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butterbabyflapjack · 1 year

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GIF by daniel-bruehl

Brat chapter.3

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!reader

sexual content, sexual tension, dominant ghost, power dynamics, messy feelings, voice kink, mask kink, glove kink, dom/sub, indirect daddy kink, biting, rough sex, begging, brat breaking, voyeurism, just a dash of possessive choking, forced eye contact, oral fixation, tactical gear kink

Taglist: @ahoycaptainautumn @your-highnessmarvel @wolfgalsniper @confuseddipshit @prettynalilgay @merzkihstuff @alfie2401 @emberwolfgames @willowbrookesblog @meujias @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @magicgal @verios @flrwpwr @jewelsisurmom @imjusthereforghostsmutt @circuskatt

Chapterlist: chapter.1 - chapter.2 - chapter.3 - chapter.4

You’ve been acting like a brat, and Ghost has had enough of it.

“You can consider this punishment. Can consider it me spoiling your bratty behavior. But you wanted my attention, and you’ve gotten it. So tell me now if you don’t want me to bend you over this desk and fuck you until it breaks, otherwise I’m taking what I want from you, and you’ll accept everything I give like the greedy fucking whore you’re pretending so hard not to be.” He pauses, as if for your reply, though your tongue won’t move, your heart won’t beat; all of you tangled and drunken and warm; your stomach clenching almost painfully tight as you hear his hoarsened hum. “I need an answer, love.” “I…” you swallow, hard. Unable to deny that your panties are steadily soaking through for him, though still you somehow manage to stammer, “I’m not a whore you asshole…!” You hear the smirk behind his mask. “You will be for me.”

Chapter 3

Authors Note: This is NOT the angsty-possibly-(probably)-smutty follow up chapter to what happened last time with Ghost, not yet. I just couldn't resist showing the gangs reaction to you being exorcized by Ghost in the next room first :p Also… things aren’t messy enough. Not yet. So let’s make them messier 😏

This was originally supposed to be a oneshot, but I’m having fun with it so you’re getting your very own codename <3 You’re henceforth known as Hush ~

(also I’m making up a few teammates for you because I want to embarrass you in front of as many people as possible <3)

Mortified is an interesting term.

Though it doesn’t quite cover the sheer amount of embarrassment you feel when walking into the kitchen later that night. Later, after the whole, uhm…

Well.

We won’t get into that.

Your heart squeezes into a fist just thinking about what Ghost did to you on his desk.

Anyway–

You don’t want to brave the kitchen right now – not that you’re terrified of pots and pans or anything, but with how tiny this safehouse is, and with how its tiny living room is attached to its miniscule kitchen, by heading in there you’ll also be confronting anyone residing in said spaces. And you’re pretty sure everyone on this temporary little task force of yours is in there, seeing as how there’s nowhere else to go, not with how you’re all locked up in here, and not with how that old tv in the living room is the only real source of entertainment in passing these days that never seem to end.

You’re really not sure you’re ready for this. Facing everyone. But here you are tentatively sleuthing your way down the hallway toward the kitchen, anyway – which you’re only doing because you’ve been holed up in your room all damn day and your stomach’s about to collapse in on itself like a dying star if you don't eat something in the next five minutes.

In the end, you’re left with few options. Try to sneak into the kitchen like a ravenous forest creature, or die of starvation in a shitty Amsterdam apartment. And though, given just how loudly you might have been screaming Ghost’s name just hours ago, the later choice is tempting… you eventually opted for the former. Straying from the safety of your room, which is separate from the only other room in this place that all the rest of the guys are crammed into. Praying to every god you’ve ever heard of that there’s a possibility your teammates suffered temporary deafness earlier, or that maybe they never had fully functioning ears with the ability to hear things to begin with. Things, like…

Well.

We won’t get into that.

Preferably, we’ll never get into that. Because you hardly even know what that even is, beyond something undoubtedly messy.

