shuffles back a little, signalling he is no threat to you. he never really was. not willingly, at least.
«belt!»
he swiftly collects it from where he discarded it earlier in his state of rash lust and mysterious turmoil and coils it tidily around his fist, before placing it in your outstretched hand.
he watches, still on his knees, as you loop it back in place and buckle it close, his breathing quiet again.
«könig», his eyes are back to yours as he expectantly awaits for your next words, «to your quarters, colonel.»
you are the one to lock the door behind the two of you with the colonel’s implicit blessings. both of you know what comes next, yet könig does not move, waiting for your say.
so you do. you inhale deeply, closing your eyes for a moment to recollect yourself, knowing now that the distance between you, modest though it may be, will still be the same when you reopen them.
«kit off, colonel», there is no harshness in your voice, but it sounds authoritative all the same.
könig complies, ridding himself of any encumbrance save for his mask, then stands there, further waiting. you don’t allow yourself to indulge in his attractive figure too long, even when his arousal is difficult to ignore, pointing straight at you, leaking thickly.
«come», you barely open your arms and he goes down to the floor, crawling towards you. you meet him on the tiles, slipping your back against the door and settling in a squat as you invite him to join you, invite him closer.
now he can touch you.
he hugs your waist tight, almost dragging you down with him, but careful not to. his head immediately finds shelter in the hollow of your neck, silently begging for comforting touch you are now willing to provide. your hand is soon going through his short-cropped hair, mindful not to lift his mask.
not until he is ready to do it himself, or give you leave to.
there, on the floor, you both find your peace. the peace of liminality: fleeting, for it won’t last and, therefore, all the more precious. he barely moves, trying not to burden you with his conspicuous weight, even when, after a while, even your well-trained thighs and knees need reprieve from the squatting.
you sit down, legs spread wide to make room for könig as he slots himself between them, ruined, scarred lips tracing your throat downwards, then up again as his hands open the top of your fatigues, where more of your skin can be freed for him, covered only by your tank top.
he needs that contact. close. warm. reassuring. even when he unshackles your breasts from the trappings of your attire, mandated down to your underclothes, it is not out of need of his loins that he does so.
you hold him to your chest and soon, you feel his throat tremble. hot, wet tears melt his face, safely hidden against you, breaking the soft murmur of quiet breathing in low, reluctant and shameful sobs the colonel holds in until he cannot any more. a litany of exhalations and mutterings in his native tongue pushes out of him to take their place.
delirium
you hold him tighter as one of your hands finds its way under his mask to contour the battlefield that is his face. unevenly raised scars older and newer that litter his skin welcome the pads of your fingers as you wipe the tears with your palms, gently stroking.
he glances up at you, miserable, bloodshot eyes supplicating for things he couldn’t name if he knew what they were called.
«shhhh», you reassure him that there is no need to ask for anything as you begin to lift his mask, slowly enough to give the colonel time to object. he doesn’t and the fabric swishes off his head quietly.
now he is fully bare. a level of nakedness that you are sure not many have had the chance to witness.
your hold tightens around him and your hand runs through his matted hair, his damp cheeks, contouring the crooked shape of the left cheekbone, the one that broke and never healed right, dabbing at ever-renewing tears as he curses a past to you unknown.
the colonel shifts his heavy eyes, voice louder as he hisses at an invisible figure that hangs in the air of his memory, right next to your head, then shelters his face in your bosom again, crumpled on his knees, fingers digging the sides of your back, which he easily hugs.
you haven’t stopped stroking his hair a moment, holding the colonel as tightly as you’re capable of, trying to hush his whimpering with voice steady and secure.
you don’t know what could reduce the epitome of man such the colonel is, or at least, presents as, to this shaky mess and, at this point, you hope you never learn. the slump of his otherwise proud, muscled back looks pitiful as you stare at it. it brings a bitter scowl to your lips. what, indeed, could possibly have brought reserved and competent könig this low, in front of you?
you remember a tune you once heard him hum when he thought no one was there, or when he was so lost in thought that he did not even realise doing it, more likely. you intone it to the best of your memory.
this seems to soothe the colonel, enough that he is quiet, save for the occasional shaky gasp that still seizes his throat. he soon joins you, voice off-key and hoarse, to complete it with sparse words you couldn’t possibly know.
you try not to think of the consequences of missing the daily training, yet have no intention to ask the colonel to vouch for you. you want to keep this strange moment all to yourself, separate from your quotidian routine. a slice of time in an alternate place, cut away from your everyday reality.
yours and könig’s alone.
your thoughts are interrupted by the colonel’s mouth, warm and hungry. it wraps about the tips of your tear-stained tits and sucks, finally driven by different needs than consolation. your body responds right away to the ravenous love bites he marks on your skin, another blemish of his you will carry with yourself. a memento that this was not some daydream that never really was outside of your imagination.
your nipples pebble in his mouth and, as he steals another gasp from your throat, his demeanour emboldens. his large, rough hands cup your breasts while his teeth move to your neck, your jaw, your lips.
you are weak to his advances. you don’t deny him. yet it leaves you wondering who is taking advantage of whom.
