Cheering Up König
Because war criminals get sad too. You could read this as part of Cruel Intentions…you could not…the choice is in your hands. Not proofread. Trying to break my writers block. Smut. Handjob to blow job supernova.
Usually you can sense a bad mood coming, feel it like a rainstorm on a humid day. Black clouds gathering behind the pacific colour of his irises until they look almost muddy, hardening into sodalite with his heavy lids morose. Usually they make him appear unbearably sleepy, when his head rests on your lap and those sultry blues are half hidden behind dark lashes, you know he’s at his most relaxed.
Not today though, today he’s full to the brim with grouches. His shoulder hurts, the sun shining through the curtains is too bright and everyone around him is totally incapable of getting the job done well. There’s a hoarse note in his voice from shouting, one you notice as he slouches into the apartment and murmurs a hallo.
König slaps a heat pad onto his tight muscles, collapsing onto the couch with a sigh weighted, so heavy he sounds more put upon than Atlas himself. You hear the TV, but when you approach he isn’t really watching it, pupils unfocused lead weights while his mind goes as still as a mill pond.
You slink to his side, settling across his broad thighs as he huffs and shifts beneath you to get comfortable. When you stroke a palm across his forehead, König leans into it, the scent of his body bleeding against the deodorant he put on this morning, a hint of aftershave still clinging to the stubble blooming on his jawline.
“Feeling rough?”
“No…just tired.” König replies wearily, big hands clinging to the flesh of your hips spread wide against his lap. “Tell me about your day Schatzi?”
“I’d rather hear about yours? Sounds like a hard one.”
His lids flutter shut, full mouth pressing into a grim line.
“It is the same old shit. I will not bore you.”
There’s only one thing that will help, you know it, pride yourself on being able to deliver where no one else can. It’s your silent power, the unspoken connection between you that yields pure energy held captive and pampered.
Subtly, you nose at the soft skin above his Adam’s apple, a small kiss placed there dainty as a promise. When he feels your mouth, hot and damp, a breathy noise gets trapped between those wolfish teeth.
“Poor you.” You whisper there, while his head lolls against the sofa cushion behind him, your lips trailing along the tingling nerves in his neck, nipping an earlobe once, then twice until another delicious sound reaches your ears.
“Struggling through such a hard, hard day…”
One hand reaches König’s lap, strokes softly against the line of his cock behind the fly of his pants. Slowly, tantalisingly you undo his belt buckle, happily noticing how still he is, the way barely even a breath is being drawn.
His whirling gaze is fixed on your face when you untuck his heavy shaft from his boxers. The shifting navy of his blues is tantalising, full of dreams and stars that pop against the inky depths. You pump him gently, half hard but already stiffening beneath your fingers.
“So hard to be a good man…isn’t it love?”
A low grunt of acknowledgment rumbles from him, utterly absorbed in you, brain emptying of all thoughts because your sweet fingers are stroking in places that make his heart flutter. Your thumb tucks beneath the crown of his length, traces the keen sensitivity of his frenulum, toys with a thin bead of cum pushed out of his slit in anticipation of the stimulation.
“Always the toughest, always the strongest.”
A tiny, vulnerable groan.
“You can rest now baby. Let me take care of you.”
Another huff escapes while he throbs in your fist, each vessel strained and faintly desperate beneath your touch. A shovel like hand reaches for you, cups your cheek sweetly, thumb sweeping under your lashes.
“Fuck.” He croaks, half a rasp, eyes closing tightly when you firm your grip and make a little more friction.
König’s lips search for yours, his kiss impatient now, bruising almost when they make contact. You roll his foreskin steadily over the head of his cock, occasionally slowing to lubricate his tip with the early release now escaping from the contact.
You wait until he’s twitching, ready to spill, before sliding off his lap and coming to rest between his knees. He spreads his legs lazily, lounges on the throne of a king in your apartment, while you sit happy to serve him.
At the heat of your mouth on his flushing crown, König’s lets loose the filthiest moan, the callouses on his fingertips from years of roughness snagging when his hands stroke your face. The hollows of his cheeks are brimming rosey coloured, matching the head of his cock as it sinks into your throat.
You gag a little, drool pooling under your tongue, lips straining wide because he’s thick at his base. The dark thatch of his body hair tickles when you press your nose as close as it can get to him, you want his cock deep, the feeling of you sucking him to linger in his mind forever.
He swears under his breath in German, staring adoringly at your bulging jaw, the moisture gathering in your lash line from the self inflicted pressure. He tastes a little salty, faint notes of soap, brine lingering on your senses that makes your pussy wet because you know he’s close.
Swallowing, the contraction forces more curses out of him, while gently his hands rock your mouth backwards to relieve the intensity. He holds you there, saliva drenching his balls, eyes locked on his own, as you toy with his glans.
You give his balls the tiniest cup, then a teasing tug.
“Going to cum if you keep this up Liebes.” König hisses. “Gott!”
You link your hand with his when he does, jerking his hips upwards meanly because he can’t help himself. Revived, König insists on making you come in return more than once. When the next day dawns, his hands are already around your waist, the happiest grin spread over his features.
He’s only too keen to return the favour when the blues creep up on you.