As you sneak your way toward the hallway’s bend, tendrils of Soap’s deep, sonorous voice reach out to greet you, echoing lightly off the walls as he seems to be bragging about something, while Gaz’s voice chimes in to call him a ‘cocksure idiot’; the whole array spotlit by a few laughs from whoever else is in there watching the Soap-and-Gaz show. And the second their voices reach you, suddenly your feet feel leaden, dragging you to an abrupt halt just outside the kitchen.

Shit. They’re all in there, it sounds like.

Maybe even Ghost.

The thought of facing him again, of feeling those dark eyes sear into you from the skull-like sockets of his mask, has you reeling, and you nearly turn heel and bolt back to your room again. In fact, it takes a whole lot of mental pep-talk, not to mention your stomach reminding you that it will try to kill you if you don’t give it what it wants, before you’re finally able to take a breath deep enough to force yourself forward again.

You’ve never wanted a flash grenade more in your life – you could just blind all these idiots, grab some canned spaghetti or whatever prepackaged filth they’ve scrounged from the cupboards to cook up, and get the hell out. But maybe it’s better you don’t approach social gatherings like potential warzones.

Gods, how is this more nerve wracking than a warzone…?

You grit your teeth, fighting to keep your expression neutral. Calm. Unaffected.

Just… ignore them, if they say anything. Ignore everyone. This is a mission inside a mission. Get food, get out.

It’s a decent enough plan, given the circumstances.

Too bad it slips your mind entirely the very second you slip out of the hall and inside that kitchen. Because the very moment you wander into view, the stagelight that previously shone down on the Gaz-and-Soap show is unequivocally, violently shifted to you.

You.

Standing there.

Forgetting how to walk. How to breathe.

The proverbial deer in headlights.

Them.

Gaz. Soap. Fuze. Blight. Ash.

Everyone but Ghost, which even through your petrification you feel a flashwave of relief upon noticing, and you would notice him if he were there, he stands head and shoulders above everyone else for christ’s sake. He’s like a militarized watchtower become man, and if you have to face everyone else right now, at least you won’t also have to also face him.

Still, even without his intimidating presence, it’s not like this is some comfortable cozy arrangement you’ve just stumbled upon.

Time stands still. The air shifting. And you could hear a pin drop with how suddenly quiet the room becomes, all conversation dropping.

Soap and Gaz are standing in the middle of the tiny kitchen. Soap, slowly turning to face you fully; thumbs loosely hooked near his collarbones within the straps of his beige tactical vest. Gaz, leaning casually back along the counter with arms folded, though his posture perks up a bit at sighting you standing there. And the three other guys – Fuze, Blight, Ash – they’re all sitting on barstools behind the counter beside them. All their eyes undoubtedly focused in on you.

Soap is the first to really react. A subtle curl slowly tugging at one corner of his lips.

“So…” he muses; accent dragging the syllable long. “You’re alive.”

Some part of you’s relieved he hasn’t said anything else – anything more, well… taunting, maybe. Accusatory, even. Or at the very least teasing. But relief is short-lived when that sharpened glimmer in his eyes promises many things.

Regaining the ability to function somewhat like an actual human being and not a petrified doe, you struggle to maintain eye contact with him, not wanting to look away first from whatever this is – this, with him staring at you like that, squaring you up head to toe, his measured expression never changing.

“Yeah…” you say, sounding more casual than you feel, “why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Soap is quick to return, with far too clever a husky lilt. “You’ve been holed up in that room of yours for quite a while now…”

He nods to the guys sitting behind the counter to his left, though his seawater eyes remain fixed on you.

“Fuze thought you might be dead,” he says.

“I didn’t think shit,” Fuze argues bluntly, “not about that, anyway,” to which Soap steels himself in eyeing you.

“Fine,” he amends, “I thought you might be dead.”

He seems… weirdly tense. Which is strange, given that it’s Soap, and given that he’s maybe been presented a silver-fucking-platter of ammo to tease you until the end of time with.