«turn around, colonel», you forcefully grab a tuft of könig’s hair and pull the roots to show him you meant it. again, he complies, even though you can sense a note of disappointment.
he sits in front of you and you kneel at his back, bodies pressed tightly together as you reach around to knead his stomach, muscles flexing involuntarily as your hands descend. the thickness of könig’s abdomen forces you to struggle to reach his cock, but you can work with it. you already have in the past and the fingers now curling around the root of it confirm it.
your hand barely contains his heft, but it is quick to move along the heavy organ all the same. you squeeze, a groan reaching your ears as his flesh throbs back your touch, fingers tracing pulsing veins along it until they come away wet, foreskin rolling down softly almost on its own.
enough with the toying. you want to hear the colonel, könig, gasp and whimper as desperately as when he was weeping, but for rather different reasons. your determination spurs your movements and you start stroking his cock in earnest, wasting no more time.
it feels more aggression than service, almost violent, the way you abuse his cock with your hand, but you know he can take it. can take it. the man demands it. you know by the way, uncomfortable though it is sitting on the floor like that, he bucks his hips into your fist, meeting your downward slide with a jolt from his loins.
and when you torture him with your delightful touch, only to open your fist, enough for him to feel the silky warmth of your palm, but none of the friction, he whines for your hand back. he wines oh-so-sweetly for it as you mock him in pointed whispers in his ear.
this only riles him up more, forcing the most endearing of sounds through his broken lips. so you grant him his wish, hugging his girth in your fist and returning to your task, skin sliding smoothly with könig’s own wetness.
you repeat one, two, three more times, delighting each one in his reactions, until you force him to pleasure himself with your hand.
you hold it still around him, making him work for his release, his hips back to their frantic bucking, until you cheat him out of his pleasure one last infuriating time.
he curses in his tongue, that much you understand without need for translation, as you rise from the floor to stand a little distance away, in front of him.
«silence, dog! you know what i want, now.»
his chest heaves visibly as he peers at you from below, almost hateful in the intensity of his leer, but he obeys. back on all fours, he crawls towards your outstretched hand, seeking contact once more.
you stroke his face, damp and exhausted-looking, by now: «you’re a good, obedient dog, colonel.»
he hums at the praise and lets you guide him closer to you by his hair as you extend your left leg towards him, planting the heel of your boot to the floor. he observes while you let a glob of saliva trickle down on its tip and shuffle your foot to spread it on the rest of the black leather surface.
you lean towards him: «you know what i want from you now, pup.»
könig nods, then positions himself atop your boot, thighs straddling each side of it, disappearing it from sight with their large, powerful muscles. he stares up at you as he rubs his cock against the squeaky-clean, smooth leather you maintain in impeccable condition. he would do so even if that hand of yours caught in his hair weren’t twisting his neck backwards enough to relish in the sight of him.
his slower, sensuous movements begin to grow more haphazard once more. you are sure he will give himself rope burns with the laces if you don’t let him find relief.
«go on, colonel. i want you to come. now.»
he buries his face between your thighs as his hips keep working your boot, rubbing his cheeks against the rough fabric of your fatigues, lapping at it with his tongue, mouth hungry for the warmth and sweet taste of your cunt, just below the clothes, yet out of reach for the colonel until you decree otherwise.
he will have to settle for breathing in its scent, especially after those theatrics of his, earlier this morning.
finally, his penance is served in full. he moans against your crotch as he floods your boot with his seed, breath scorching as his mouth seals against your trousers to quiet his pleasured utterings.
his tongue is dry when he sits on his haunches to recover his breath.
you pet könig’s head, sweat wetting your palm as you run it along his skull: «you are a good pup, colonel», he basks in your praises, eyes almost beaming, «but do you know what a really good pup would do, now?»
