Konig X You Smut - Tumblr Posts
My love if your asks are still open, can you maybe write something when König finds out reader is pregnant? Any changes, does he go more crazy for them?
Plus if he somehow knocked her up the poor girl up with multiples? Man would be ecstatic….
omg I LOVE SEEING YOU IN MY ASKS 😫😫 (i had to scroll down to my february reqs to find you :3) 🤧💌
MDNI. pregnancy sex 🍼, multiple positions, creampie!
he’d walked in on you vomiting your guts up one morning, rushing to hold back your hair as you emptied your insides into the toilet. “my liebe? are you sick?” he was worried, naturally. blue eyes wide and unsettled. “not exactly.” you’d smiled shyly, wiping your mouth on the back of your hand. the bitter, acidic aftertaste was vile — but your husband’s large hand cradling your head helped to alleviate it.
once you’d divulged your pregnancy to him, having to fish the test from the bin when he didn’t quite believe you, you soon found yourself with your hands gripping onto the sink — one bent leg pinned to the bathroom counter as he fucked into you from behind. “finally.” he grunted into your ear.
the rest of the day played out like that: your pussy stuffed full of his meaty cock as pints of cum poured into your fertilised uterus with every round of feral sex. he was more gentle than usual, his hips rolling and grinding rather than rutting and slamming. his cockhead would occasionally graze your cervix like a kiss, instead of hammering against it like a battering ram.
you’d reminded him that your child was the size of a bean at this point, but he didn’t care. your cunt still clung salaciously to his prick all the same, despite his kinder rhythm. either way, you were still able to cream around him without fail; and your womb was overflowing with his generous spews of potent semen — thick spunk weeping out of your jammed hole around the girth of his cock.
at your first scan and intimate check (where the poor nurse was forced to witness the way könig’s cum was leaking from your raw and reddened entrance) it was revealed that triplets were on the way! not surprising, your husband always bore a heavy load (within you), and sex always lasted more than a few rounds each session.
but you didn’t even make it home to celebrate the revelation! you were promptly bundled into his lap where you later bounced several orgasms out of his dick. the car seats were so sticky :(
he fucked you through your entire pregnancy, not caring what weird and wonderful position he’d have to put you in thanks to your stomach’s growing size. as long as he could find a way to enter you somehow, he would.
now your triplets are happy and healthy, all three adorning könig’s blue eyes and auburn hair. in nine months time the pair of you are expecting to welcome another new arrival into the world, but könig is intent on ensuring he’s once again fucked multiple babies into your still-swollen tummy :3
Boxer König before a match pls pls pls I need him so bad (ignore if you want lmao, I’m going crazy without him)
“ignore if you want to” SHUT UPPPP IM DOING ITTT
elevated sex? standing sex? i dunno what you fuckin call it man. creampie, you get caught. MDNI 18+
“is this— mmf! a good idea?” you moan out, breathless. he’s got you pressed against a locker, legs locked around his hips whilst his large hands hold you up by the underside of your arse.
“why would it not be?” he grunts, hips slamming your body against the cold metal behind you. you whimper, nails scraping down the sweaty bulges of his biceps. “your fight— hmmf~ starts soon. . .” your words are laboured. stammered and choked — toes curling and face contorting.
he thrusts particularly roughly into you then, punctuating the notion that he doesn’t care. “i know.” you mewl at that, fingers cutting into his slick skin. his cockhead — spewing and swollen — bullies itself against your cervix, pre-cum spitting into the narrow crevice. he starts to lift you from his cock, only to lower you back onto it.
your head thuds back, lips parted and eyes droopy. “you’re gonna wear yourself out.” you joke, gasped. he doesn’t take kindly to it, fucking you down on his prick with hard features and occasional groans.
he’s not struggling. his measured breathing, usual rbf and muscles rippling but otherwise unstrained, lead you to wonder if he’s getting anything out of this at all. but you’re close, a familiar heat churning in the pit of your stomach whilst your cunt clings to his prick like a suction cup.