Since when does Soap not playfully prod you in the ribs first change he gets?

“Well… here I am,” you murmur around the knot in your throat, forcing yourself to walk toward him and further into the room even as you lose your staring contest with him, glancing away from his iron-blue intensity, “very much alive, and very much hungry for whatever delicious shlock Ash’s cooked up for us this evening – so if you’ll excuse me–”

You make to slip past him toward the stove and whatever leftovers remain atop it, but the kitchen’s already small, made especially smaller with two guys like Soap and Gaz filling it, and instead of sliding from your path Soap doubles down, folds his brawny arms across his chest, digs in. Blocking your path so that you’re forced into something of a standstill with him; blinking up at him as he stares down at you like he’s about to interrogate the enemy.

…Fuck.

“Move,” you say, but he doesn’t. So you roll your eyes and treat him like a military machine instead of a man, “Codeword: move the fuck out of my way, Soap.”

“What were you and L.T. up to in his office?” he asks you, point blank, and you feel a specter of panic slip across your features, your eyes widening at his brashness, heat hinting up your cheeks as you hear someone chuckle

You hear Gaz from somewhere beside you mutter, “Woah there, down boy,” though he’s apparently still intrigued enough to keep on watching.

Your teeth clamp down on your lower lip before you manage to mutter up at him, “That’s none of your business.”

“Debatable,” he returns, eyes passing over yours, “seeing as how you put on a very public show for us.”

Irritation ticks along your nape. “What, are you pissed you didn’t get an invite?”

Something almost imperceivable cracks along the edges of his composure, though beyond the way his broad jaw tenses, it’s impossible to notice.

“C’mon, man,” Gaz says, though neither you nor Soap look over at him. “You know damn well what they were up to.”

“I wanna hear her say it,” Soap says. That flicker of amusement in him gone. The intensity in his gaze enough for you to finally unhinge your stiffened jaw enough to force a scoff.

“None of you know what you’re talking about,” you mutter – which is definitely a lie but you’re not about to explain yourself to them, and especially not to Soap even if you normally might’ve confided in him, but you definitely won’t now, not with him grilling you like this.

Jesus, what the fuck’s come over him?

“I mean…” you hear Fuze mutter from the sidelines with bearish mirth, “We’re not deaf, sweetheart. These walls are made of paper, and you put on quite a show.”

When you toss a glower at where he’s sitting, the broad man offers a simple shrug.

“Don’t look at me. You’re the one fucking our lieutenant in front of an avid fuckin’ audience.”

The amount of heat that creeps up your face could likely start the damn place on fire.

“I… I didn’t fuck anyone–!”

“I suppose you were just spooked by an actual ghost, then,” Soap returns smoothly, his usual brand of amusement creeping back in. The sinews of his forearms flexing against how he’s folded them across his muscled chest. “‘Cause you were definitely screaming for one.”

Your hands curls into unsteady fists, though you refuse to look away from how he’s watching you, how he’s assessing you. Like he’s looking for something possibly hidden there. Trying to get a reaction, to read you.

You’ve seen him like this before, when he’s questioning people, usually captives or enemies. Have seen it enough times throughout your years of knowing him to know when he’s fishing for information, for something left unsaid. And though you really don’t like that he’s using that technique on you, you’re so flustered you can’t really think straight, can’t formulate some kind of gameplan against his efforts.

“I don’t know what you’re talki–!”

“Oh, Ghost,” he mimics over you in an obscene, high-pitched moan – and it’s actually kinda mortifying how closely it resembles you even with how fucking deep his voice is. “Ghost! Ghost! Oh, fuck – Ghost!”

The other guys all snigger, even Gaz, while you feel your blood boil so hot steam must be fizzing off your ears as you glare at him. Resisting the extreme temptation to either punch him square in the face, or fold in on yourself and disappear from center-stage entirely.

“Fine, I fucked a ghost,” you eventually huff at him. “I fucked Casper, and he has a bigger dick than any of you. Happy? We done with the twenty questions?”

