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konigs-left-pec · 3 days

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Wrath

Pairing: Ondolemar (TES:V) x Dragonborn Breton Reader.

A/n: This is a sequel of sorts to this fic that I posted years ago but it can be read alone. I make no excuses, I'm a very slow writer. Also posted on my Ao3 here.

Warnings for: smut(ofc), oral sex (male receiving), Light slapping, religious fetishization, degradation.

"-and of course, Elenwen has no intentions of honoring her word, Ancano could rot in that backwater excuse for a college and she'd be all the happier for it."

You smiled to yourself as you listened to Ondolemar's grumbling from Vlindrell hall’s dining room. He could gossip like an old milkmaid when the mood struck, and only recently had the gossip turned to matters of his own comrades. In ever-growing doses, you were getting deep insights into the very bones of the dominion’s arm in Skyrim. All because your undercover lover liked to bellyache.

"So Ancano is doomed to rot at Winterhold for one slight fifty years ago?" You twirled and inspected yourself in the mirror before pushing your hair aside to fasten the chain around your neck. "I noticed he wasn't at the embassy, I wonder if he even got an invite."

A faint, mirthless chuckle slid into your room from the other side of the doorless archway. "Yes, the Lady Emissary can hold a steel grudge... I wouldn't be surprised if she pretends the poor sod is already dead."

"Wow." You muttered to yourself, only partly at the conversation that you were barely listening to by this point. The mirror was the object of the brunt of your focus, or rather, yourself in it. Gods, this was going to be good if only he reacted as you hoped. Really, you felt sort of kinky as you looked yourself over, not necessarily because you were in a particularly racy outfit, but simply by virtue of the nature of your attire - the meaning. Especially with regard to who was currently in your dining room…

Ondolemar's voice broke you out of your thoughts as he called your name, clearly questioning as to if you were still listening. A giddy feeling bubbled at the eaves of your chest and you bit your lip as you turned from the mirror and stepped into your bedroom doorway.

When Ondolemar looked up from the book he'd nicked off your shelf, he froze.

"What-" he gave a jolty pause, uncharacteristic and cast in hues of similarly foreign confusion, "-are you doing?"

The smile that broke your face was mischievous, a playful wickedness shining in the curve of your lips and spark in your eyes. In the presence of a member of the Thalmor, and one of their most zealous at that, the amulet of Talos hanging around your neck felt nothing less than sinful. From the moment you lifted it off of Ogmund, you knew exactly how you would present it to your pious Altmer lover, potential consequences be damned (though you doubted their integrity where you were concerned, anyway). It was a risk, but one you felt would be well worth it, should the right plays be made and the right pieces be knocked from the board.

Play one had been privacy. The risk of any audience, any witness at all to what was to transpire being blown from the equation, which led the two of you, as always, to your home far away from the keep. An empty house, sans housecarl, where the song of your repercussions could pound carelessly against the stone walls, echoing so deep within the mountain that nosy ears couldn't hear enough for substance.

Ondolemar's scowl from your dining room chair was burning. Almost toeing the line of bona fide anger, but not quite to-temperature. His eyes roved you with a glint of open suspicion, and no attempts were made to hide their stall along the curve of your hips or the low wrap of the fabric of your silk robe. The amulet itself garnered little more than a glance and that was the moment you knew your suspicions about what may lay beneath the veneer of his zeal were almost certainly correct.

"It would be wise of you to remove that at once." He drawled, "need I remind you of the company you keep?"

Twelve paces from your bedroom door, down the couple of steps into your dining room, and you were rounding the table under the heavy pressure of his stare. Slowly, carefully, you drew near, hovering just outside of arm's reach, more to tease than to protect.

"I'm well aware of my company." You felt electric, acting like this, like some tavern girl playing a part for the reward of coin. Every part of your proper Breton upbringing was anathema to it, screaming in your bones to sit down, cross your legs, and let him work for your attentions. But the little wanton within you, the one born and grown in the shadow of your grandmother’s lectures, a legacy to the over-restraint, begged otherwise. It took no effort for it to win out.

"So you're going to have to be more specific..." your fingers traced along the contours of the amulet, down to the collar of your robe where it lay loosely closed along your chest. His eyes followed the trail. "Is it the Talos amulet you want off....or the robe?"

He ignored the question pointedly, but one hand settled on his thigh in a gesture half defiant, half betraying.