he twitches inside of you, thick fingers biting into the curve of your arse as his pecs and abs flex. he ups his pace, rutting at a harsher force and rhythm. the locker starts to creak behind you as it starts to lift from the ground, and you want to warn könig but you can’t get your fucking words out — too drunk on the way he drills in and out of you. it’s a tight fit; the stretch so vast that your hole looks like a screaming mouth where juices spill from the cracks around him.
not that he leaves much room for anything to go to waste. you’re plugged full, and your pussy starts to squelch around him as you grow wetter by the second.
the locker wobbles and you garble when you cream around his delving cock, globules of your thick cum splattering onto the tiled floor — his dick pumping it out of you, the pure volume of it having nowhere else to go but pour around him.
he’s not far behind you, spinning milky webs straight into your womb just as the locker gives out — crashing to the floor. it’s loud. deafening, even. and you squeal not just from the commotion, but the way he’s still moving — fucking every last drop from his heavy balls into you.
the door to his changing room opens and you gasp, hiding your face in his neck. “könig-!”
he slows his tempo, now lazily stroking himself between your spasming walls. deliberate and gradual. “you okay, champ—? Shit.” his coach stops dead, gawking for a second at the sight of his best fighter standing stark-naked with a humiliated you speared atop his cock. he clears his throat. “uh, sorry. five minutes, okay?”
“ten.” könig shamelessly corrects the man, glaring right at him.
ok hear me out...boxer!könig and wwe champ!reader
könig thinks the wwe is beyond stupid. it's fake, performative, and he could beat half of them in a singular punch. BUT wwe!reader comes to one of his matches, fresh out of her own. she sits in the front row with her sparkly makeup, colored hair, and skimpy outfit and könig can't help but show out just for her. and to his suprise she meets him outside his dressing room (after he won obviously) and she gives him a...reward for winning :3 also if you have anons i'd like to be 💌 anon <33
i love this idea, but i changed it slightly so reader was teaching him a lesson rather than rewarding him 🫨🫨 and yes of course !! 💌 :3
(reader is appearance neutral, header is for aesthetic 😖)
dom!reader, hate-fucking, mutual hateful pining, rough sex, cowgirl, degradation. MDNI 18+
könig didn’t notice you until a few rounds in. he’d just knocked his opponent to the canvas when he did, eyes landing on you. he’d seen you on tv, heard about you on the news, seen some of your interviews. you’re humble enough, and inarguably deserving of your triumphs. but, come on. wwe? it’s not real — just a bunch of show ponies and stuntmen throwing each other around. it’s all about the camera angles and over-eccentric dressage that makes it seem as dangerous as it does. put you in a ring with him? you’re mice meat.
he even watched one of your fights. granted he was mostly watching the way your hips and arse looked in those leather booty shorts and fishnet stockings, but it didn’t waver his opinion of the sport. it’s all an act for the audience. he’d sooner compare it to that of pageants and spectacles of the violent kind.
but fuck, you looked good.
black lipstick matched the swooping wings of your eyeliner and adhesive lashes, paired with a cooler shade of eyeshadow to harmonise the accessories and extensions in your styled hair. a smear of blood had rubbed from your nose to your chin, smudging some of the inky paint from your mouth. you must’ve come straight from your own contest. and you were sporting a provocative smirk, staring right at him.
and he went all out just for you, winning by ko not even halfway through the match. if you wanted to watch real fighting, he was gonna show you. the semi-stiffness of his cock the entire time was besides the point.
what he wasn’t expecting, was to open his dressing room door to your presence — sultry and seductive. nothing to do with the fact you were wearing next to nothing. you carried a strong essence; radiating your prestige like an odor.
“you call yourself ‘king’.” you’d remarked, pushing past him through the door. he was still in costume, wearing the hooded mask with cut-out eyes he always did to maintain anonymity and ambiguity. you always found it odd how he hated everything you stood for, but looked the part.