Soap eyes you a moment longer, mirth upon his lips.

“I guess,” he relents, at length. Seeming content about something. That playful glint in his eyes lowering into deep, blue embers of heat. “But you know…”

For once in the entirety of this far-too-public inquisition, he deems it necessary to make things more private. To bow down to your level. To murmur softly against your ear.

“In all seriousness,” he breathes, “m’not sure I’ve ever heard you so desperate before, Hush. You really put your codename to shame, moaning and mewling like that…”

His amusement warms your skin, and though you should likely stop resisting the temptation to punch him, your arms won't cooperate.

“And with Ghost, no less…” he says smoothly. “Gotta hand it to’im… The man clearly knows what he’s doing, playing you like that…”

You hear his smirk; his words so quiet only you can hear them, though you feel the way everyone’s ears seem to crane in without anyone actually moving.

“Did he take the mask off?” he asks, and you snort. Not seeing the point in playing dumb to just him, seeing as he clearly already knows what you and Ghost were up to.

“You know he didn’t,” you mutter, and hear his spreading grin.

“Ah,” he breathes. “So he really is ugly, then.”

He laughs a bit as you tense in protest, though you don’t actually spare him a response, seeing as how you’re not even entirely sure why you’d protest in the first place. It’s not like you’ve ever seen Ghost before, not like he’d ever let you. You don’t even know his real name. And a man like him is far from needing anyone’s protection.

“Shame, really – that mask hindering things. As a friend, I feel I oughta tell you there’s a helluva lot more a man can do with his mouth to make a lass scream,” he rumbles, and you don’t bother to fill him in that you’re very much acquainted with your lieutenant’s tongue, if that’s what he’s getting at. Maybe not in the ways he might be thinking about right now, and maybe not in those sticky little ways currently tangling your thoughts until you can barely think – but still.

“Well… if you see any men fitting that description around here, do let me know,” you say back at him, fighting to maintain your composure, and hear his lowered chuff. “Seems I’m surrounded by a bunch of schoolboy idiots.”

“Oh c’mon,” Ash pipes up from the sidelines. “Speak the fuck up, yeah? This is the second most interesting thing to happen all day.”

Soap ignores him, though you hear him expel a short, amused breath; maybe at the thought of whatever must have been the day’s first most interesting occurrence, which your gut says is whatever Ghost let them hear of you breaking for him and is absolutely what has an embarrassed flush creeping up your neck.

“All I’m saying, lass,” Soap murmurs, “is that if you were looking to be fucked senseless, you could’ve come to me. If a brute like L.T. can make you sing like that, I can only imagine how sweetly you’d sing for me…”

When all you manage is to blink, that one motion drags like an eternity.

…What…?

Why is…

…Is Soap actually coming on to you…?

Like… not in a joking, ‘we’ve been friends forever’ way… not in a silly-fun ‘I’m just fucking with you’ way… but like actually coming on to you…? In front of everyone…?

Even as bewildered as you are, his voice, his words, their suggestion – they all sink tendrils of heat curling down your spine, spreading out into the very tips of your fingers and toes.

No… No, he’s kidding.

He has to be.

He shifts back just enough to look at you, to read your expression as his gaze hangs unwaveringly above your own. And it takes exceptionally longer than it ought to to remember you aren’t the only two people in the room. That an ‘avid fuckin’ audience’, as Fuze so lovingly put it, is very much watching you and Soap’s every move, trying to figure out why you’re worrying your lower lip like you want to bite it right off, why Soap’s studying you like some elusive creature he’s only now come close to catching.

This is… this is too much. You can’t handle this right now, or maybe ever. You can barely even wrap your head around finally giving into what may be your feelings for Ghost, and you’re not about to let Soap keep stringing you through the mud for his and everyone else's amusement right now.

You came here for some goddamn spaghetti and you’re going to get it.