"That's the amulet I asked you to retrieve from Ogmund, I hope?" His eyes lingered on it for a beat longer, then fixed onto your face again. He was tense, visibly white-knuckling his resolve, torn at a crossroads where his duty and his passion met, stuck between piety and the sweet sin laid bare before him.

Well, almost bare.

Play two, sweeten the deal.

"Perhaps it is." You toyed with the pendant, "or maybe I'm a dirty heretic, myself."

Ondolemar gave a half-scoff, meant to sound more aloof than it did, but it clipped off abruptly, betraying his non-committance. You hazarded a step closer, watchful of his movements like a hunter approaching a sleeping bear, praying to make the right moves before the beast can have time to react. Then, with a slight of your hand, you let the robe pool by your feet, baring your body to the glow of the flames in the hearth. Ondolemar struggled to keep a measured countenance and prevent his starving eyes from chewing on the divots and peaks of your form.

"A shame, then.” He tried desperately to keep up his defiance. “Heresy is a punishable offense..."

It was a wonderful thing, watching such a superior mer struggle so plainly with his convictions in the face of a naked Breton. Really, he should be loathe to any situation rendering either of you clothless. He was a Thalmor agent, brainwashed his entire life to be repulsed by your woefully unyellow skin and full legs.... he should not find such pleasure in the sight of your bare body. Your shorter frame and wide hips should not have such an affect, but oh how they do.... if the rising peak in his lap was anything to go by, at least.

"Then punish me, commander."

Play three. Indulge the usual script, but turn the context on its head.

Very seldom had you seen your Altmer fumble, unable to get a grip on his wits that were usually so quick and ready, especially in the face of teasing, but he was at a clear loss now. Slowly, you took a seat at the edge of the table behind you, parting your legs and resting one foot on Ondolemar’s chair, squarely between his thighs.

Heavy eyes took your bait and fell enraptured upon your naked cunt.

Tentatively, a hand slid up your calf, in more of a suggestion of touch rather than a bonafide connection, so light against your skin that it seemed to speak to a deeply held fear on his part. Whether for his own actions, yours, or both and what meaning lay beneath, you would likely never truly know. His motivations, inspirations, and secrets were his own but the naked want on his face was all yours. With no small bit of hesitancy, the hand made a blazing path along your skin, but escalated in pressure until he gripped the meat of your inner thigh just so and a heat spilled immediately into your gut. Slowly, Ondolemar stood and loomed above you, pushing aside your leg and pinning you between his broad frame and the edge of the table. He slid the same hand into a loose loop over your collar bone, thumb teasing the face of the amulet between your breasts.

Then, you watched as he chose his path and barreled through the trees, leaving duty behind him.

“I’m sure we can find some way to absolve you of your transgressions,” he told you, pressed so close that you could feel his anticipation, hard beneath his robes. “But what to do with you, hm?

“Punish me, Ondolemar.” You couldn’t stifle the begging whisper. “I came to you wearing an amulet of Talos and I think that deserves something…”

“Oh it does.” He nodded. “Indeed, given the circumstance, being that you so filthily presented yourself as such to a commanding officer of the Aldmeri dominion, I think a whore shall get what a whore deserves.”

You gasped as a rough grip suddenly pinched your jaw, his face coming within inches of yours.

“Shall I fuck the heresy out of you, whore?” He gritted.

“You can certainly try.”

A shadow of something wild flashed in the lineaments of his face before he jostled you roughly.

“I’m going to. Thoroughly.” His promise was cut with a softer look, “But should you want to stop, you are to tell me so. Simply say the word and it will be over. Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir.” You grinned, both appreciative of his consideration, even in this predicament you’d sprung on him, and anticipating the best bedding you’d had in ages.

“Good girl.” He revitalized his grip on your jaw, the strength of it just on the right side of bearable as he plucked you off the table and then let go.

“On your knees, filth.”

Immediately, you sank down, your face coming level with the tent in his clothes. Obediently, you sat and waited with your palms on your thighs.

“Take my cock out.”

Nimble fingers pulled up the fine tunic he wore beneath his robes and tucked the hem behind his belt then made quick work of his trousers. His length sprang free, bobbing in front of your face, already weeping at the tip.

You dare not voice the thought that his arousal brought forth, that he was certainly enjoying this much more than a thalmor official strictly should.