“you think you’re a champion.” he snapped back, glaring lasers into the back of your head.
“i am.” you retorted, mocking his manner as you wandered around the room, sniffing the numerous floral bouquets and inspecting his various trophies. of course he had a rocky poster on the wall. “within my own right.”
“you are not a real fighter.” he belittled, scowling as you invited yourself to look through his things. he was trying his best not to stare at your backside, or the way your cleavage spilled over your corset.
you snorted, liking how the thickening tension tipped the scales in your favour, given your reasoning for stopping by. “i’m not exactly a ballerina either, your majesty.”
“könig.” he corrected.
“exactly.”
then you found yourself pinned atop his dresser, nylon tights torn and leather shorts promptly ripped clean from your curves whilst he fucked you against the mirror. but it didn’t last long. just as he was about to bottom out, you’d wrestled free from his grip and tackled him to the floor — cock still wedged inside of you.
he grunted, not just from the unexpected switch, but the way your cunt swallowed him whole when you sank onto his cock. his hands instinctively flew to your hips, but you snatched them off, stapling them either side of his head. “könig: the masked fighter.” you sneered down at him, bouncing roughly up and down on his fat meat. “all those punches to the face finally took their toll?”
his eyes — the only part of him you could see — darkened at your hateful comment. “are you calling me ugly?” he growled through groans and raspy breaths. you smirked the same way you had back in the crowd, biting your bottom lip with the way your clit kept bumping his hairy base. “no, i’m implying it.”
his fingers tightened around yours, cock throbbing within your tight walls. you knew he could overpower you quite easily, he just didn’t want to. you felt too good. “i’ve always wanted to have you like this.” you confessed, riding him harder. “ever since you patronised me at that press conference.”
his eyes narrowed up at you, pupils dilating to the point that his irises drowned in them.
“but look at you now.” you chuckled, grimly.
YESSSSAS SWEETIE YOU ATEEEE
hi i’ve been reading your stoner!könig series and *chefs kiss* 🤌. it’s amazing
what if: reader smokes because they have IED (anger management disorder) and her and she is ashamed of it so hides it from könig (not knowing he smokes too). König catches her and they talk ending in some smut 😉😏😏
RAAH THANK YOU ILY 🤧🌷 you sent me this ages ago im so sorry :(( i don’t know much about ied (i did some brief research) so i played it safe and went with rough and angry (and stoned) hate-fucking 🤭
MDNI. cannabis, choking, rough sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, mentions of anal sex, implications of vaginal tearing, abuse of power.
you’d blown up mid-debrief; spewing threats and assaulting furniture. your colonel wondered if you weren’t impressed with his plan but after asking around, he later learned that you suffer from explosive rage and a complete lack of control over it. mostly because you can’t exactly help it. your squad mates informed him it wasn't personal and that you just can't help it if the most insignificant or irrelevant factor triggers your turmoil.
he was then told by a certain closer comrade of yours that you self-medicate. during particular infuriated episodes you’ll take to your quarters where you lay low until you’re needed; a fat blunt of hand-rolled ‘medicinal herbs’ between your fingers. könig couldn’t believe it; he does the very same.
and when you answered your door with a face like thunder, a half-smoked blunt jutting from the crack of two bruised knuckles, you were greeted by the 6’10” hooded austrian — his own eyes reddened with the affects off pot.
he walked you backwards, kicking your door shut.
“please, come on in.” you’d quipped, sharp and snappy.