he nods, sparing you the breath to tell him and immediately goes down to your boot again, lips and tongue working, relentless, to clean it from his mess. he doesn’t come up until not a single trace of his juices is left on your footwear, nor the floor around it, where it trickled.
you watch him swallow the last of it. No complaints.
that’s when you kneel to encase his jaws in your hands, so you can tilt his head towards you: «you were perfect, colonel.»
you can feel all the tension leave könig’s body. as for the anguish that plagues his spirit, you have done what you could.
colonel könig’s uniform looks impeccable on him. it hugs him perfectly, as if every piece of it were not lying crumpled on the floortiles only minutes ago. his mask is back on his head, shrouding his face as he likes. he waits by the door, gaze illegible, with a glass of apricot brandy in hand whose bottle he retrieved from one of the drawers.
he offered you some, but you declined. even if you could bear its taste, you don’t feel like indulging in spirits when your day has yet to begin. he shrugged and went to lean against the egress wall. he’s still sipping on it to rinse his mouth as you readjust your own fatigues.
you nod your head in goodbye and make to leave, but his figure doesn’t budge. you wait for an explanation. all you get is his gaze trailing behind you as he eyes his large desk, instead.
you sigh, considering what he is offering. your absence must have been noticed, by now and you don’t think a few more minutes will make a difference. in truth, your unsatisfied arousal is probably tainting your common sense, but you already said no to the brandy. it wouldn’t do to leave you superior without saying yes to a kindness he offers.
you nod and he sets his glass aside after emptying it. the temperamental giant easily lifts you again, this time much calmer and gentler, allowing you to find balance by gripping his shoulders as he walks towards the elegant wooden surface.
he rests you on it, sheltering your head with his arm and taking a few steps back as he waits for you to undo your trousers and pull them down enough. you do, clumsily, but quickly and you see him return, towering from above, eyes vacuous and inexpressive now that his mask is back on his face.
he repositions you to his liking, bending your knees to your chest to grant himself a nice view of both your face and your cunt, dripping from all the pent-up energy you accumulated during your session.
he ungloves his right hand, bringing the fingers to his mouth to wet them more out of habit than need, then plants the left one beside your face as he leans over you, mask hovering above you, brushing your face as his fingers find easy way inside you.
he gets working right away, no preambles, rather utilitarian in his approach. his thick index and middle finger squelch rhythmically inside you as his thumb covers your clit. he attacks your sweet spot right away, curling his fingertips as you bite hard on your lower lip to stifle your noises.
the recent memory of him kneeling at your feet, obedient and desperate, coupled with a few more pointed, circular motions and you’re convulsing around his hand, arms instinctively sheltering your eyes from his as your back arches. you feel him retreat right away, his job done and you can finally readjust your clothes for good.
you glimpse könig sneak the fingers he used on you under the hem of his mask, the sucking sounds you hear as you buckle your belt around your waist eloquent enough. he doesn’t seem satisfied until he has licked all of your humours from them, then his glove is fitted back on.
now you can leave.
thank you for reading.
let me know what you thought, if you feel like it.
and please, if you enjoyed it, consider reblogging.
It's literally amazing. It's so emotionally attached in its disjointed glory. Like handing out an emergency MRE of "connection." He acts like a street dog warily reacting yet taking all the love he can fill himself with.
synopsis: another day. another crisis. another session.
warnings/tags: unethical power imbalance, dominant!reader/submissive!könig, mummy!reader/pup!könig, cocksucking, drooling, muffdiving, vaginal penetration, könig is a fast shooter (that's the real reason why he never made the cut for sniper),premature ejaculation fetish, crying, cum eating, praise, size difference
audiences: strictly adult
word count: 2736
a/n: this... uh... this is an impromptu fic that came out of nowhere, started a specific way, but then derailed towards the end because of a different idea that took hold of me, but refused to let me go until i wrote it.
also, yes, i am aware that littles usually go with caregivers (mummies, daddies, others) and handlers with pups and kittens. but i also firmly believe that we make our kind of relationships in a way that fits us, not the opposite.
if könig wants to be something in between a guard dog* and a cuddly puppy who's more in need of a mummy, than a handler, then, by all the gods real and imagined, that is what i will give him.