“Come now, girl, don’t play coy. A heretical whore certainly knows how to work a cock.” His biting voice cut through the silence, over the crackle of the hearth. Hazarding a grin, you took him into your hand and gave him a few languid strokes.

He grunted, closing his eyes against the sensation, spreading his stance wider over the stone pressing hard against your knees. “Yes, that’s right. Spit on your hand for me, girl, make it slick.”

You obeyed and it earned you a deep groan. He gripped the back of your head with one hand and looked down at you, his eyes momentarily flitting to your neck.

“I can think of a much better use for your mouth than praising a false god, can’t you, girl?”

You gave him a biddable look, nodding quietly, knowing better than to speak unless told to. He smiled gently, but you had no way of telling if it was a piece of him showing through or a warning for what was to come.

“Open.” He commanded and as soon as your lips parted, his tip slipped between them.

Slowly, his entire length invaded your mouth until you gagged around him and he pulled away.

He held you back by your hair in his fist, the tension making you wince. Derision burned in his tone as hotly as it had the first time he ever spoke to you. “None of that now, whore, we both know you’re not that useless. You can take a cock down your throat.”

He sneered when you didn’t react.

“Say ‘yes, sir’ when I’m right.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

Immediately, he pulled you onto his cock again, shoving himself down your throat, ignoring the small gag you couldn’t stifle at the sudden intrusion. He fucked your face ruthlessly, slamming his hips against you until tears pricked at your eyes and you tapped his arm for air. He gave you a chance to breathe, gasping himself in the wake of his exertion.

When you opened your mouth in offering again, he plunged back in.

“Oh, gods.” He rasped as he thrusted into your face, “yes, you fil- filthy bitch. Suck harder.”

You hollowed out your cheeks more and did as he bid, ripping a deep groan from his throat. He pumped your head onto his length a few more times, groaning and pulling at your hair so hard it stung but you couldn't be bothered to care, the pain of it and the physical discomfort of being used in such a lewd way stirred your appetitive hindbrain into a frenzy, watering the buds of your nascent pleasure, preparing for the bloom of it you knew lay between you and whenever he considered you well and thoroughly fucked.

His breath caught, mid-stroke and you could tell by the way he ripped you off of him that he was reigning himself in, denying himself an early end down your throat. When his head rolled to look down at you, he looked wrought with pleasure. Eyes lidded, brow puckered, lips parted around the ghost of his groaning.

“You’re a heretical little whore, aren’t you.” He gritted his teeth and growled down at your tear-smeared face, your head yanked back to look directly up at him. His free hand slapped against your cheek, not enough to hurt but plenty to arouse. In the months of your entanglement, slapping had been a topic you broached for your own pleasure, something he only took to with some encouragement. You were pleased he pulled that ace from his sleeve now. “Speak, whore.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You think you can put that amulet on and get off easy? No, I think not.” He’s practically spitting at you now, years and years of some untapped religious hang-up bursting forth as if it lay there beneath his skin all along and your actions tonight had been the one thing to tap the well.

“I’ll show you exactly what happens to heretical whores like yourself. Get up.”

You stood and he pulled you into a kiss, licking into your mouth with his tongue. You met him head on as he backed you against the table again, his hands squeezing at your curves as you struggled to keep up with his relentless advances on your mouth and body.

"The Thalmor know how to deal with Talos worshippers." He broke the kiss to hiss against your lips, his greedy hands staking claims on your ass.

"You will not," his teeth nipped the flesh of your earlobe, gusting humid breaths down your neck, "find my reproach..." lips bumped the ridge of your clavicle as he gathered you up against the table, slotting himself between the spread of your soft thighs as he sat you on its edge.

"Lacking." He finished as he bent into your chest and licked a thick stripe over one nipple before pulling it between his lips.

"You will not persuade me to blaspheme my god, Justic-oh-" your train of thought broke around the teeth that bit into your nipple.

"Own it." He raised his head to growl against your cheek, "hail your god aloud if you're so proud to worship his falsehood."

"Hail Tal-" you attempted to whisper, but a broad hand clamped onto your jaw, wiring it shut.

"Say it like you mean it." Ondolemar gritted, and released you with a rough jostle. You felt him push against your cunt, his cock sliding over your folds, the tip pressing into your clit with every stroke.

You took a stabling breath.

"Hail-" the catch of him at your entrance caught you off guard as he lined himself up for the plunge.