“Hold that thought,” you tell him, as offhandedly as you can. Ignoring that steady heartbeat in your stomach, like your ribs spilled open. Forcibly pushing your way past him, to which he grins the second your hands are on him, even if it’s just to shove the stubborn brawn of him aside in forging your way toward the stove behind him.

Just as you suspected – there’s a scuffed little pan of what used to be warm spaghetti sitting on the stovetop, a serving spoon buried in the mush, its handle jutting to one side. And you grab it without really thinking, scooping up a large spoonful of that room-temp slop as wetness shlocks around your utensil.

You’re fast, because you have to be. You know Soap’s reaction time is uncanny – he’s on 141 for a reason, same as you. And the very second he’s turned around enough for his gaze to follow you – you’ve already lobbed that oily wad of spaghetti at him.

You really are a better marksman than Price. And the second you hit your mark, spaghetti splattering Soaps face right below one angled cheekbone, a satisfying chorus of ooo’s and impish cackles accentuates the room. Pasta painting his scruffy, chiseled jaw a lovely tomato red, something resembling a meatball sticking to his skin a moment before dripping off onto his chest, staining his form-fitting tee, as gradually, what was once his boyish smirk becomes his tight-lipped scowl.

You’d actually been aiming for right between those scowling seawater eyes of his, but pasta’s a tricky ammunition, and I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.

“Shit, mate,” Gaz leers at him. “You hungry?”

Everyone’s giggling, and oh, it’s lovely, seeing Soap like that. Those heavy brows of his furrowed, pretty eyes narrowing. You’ve never seen something so beautiful in your entire life.

“Red’s definitely your color,” you lark at him, unable not to grin.

He bluntly wipes the spaghetti off his cheek, ignoring everyone but you. Watching you close as you stick your spoon back in the pan again before taking the whole thing with you, attempting to slide past him in making your escape, now that justice has been served. And even though this sludge looks disgusting, you’re more or less content to wolf it down straight from the pan in the safety of your room.

Maybe you were an idiot for thinking Soap’d let this all slide that easy.

The second you’re narrowly slipping past how his body fills the tiny room, he catches your waist in one hand, redirecting your escape attempt in bumping straight into him; his other hand smearing the greasy pasta sauce that’d one graced his statuesque jawline across your flabbergasted cheek, instead.

His hands are so warm. It’s the first thing you notice, when you should likely be a little more preoccupied by the fact he’s fingerpainting you with goddamn pasta sauce. And when you gasp aloud, jolting in his grip as if stricken, your widened gaze whips up to find him already grinning.

“Aye,” he muses. Eyes dancing across your own, across your lips, across the mess he’s made of you. “It definitely suits you, too.”

Something like a knot twists in your stomach as he watches you. As you feel his dense fingers coil around your waist just enough to lightly indent your curves, just enough to tug you a fraction closer. Watching you like he’s hungry. Like he’s resisting the urge to lick that sauce right off your skin.

And, fuck – the fantasy is in your head before you can stop it: Soap burying one hand in your hair, fingers knotting, tilting your head back just a bit, just enough so he can lean down close, can run the flat of his tongue up your cheek. Thrumming, savoring like a dog. Slow, wet heat along that red-painted corner of your lips.

You’re left imagining what his tongue might feel like; your pulse sent unevenly, inexplicably racing.

And it gets worse.

Much, much worse.

Because in the span of a single second, your lust-distorted mind also has you picturing how you might return the favor, so to speak. How you might just as equally fluster him, because he definitely deserves it. How you might take his calloused hand, raise it to your lips. How you might slide his fingers into your mouth, one by one, sucking each offending finger clean, working your tongue around them while his blue eyes smolder as he watches.

Oh, god, what the fuck, what the fuck – !

What the fuck is happening!

You need to get out of this goddamn kitchen.

Gods, why is he looking at you like that…?!

You need to get out of this goddamn kitchen now!

You need to lock yourself back up in your room before any more horrible ideas can sneak their way inside your head.