* i trust we shall get to this one, eventually.
people who asked to be tagged: @kathy-ifnt
as usual, no one under 18 below the cut
one would think könig’s disfigurement would make it unpleasant to stare at his face, the way his lips do not merge as fully as they should when his mouth is closed, due to all the thick scar tissue on them and his lower face that force some rigidity, interfering with the fluid movements of his facial muscles.
it’s barely noticeable, really, after all the years the colonel has had to live with his injuries and their consequences. but the way the two of you interact make it difficult to conceal even for him.
so, you’d think it grotesque, even to watch the colonel slobber, if he's not careful to suck in all his saliva before even considering saying what he has to say.
but to you, that is hardly an impediment. you wouldn't call it an enhancement either, out of respect for what tremendous acts of violence must lie at the base of those deep scars and what look like the remains acid burns, you guess.
yet, there is nothing, not the ruin of his face of all things, that could stand between you and the utter beauty of seeing that cruel, dangerous wolf of a man turn to a drooling, pliant puppy in your hands.
he could go out collecting maiming upon maiming as if it were a new extreme sport to him, and you would still accept his attentions. as könig does yours.
because what the colonel offers is too precious to be shallow, now.
these thoughts run through your head as he kneels before you, lower half of face the only nakedness on display, pink, wet, deformed lips parted as he obediently waits for your say so, to allow him to lock them around the silicon toy you plan on having him service as if it were a real, throbbing cock of flesh.
even when you can notice the impatience, driven to the edge by your scent easily finding way to him through the slit in your drawers, under which you wear the strap, he waits.
as he should.
if you let it up to him, the colonel would be swallowing down your cock in no time. but that's not what you want. he can be rushed and forcing… no, teaching him not to be is as much a torture, if not more, than any technique the both of you have picked up in your years of service.
it is also necessary.
he gauges the pressure of your hand when it strokes his skull through the stubble of his buzz cut, to see if this time it will not just be another gentle pet, but an invitation to taste you. once more, he has to choke down a displeasured whine in both reverence and pride, when it doesn't turn out to be it.
«are you ready, puppy?», you speak softly, but he's fully focussed on you and has no trouble hearing your voice.
his eyes lift to yours as he slowly nods, as if calculated movements could hide the anticipation.
«then unzip your trousers. i want to see how much you like sucking on me.»
he does, eyes still on yours and chin lifted, as with his mouth open and already trickling slightly, if he looked down all the collected saliva barely contained by the inclined posture of his neck would trickle down.
it still makes him slightly self-conscious. even with you. even if you both pretend it does not.
luckily, he doesn't need to see what he's doing to feed his swollen cock through the undone zip. the sight of it, protruding thick and proudly straight, pushes at the corners of your lips in a small, enticed grin.
you pet könig's head in approval: «good pup, so hard for me already. now put your arms behind your back and keep them there until the end.»
he folds his arms on the small of his back, hand clasped tight on opposite wrist, forcing his brawny chest outwards, but not so much that you lose sight of his length below.
«if you act like the very good pup you are, colonel, i'll have something for you, by the end of it. understood?»
könig nods again, another small movement.
«go on, then… but remember what we said, or you can say goodbye to all of it immediately!», only now do you let go of his very short hair pinched between your flattened fingers.
honouring your words right away, he doesn't even move. instead, his tongue peeps out, its tip to yours, leaving behind a shiny trail as it contours the ridges around the head of your cock.
«good! slow. like that. i want to see you work», you encourage, and the colonel's grey eyes gleam silvery in the lamplight at the praise.
he flutters his tongue along your whole length, before drawing back up to the tip, at which his moist lips wrap, gently sucking, never plunging mindlessly to let you fuck his throat. it is his job to be mindful about how you would like to be pleasured with his mouth and focus on it, not be a mindless toy.
there will be time for that, but that time is not now.
he teases you with tongue and lips and, here and there, even a graze of his teeth, when appropriate, soon followed by suction, wet and increasingly loud as he alternates in between touches.
and you softly whisper gentle praises to him, as your eyes wander more and more frequently to the white pearl of precum capturing more and more light as it melts into a dense, translucent tear that hangs from the slit at his engorged, round glans.
you frame his jaw, allowing him to swallow you down to half. you can't resist aiming for the roof of his mouth as you do, pressure slow but consistent.
the colonel fails to choke down wet sounds as you push a little further into the soft tissue. in fact, tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, roll down on undoubtedly crimson cheeks from under his mask, to mix with the mess of drool that floods through his lips and coats all it touches.
his scars glisten beautifully under the viscous, bubbly spit the colonel couldn't hold in even if he had no prior impediment in that department. the man is a leaky mess all over.
eyes. mouth. cock.