"Talos." You breathed, lashes fluttering against your cheeks. He sank in steadily on the last syllable, inch by inch stealing your breath with wild eyes and hands gripping down on your pelvic bone at either hip.

He set a brutal pace. His hips slammed against you, cock deep in your heat with every connection, driving any thought but the sensation of how he filled you out of your head. Your spine tingled, low between your hips where he ended and you began, as he punched into something wonderful, something other lovers had rarely succeeded in finding.

"Say it again." Ondolemar panted, fully given to the unexpected pleasure. You gave a gasp, unable to fill your lungs adequately under the driving force of such vigorous pounding.

Summoning what effort you could, the words come out weak but they come all the same. "Hail Talos."

"Again." It sounded suspiciously close to a plea.

"Hail Talos."

He gave a near feral grunt, "again. Louder," he ordered, a slender thumb venturing down to stroke at your clit as he thrusted.

"Hail Talos." You managed to whine, so loud it filled the air in Vlindrell hall, almost sounding like an honest prayer

"You filthy fucking heretic!" He hissed.

Ondolemar’s free hand slid up your front, hooking into the chain of the Talos amulet for leverage. You fully expected the links to give beneath the force of his grip but the necklace was sturdy and withstood every thrust he pulled against it.

You had read stories, filthy candlelight novellas written by faceless pen names, with motifs homogeneous to tales like the Lusty Argonian Maid, in which people fucked with “wild abandon”. And you were no prude yourself, despite your grandmother's best efforts. You’d sat upon a cock or two in your time, had been fucked with what you would previously have called “wild abandon”, but that was nothing compared to the way Ondolemar wrecked you upon your dining room table. He truly was wild and he truly did abandon anything tethering him to any kind of compunction. Gone were any scruples of the noises being made or whether anyone could hear them. Similarly gone was his usual hesitation to mark you, if his bruising grip on your hip was any tell. And completely gone was his pious dedication to repulsion at anything dealing in the ninth God of the Nords, as he fucked the fabricated heresy out of you, leaving you screaming to the nine and to Talos himself beneath him.

His fingers on your clit rubbed violently, the pleasure peaking and scrubbing your mind clean of any thought but that of your burgeoning release. You tensed and your body fluttered around him, ripping a breathy growl from his mouth and only serving to heighten his urgency.

Ondolemar announced his orgasm in barely enough time to pull out of you and release in sticky ropes across your stomach. He panted and gasped as his hips still thrust into the open hair, the shaft of his cock grazing lightly against your pubic bone as it throbbed.

“Auri-el’s mercy, what have you done?”

It wasn’t a question, not really, but a statement of disbelief as he panted and regarded you with wide, conflicted eyes. He leaned on the table to regain himself, pining you where you lay, covered in the evidence of his base indulgence. His sin.

“Commander, I think you may have a kink.” You accused slyly, fingers reaching up to toy with the straps across his mantle. He didn’t react at first but just as a hesitancy was beginning to take hold (had you overstepped?), his mouth pulled into a soft, conceding smile.

“Not another word.” He groused playfully.

Mood light, body already feeling the first signs of soreness, you pulled the amulet chain around so that you could take it off and set the thing aside, ready to be collected as evidence and taken back to the keep. As your fingers found the clasp though, Ondolemar’s hand took your wrist, and when your eyes met his, the look there gave you immediate pause.

“Leave it,” he ordered, tone tipping back towards that of the wrathful commander once again. “I’m not even close to finished with you yet.”

A fresh bolt of arousal poured down your spine and he followed it with his trailing lips as he set to work pulling as much blasphemy from you as he could with your knees thrown over his shoulders.

#skyrim smut #ondolemar x reader #ondolemar skyrim #ondolemar #something something altmer thalmor supremacy something something down with talos

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konigs-left-pec · 3 days

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Cooper Howard | Sitting like a wh*re

#cooper howard #walton goggins #fallout tv #fallout prime #that first gif took me o u t

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konigs-left-pec · 3 days

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#I'm 😭#100% the fallout fandom #the ghoul #cooper howard #and hancock too omg

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konigs-left-pec · 3 days

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Cooper Howard and that winning smile

#cooper howard #fallout 2024 #if ever there was someone to play a live action ghoul it's walton #walton goggins

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konigs-left-pec · 3 days

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Beverly Crusher reading her grandmother's erotic journal entries and then having a sex dream. THEN she's haunted by some 30yr old hottie who has maybe seduced all the prior female generations of her family (I wasn't listening lol too busy being in shock.) What is this? Outlander? FML. Season 7 is completely off the rails. 😭

Also Picard totally acknowledges his JACKET in this episode and I'M SCREAMING

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konigs-left-pec · 4 days

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Took my Rollei 35S round the glasshouses the other week and I’m so happy with how the photos came out!