“Are you guys having a food fight?” Gaz asks, “or is this some weird-ass kinky spaghetti shit I’d rather not be subjected to?”

He lifts a brow at the two of you. At how you’ve both been staring at one another as if the entire world around you no longer exists – though you’re definitely sent on a crash-course back to reality at his saying so, with you blinking so rapidly your head spins.

It takes a few hazy seconds for you to tear your eyes from Soap’s; gliding them to whatever safety the floor might give you.

“‘Scuse me,” you mumble thickly, brushing past Soap, who surprisingly – at least with how this evening’s been going – steps aside to let you.

A dark, barren hallway has never looked so inviting, and you scuttle through it whilst clutching that pan of spaghetti to your chest.

Voices from the kitchen echo on the walls, trailing after you.

“What the fuck was that?” you hear Gaz ask – and though you’re pretty hellbent on fleeing, your pace still stumbles a step, ears craning back to listen.

“Dunno what you’re talkin’ about, mate,” Soap says.

You hear some soft, sucking sounds, like he’s licking his fingers clean, and you nearly trip and fall face-first over your own feet.

“Just teasing the lass.”

“Eye-fucking her, more like.”

“Nah, mate. Just wanted to see where her head’s at.”

“Okay… and where’s that?”

“Not in a relationship.”

A pause follows, in which you forget to keep walking; all your senses honed in on even the smallest of sounds.

“Ghost might say otherwise.”

“Well, Ghost’s not here, is he?”

“I wouldn’t fuck with his girl, mate; that’s all I’m saying.”

For whatever reason, it twists your heart into a painful knot when Soap says, “Seems to me she and L.T. don’t share much of anything worth labeling.”

Author Note:

Messy feelings and messy food. Yum~

😘~💕 thanks for reading

#cod ghost #ghost #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #fanfic #fanfiction #cod modern warfare #mw2 #cod mw #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #mask kink #tactical gear kink #brat

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tacticalkinky · 9 months

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“How Long Can He Last?”

A König x Reader oneshot by JM (me!)

Tags: könig x reader, slight foot fetish, bdsm, dom!y/n, sub!könig, handcuffs, edging

AN: There is some palming of a cock with the toe of a steel toed boot but it is not heavily based on that. Mostly bdsm and domination specifically. There is HEAVY edging though.

Written by: judaciousmars

“Y/n, wait-“ he yelps, cut off by a significant wave of pleasure. König tries very hard to dominate you but is already helpless when he’s taken aback by your firm grip on his crotch. You lean against his shoulder and pin his wrists above his head with one hand. Shockingly, you can fit both of his wrists in one hand. “Is that good baby?” You ask, your words twirling around his ear and making him shudder. König watches your actions below his belt with wide, yearning eyes. The blue irises seem more crystal clear than normal. “Y-yes honey~” he whispers, biting his lip between baited breaths.

“You’re getting so hard for me huh?” You ask him, the inquisitive “huh” curling your lips into a smirk. König struggles his wrists against your grip, but sees he is no match for your strength and instead relaxes to hopefully ease the burning tension he has to cum. He made this bet, the bet that he’d last longer than a minute if you dommed him of course. Both König and Ghost were super cocky and boastful yesterday about how being topped doesnt make them cum. Then doubled the trouble they were in when they asked you and Soap to test them on that bet. You and Soap took one knowing glance at each other, accepted the challenge, and decided youd start the timer that night in your rooms at home.

So now, König suffers the consequences of his actions, under your hands. You swirl the pads of your fingertips up and down his shaft already prodding the cloth that covered it. His hips buck and twitch every so often. Throbbing, pulsing, aching, his cock grows larger under your control. “What’s my name, big boy?” You ask him, the tip of his cock splashing a tiny bit of precum on to his pants. “Fuck you.” König teasingly snaps, rolling his eyes as he looks for a break in your hold. Instead, you make it tighter as you cock your head to the side and smile. “Oh, is that so?”