you could compete with him yourself, as the drawers now drenched in spit as you push deeper in his throat, were already soaking in your juices at the brilliant sight the colonel always makes on his knees.
you throw in another compliment, underlining the sincerity of your words by thumbing his cheeks under his mask. he makes for such sight, you wish he could see himself through you.
impossible of course. having a standing mirror brought to a colonel's quarters, however… less so. you make a mental note to bring up the suggestion when könig will not be so busy sensuously bobbing his head at your waist, taking more of you, under your guidance, with each downwards movement.
finally, his lips kiss your skin. he thinks he is being subtle, surely, indulging a little more each time he takes you all in to nuzzle his nose in your fragrant curls. still, you don't see the harm in letting him believe so, when he has choked down his hastiness to please you as you wanted.
so you trap him there, face pressed against you as he gags and huffs you in. blithe in discomfort. satisfied in use.
when you finally pull out, the slimy saliva from his throat keeps you connected, until you push the colonel back on his heels, leaving the strand to dangle from his already messed up face.
«you were so good there, pup!», you caress through his damp hair, «ready for your prize?», you ask with nonchalance, as what he probably focussed on throughout his service were nought but an afterthought, to you.
in between pants, you hear a distinct, if frazzled, sound of confirmation.
you take a few steps away and finger at the strap with firm hand, releasing it from around your hips. it falls down as you remove your drawers. they bunch at your ankles, where your boots keep them.
«be good and help mummy with the boots, will you, pup?»
the colonel doesn't hesitate to crawl on his knees, cock still stiff and leaking bobbing at the clumsy motion, and undo your laces, before carefully helping you out of your shoes, making sure not to unbalance you as he frees you from all your bunched up clothes.
as soon as he is done, his hands diligently return behind his back.
you go down on one knee, holding his wet chin between your fingers: «would my pup like to come into mummy?»
his uneven lips barely quiver before he immediately steadies them, but his eyes take a little longer to recover from their having grown wide. yet, the muscles on his abdomen flinch involuntarily, causing his cock to bounce lightly.
you chuckle, caressing a cheek: «hm, pup? what do you say?», your hand brushes his head as you stand up.
his hesitance, or whatever delays his answer, makes you scoff.
«is that such a difficult question, colonel?»
he stares at you: «no», voice low and brittle.
«then what’s the problem, here? am i really supposed to believe that you’ve never thought about it?»
he shakes his head.
«no? no, what? no, you’ve never though about it, or no, that’s not what you want me to believe?»
«i haven’t earned it.»
you can’t help but laugh at his words. his expression, in between angry and morose, only pulls more laughter out of you.
«but it’s not your decision. is it, colonel?»
he relaxes a little, exhaling his reply: «no.»
you stretch out a hand, inviting him closer: «come, pup. let’s ease into things a little, hm?»
what feeble fight in him he showed is gone when you guide his head between your thighs. to that, he has never objected. he laps at your folds with unrestrained gusto, all reluctance shed behind the moment his lips tasted yours.
you press him into you, rubbing your cunt all over his half-masked face – the way he likes – resting one leg on his shoulder to grant him more access to your core as he relishes in the feel of it holding him in place.
as if he would ever run…, you think to yourself as you watch him do with his face as you please.
pleasure rumbles within you as your hips thrust against him, his lips capturing your plumpened nub and sucking loudly at every push, until you are pressing hard into his open mouth, warm and soft around your whole sex, hips stilled yet shaking inside.
it’s hard to swallow with such a dry mouth. you try all the same as you recuperate, wiping loose hair from your forehead as you step back in need of reprieve from könig’s zeal, now that you are at the most sensitive.
something that sounds in between like a huff and a chuckle pushes out of you as you look down at the colonel, who is also busy in his post-meal routine of licking around his mouth for more of you.
you open the top of your fatigues, taking it off and dropping it on the floor, where you join it, only in your tank top, to feel the cold of the tiles against your sweaty skin.
you sigh at the contact as you keep fanning your face and neck with your hands, forgetting for a moment that könig is also on the floor, kneeling close-by. you are questioning whether you should join him: he often gets stuntedly emotional after your sessions and might need some affectionate skin contact – and a rolled-up cigarette with a glass of his disgusting apricot brandy, probably.
you usually provide and this time should be no different. however, he doesn’t give you the time to tend to your duties. you find him on you right away, hovering above you as he positions himself to mount you.
he must have undressed while you lay there, because he is naked in all his scarred and oversized glory. as always, he makes for a wonderful sight.