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konigs-left-pec · 4 days

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Data and Deanna during the Enterprise's crash 🥺

#star trek data #lt commander data

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konigs-left-pec · 6 days

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Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory dir. Mel Stuart | 1971

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konigs-left-pec · 9 days

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#miraak #skyrim

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konigs-left-pec · 9 days

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I already sent you an ask today so hiiii

(Alright so now I hopefully have your attention, imagine: ancient settling, mercenary könig is made prisoner and enslaved and reader, a cute noble girl, buys him to ☆have fun☆. He doesn't mind at all.)

Have a good day!

anon whoever you are… every message that you have sent has been like you putting a clawing animal in my brain. all of these concepts are so good. sorry it took me a bit to get around to this one. <:•)

captured mercenary! König x noblewoman! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. medieval au (so: gender role nonsense), slightly mean slightly pathetic König, very brief mentions of violence/beheading, masturbation.

“That one.”

You hear yourself speak without thought. Your voice is shy, almost. It’s unbecoming of your station to seem so meek… even as you eye the men lined up before you like cattle prepped for slaughter.

Prisoners, they were. All apart from the one you had chosen would be little more than toys for the executioner after what they’ve done: to think that such a little band of mercenaries would even be planning for a siege… ridiculous. Most of the men have already had their hair cut cleanly away from their necks in preparation for the blade that would be slicing past each vertebrae and layer of muscle to chop away their heads.

This one is saved only because he’s been stripped of his armors, and though his face is rather rugged… there’s strength beneath his skin and such a deep misery in his eyes it sets your chest ablaze with pity. He could be useful, a willing servant if you could only save him from what terrible thing haunts him.

Maybe it’s the old wounds that flare his skin with the raised flesh of scar tissue, perhaps it’s the harelip or the wild thing set between his thighs where he’s forced to kneel. It catches your eye, that last one…

The prisoner’s jaw sets when your finger does point his way, blue eyes narrow just a fraction as realization settles in the pit of his stomach. No freedom to be garnered here, no love, nothing but that blade he had intended to use against you sworn to you instead. If the giant spit at your feet then, it would be expected, welcomed almost with the way your chest roars with sympathy.

He only stares.

You pay off his captors with a few silver coins and watch as they lead him bound to your side. His arms are tied too tightly before him, muscles slack with exertion after trying to fight the ropes for what must have been hours. Whether he sees you as savior or something revolting remains unknown. He doesn’t speak, not even as a servant leads him into the back of your carriage and you step inside after him, holding up the middle of your gown as to not sully it with the dirt and old blood splattered over the stones layered for street.

When the horses begin to move you give the man a proper once over, hiding your smile beneath a handkerchief, free hand curled into the lap of your skirts. He’s not just tall and broad, but incredibly well endowed. Not just sad and downtrodden, but pissed, though the only tell remains his shaking fists. His gaze never meets yours for longer than a moment before it settles back to gaze at the passing tall grass and sheep prancing about the fields, but each time that it does… there is no denying the mixture of confusion, maybe even attraction upon his face.

Your home was something this giant had never had a taste of prior to you: a castle atop a hill, charming and stone with its high ramparts and blunt roof. You didn’t need his confirmation in words, though you do ask and get nothing in turn.

The carriage pulls you right through the gate and it is almost cute the way that this man’s eyes seem to wander as he takes it all in. There are other servants tending to the sheep and horses, the smell of fire and the chiming of blade meeting blade ringing out as men spar, there are cats to keep away pests and modest but cozy homes, a tavern, an inn all beyond the wall. A small city of your own: all for the perfect little noblewoman that you were.

The only thing that you lacked was the trained sword of a man to ensure your safety, and now you had that, too.

You explain to him his place here, the role that he would take for the price you paid as you both disembark from the wooden carriage. He would be fitted for armor donning your family’s crest come the morning, whipped into obedience should he dare raise a hand toward any one here. You even think to warn him of the executioner’s sloppy work, how he may even live with his head chopped only halfway off should you request it…. some horror you had heard one of the travelers speak of.