You keep the hold on one of his wrists and bring him to his knees by sweeping under his leg just enough to make him lose balance. As he quivers and shakes to attempt to keep himself contained, you find the metal cuffs you keep in your drawer and suspend his wrists behind his back. König looks up at you with puppy dog eyes but a smile that cant contain a devilish giggle. You still have your boots on and you use this to your advantage by gently palming his crotch with the toe of your boot. You know how much it hurts to get hit in the balls by metal, so youre very gentle, but nevertheless unforgiving. König clamps his knees together in a desperate attempt to keep from ejaculating in his pants. “Where’s that bratty energy now, schatz? Ready to give up?”

“Hardly.” König growls, struggling beneath the cuffs but unable to budge them one bit. You chuckle, arms crossed as you budge his cock some more. König was in no way a foot fetishist but knowing that at any minute you could crush his balls with your boots made more blood flow to the tip. The fear you instilled in him was so challenging and so intoxicatingly orgasmic. “Fuck! Dommy I can’t-“ König desperately began to exclaim, the sensations rubbing against his sweet spot vigorously. “You can’t what?” You tease, standing off of his pants but tilting his head up to face you.

“I can’t take it- Ah-“ König attempts to speak once more, grimacing and squirming to attempt to ease the tension again. You close in on him and lightly press his head against your crotch. You pull his head back slightly. “Smell.” You command. “Take in what you could be fucking right now.”

König seems confused at a 45 degree angle, but accidentally inhales a little sharply and takes in the aroma of your musk. Perfume vanilla with sugar cane alcohol, and a perfect outline of your bulk making him absolutely crazy. Like waving a steak in front of a hungry dog. König attempts to resist by pulling back, but the scent and your grip on his hair alone makes him keep coming back for more.

“Dommy, I- ungh~…” he groans, the pressure in his cock dealing a worse tension than he had ever felt before. “I’m fucking-“ he rasps, taking deeper breaths. “Youre what baby? Use your words.” You tease, knowing that that alone was probably just enough to get him over the edge. But seeing his last feeble attempt at remaining stiff, you let him struggle one more time, then finally put him out of his misery. But not before putting his pulsating cock on display for your viewing pleasure. Before doing anything, you bend down and unzip his pants, pulling his cock out of the hole of his boxers. Then, with a lilt and a smile, you tease him one more time.

“Beg for me, puppy.”

König nearly screams as he lets out a hefty moan. The tip of his cock erupts a viscous white liquid and splatters on your pants and his both, the load looking entirely like a soda can spill. “Fuck!” König whispers loudly. You shush him anyway, both in a boastful and a “shut up you dont want to wake up the neighbors” way, and stop your stopwatch on your phone.

König takes a few regular breaths and collects himself as you free him from the cuffs. König rubs his wrists in a slight twinge of wrist irritation. “Phew. How long was that?” König asks excitedly, as he takes off the waist half of his clothing to be washed. You look at your phone. “Oddly? Three minutes and forty two seconds. You did better than I thought you would.” You answer, looking for wet wipes to help him wipe himself off.

“I’ll bet Simon’s was shorter. Ha!” König chuckles to himself. He then lies down on your shared bed half naked and covers himself up. “Are you coming to bed baby?” König asks, resting his head on his hand.

“Yeah! I just gotta text someone real quick.” You chirp, assuring him softly. He nods and cuddles up in bed to get ready to fall asleep.

You text the words, “Three minutes and forty two seconds. Yours?”

Soap replies, “Three minutes and thirty six seconds. Damn!”

You both send each other laughing emojis, and you then set your phone down on your nightstand and cuddle with König after ditching your pants as well. That sure was fun. Can’t wait to do it again.

#mask kink #cod mw2 #mask k!nk #tactical gear #könig fanfiction #könig cod #könig x reader #könig x y/n #könig x you #free samples #ao3 writer #writers and poets

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