“‘please come on in, sir.’” he’d corrected you, large hand forcing you to look at him by the death grip on your messy hair. then you noticed his eyes — a mirror image of yours. he was completely out of it.
now he’s got you pinned to the headboard by your throat, the only thing stopping you from feeling like you’re hanging to your death being the support of his fat cock as it props you up; fucking you in short and shallow thrusts.
in his other hand sits a blunt, the second of the night. he’d smoked the first one with a perfect view of your arse, his girthy prick stuffing it full. but now he’s got the dazzling sight of your face — tears streaming from your bloodshot eyes as you garble and choke on struggled moans, forcing them through the weight around your throat.
call it fucking some work ethic and etiquette into you, or fucking the anger out of you. to be honest he’s been waiting for an excuse to have you like this, better yet with the two of you so far gone that you’ve both lost count of how many times you’ve creamed on, in or around each other; you’re both just lathered in hot milky cum.
you’ve still not apologised for your behaviour, granted you’ve quite literally lost the power of speech as his prick nudges your cervix with every grind of his hips against yours. smoke pours from his flared nostrils, drifting towards your gaping mouth. you pathetically inhale the fumes with the little strength your lungs have, feet cramping with the curl of your toes.
you’re dizzy, cunt clamping around him when he loosens his grip around your neck, causing you to sink further toward the base of dick until your arse is almost flush with his thighs. the stretch of your cunny is painful, and thanks to the width of him it feels like you might as well be losing your virginity all over again. the man is feral; ripping you apart.
everything will hurt tomorrow. you might not be able to work; maybe that was the point :((
I AM GOING FERAL FOR BOXER!KÖNIG.
Boxer König before a match pls pls pls I need him so bad (ignore if you want lmao, I’m going crazy without him)
“ignore if you want to” SHUT UPPPP IM DOING ITTT
elevated sex? standing sex? i dunno what you fuckin call it man. creampie, you get caught. MDNI 18+
“is this— mmf! a good idea?” you moan out, breathless. he’s got you pressed against a locker, legs locked around his hips whilst his large hands hold you up by the underside of your arse.
“why would it not be?” he grunts, hips slamming your body against the cold metal behind you. you whimper, nails scraping down the sweaty bulges of his biceps. “your fight— hmmf~ starts soon. . .” your words are laboured. stammered and choked — toes curling and face contorting.
he thrusts particularly roughly into you then, punctuating the notion that he doesn’t care. “i know.” you mewl at that, fingers cutting into his slick skin. his cockhead — spewing and swollen — bullies itself against your cervix, pre-cum spitting into the narrow crevice. he starts to lift you from his cock, only to lower you back onto it.
your head thuds back, lips parted and eyes droopy. “you’re gonna wear yourself out.” you joke, gasped. he doesn’t take kindly to it, fucking you down on his prick with hard features and occasional groans.
he’s not struggling. his measured breathing, usual rbf and muscles rippling but otherwise unstrained, lead you to wonder if he’s getting anything out of this at all. but you’re close, a familiar heat churning in the pit of your stomach whilst your cunt clings to his prick like a suction cup.
he twitches inside of you, thick fingers biting into the curve of your arse as his pecs and abs flex. he ups his pace, rutting at a harsher force and rhythm. the locker starts to creak behind you as it starts to lift from the ground, and you want to warn könig but you can’t get your fucking words out — too drunk on the way he drills in and out of you. it’s a tight fit; the stretch so vast that your hole looks like a screaming mouth where juices spill from the cracks around him.
not that he leaves much room for anything to go to waste. you’re plugged full, and your pussy starts to squelch around him as you grow wetter by the second.
the locker wobbles and you garble when you cream around his delving cock, globules of your thick cum splattering onto the tiled floor — his dick pumping it out of you, the pure volume of it having nowhere else to go but pour around him.
he’s not far behind you, spinning milky webs straight into your womb just as the locker gives out — crashing to the floor. it’s loud. deafening, even. and you squeal not just from the commotion, but the way he’s still moving — fucking every last drop from his heavy balls into you.
the door to his changing room opens and you gasp, hiding your face in his neck. “könig-!”
he slows his tempo, now lazily stroking himself between your spasming walls. deliberate and gradual. “you okay, champ—? Shit.” his coach stops dead, gawking for a second at the sight of his best fighter standing stark-naked with a humiliated you speared atop his cock. he clears his throat. “uh, sorry. five minutes, okay?”
“ten.” könig shamelessly corrects the man, glaring right at him.