«changed your mind, puppy?»
he grunts in response and carefully lowers his heavy, solid body on yours, lifting your top as his cock grinds against your slit. you shuffle on the floor, slipping out of it entirely. the warm slickness makes the friction alluring, but hardly enough.
«waiting for mummy to let you inside?»
könig nods, showing a hint of impatience in his grinding you would find endearing, if you weren’t at your limit. you’re tired of waiting and, most certainly, not in the mood for begging.
however, there is one last thing you would like.
«can i see you?»
it wouldn’t be the first time, yet the colonel tenses up at the request, his rubbing slowing down.
you caress his face from under his mask: «let me take this off. i don’t want könig, the detached killing machine to fuck me. i want you… the man…»
you hear him suck in and swallow, before sighing as he slips his hood off and rests it on the floor nearby, fingers still gripping its folds. you hint a smile at him and he lets go of it when you trail a hand to the base of his cock, aiming it at your slicked entrance.
he sinks in slowly, cheek pressed against yours as he groans in your ear, aching walls stretching in the shape of him before he has barely filled you. his next few thrusts are tentative and out of rhythm. he groans at each one, before folding even more and bending his legs to rest his head on your chest while he’s inside you.
when he begins to thrust in earnest, large, heavy balls smacking against the tiles in a way you refuse to believe doesn’t hurt, he does so with the same panache and charm of a teenaged boy losing his virginity, whimpering and drooling on your tits as he slips out more than once. luckily, he always finds his way back in the appropriate hole.
you lie under him staring at the ceiling, arms hugging his nape and upper back as he relentlessly confuses passionately fucking with wanking into you, trying not to laugh at the situation, sure the two of you sweating on the floor and making inhuman noises must make for quite the grotesque sight that, hopefully, no one will ever witness.
perhaps you should reconsider that mirror delivery idea.
you tell yourself that he was so overwhelmed by your desire for him and so aroused by the previous use, that the shock of it made him forget how to fuck, as you are sure this might be the first time together, but certainly not the very first for either of you.
his pathetic whines turning to sobs take you from your thoughts, the telltale signs that he’s close. renewed tears wetting your breasts as he presses his face against them enough to hurt confirm it, as does the increasing, out-of-tempo fury of his hips.
he lifts his head for a moment, desperation in his eyes as he tries to form a sentence: «mum… mummy… please!»
he tries to hold back until your leave. a noble attempt, yet, he barely finishes speaking, that his face is back to your breasts. he shoots inside of you, like you wanted, cock pulsing frantically as he fills your cunt to the brim. it’s difficult to wrap your mind about the fact that the whole business lasted five – very intense, especially for könig – minutes or so.
you still manage a good pup, physically unsatisfied, yet unexpectedly very flattered by how it all turned out, as könig rocks inside of you a few times, before burying himself whole, safe and warm inside of you, not moving any more.
the breakneck beating of his heart echoes against yours, rivalling the sound of his weeping and sniffling, as he refuses to abandon the shelter of your bosom, if not to reposition his head to better suckle your nipples.
That relaxes him enough that the cathartic crying is soon a memory and he is ready – if not voracious – to clean up with his tongue the mess he made between your legs.
I am at a loss of words before this carnel masterpiece. Stepping into new fandoms, you never know what is on the other side creation wise. But this is like a sinful welcome home that I haven't experienced since my early days of supernatural. The descriptions of König's appearance and how he acts. How she controls him to such a degree. As a fellow kink writer, I want to highlight that this is amazing. I can't wait to read more of your work. It has so many of my core kinks and things that I like about male partners that I didn't think other people liked highlighting. But you did, and in such details.
deleted my post earlier but i’m posting it again im just upset.
everyone defended the gaps between videos with the argument that they were getting sooo good in quality and yes they did for a while but in like.. 2019-2020. but now we’re in 2023 and the editing looks like this
and sorry but the makeup sucks and the comedy is repetitive and the writing so far doesn’t look great (but that depends on how they manage to solve all the problems they’ve gotten the characters into) and also sorry but thomas’s acting is also gotten so.. weird, so forced and immature.
literally every aspect of the episodes has gotten worse in the past couple years. everything is so extra and for what. and i know videos in the past two years are all inconsequential short things to pass the time before the finale but i don’t think that’s a valid excuse for them to be like this. if these videos have those problems then so will the big ones. and that sucks.
if they’re taking longer and have more people working and they have a bigger budget it’s only logical to expect the videos to be better. but they’re just. not.
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