As the weeks pass, König does begin to settle immensely. His speech is disjointed and parsed, his mother tongue muddled with your own language in a way that is cute… terribly, horribly cute.

He’s intelligent and strong: spends much of his time out amongst the lower men aiding with the animals and teaching them the deft way he swings his blade. It is an art form in its own right, the way that he paints the air with swift strokes… For a woman to fawn over a man’s swordplay was absurd, but it was impossible not to enjoy when he taunts and jabs the way that he does.

He rarely wears that armor the blacksmith crafted for him, both a flattery and an insult. You don’t mind watching him best smaller men in solely his trousers, pressing their faces into the muck while he barks his insults to them in words they can not understand. To you, now, when he flashes the most beastly of grins in your direction and utters the words, “Verpiss dich.”

You aren’t even certain why you stand there rather than hissing out orders to have him taken away. Your stupid corset feels too tight, gown too small, and your chest aches. There's not been a thing you could do to have this man do more than simply tolerate you. He sleeps within his own room in the castle, eats his fill and then some, you talk to him and layer your words with praise. He has not once been punished for anything. Not even now.

“Come here,” you demand without thought, walking down the staircase to cross the yard with your hands balled into delicate fists at your sides.

Your giant only looks confused for a moment as he clambers off of the man he’s just wrestled to the earth and rights himself. His eyebrows raise, his nostrils flare… and then he laughs. At you like you’re the most puny of rabbits, hardly a threat. Your betters would have laughed too at just how fragile you sound, on the cusp of tears over what? Some ridiculous little crush on a captive soldier??

He eventually does as you ask, stomping over to stand before you- not kneel, he never knelt. If his height and stature were meant to intimidate… your god would have to forgive the thoughts that muddle your head then, like filthy water as you drink him in.

“Was…?”

So you explain to him as best you can just how insolent he’s being, how horribly he repays your kindness, how he would be dead on some shrouded mountain pass or have his body tossed into the river if not for you. You explain your heart out when tears come to your eyes and spring forth as your chittering continues, and you don’t even know if the moron can understand; he only stands there with the wildest grin on his face when he sees you beginning to sniffle and sob.

“Was?,” he demands again, blunt even as he takes your face into one of his large hands, turns your head to brush a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Why are you crying?”

“You need to learn your place!” And you know you’re being a hypocrite, that a proper lady should never allow a man to touch her like this, look at her the way that König does. You should call for a servant to have him dragged through the yard and whipped… or worse, but your voice only comes in a crestfallen whisper.

He shrugs those massive shoulders, rolls his neck and huffs a breath as he gazes down at you before his hand falls to his side and he merely walks away. That’s it.

Though you had the hopes that your warning had been taken seriously, the days following seem even worse.

König abandons his duties and takes up the most horrendous idea of courtship that he can muster. If courtship is even what it could be considered. It is more like a direct taunt, a jab now that he’s been made perfectly aware just how fragile the maiden he was sold to guard is.

He takes liberties once you’ve bedded down each night, your dresses stripped away to be replaced with a plain linen gown with nothing beneath: your only protection in the form of the wooden door between you two because König is no protector.

It always starts with the sound of spitting into his palm, then a drawn out sigh that rises to a near-animalistic groan. Sometimes he speaks, other times the soft, wet sounds rise in tempo until all that comes from his mouth are sharp hisses and whines.

This night proves to be the worst.

The wood creaks under his weight as he leans back against the door, stroking himself to the thought of you behind it. He makes it apparent when he breathes your name, low and shaky as you squeeze your eyes closed and pretend to not hear the words that follow.

“Scheiße… bet you’re tight,” he hisses between his depraved whimpers, the slick sounds increasing even as he rights himself to stand proper. You can almost hear the way he salivates, can almost imagine the way his jaw must fall slack and his eyes go dazed as he pleasures himself… you squeeze your thighs shut.

“Ja… you want it too, huh…” The bastard is most assuredly imagining you, knelt before him with the most helpless, reverent gaze as you plead for him. It should make you ill, yet it only stokes a fire in your belly, one that bridges between rage and need. “Ich will dich ficken…”

Your breath comes to a halt when your hand drifts beneath your thin gown, forcing yourself to listen as he brings himself to ruin in the halls as your finger presses to the spot that demands attention most of all. A fragile, shaking circle before your breath already begins to catch.

“Bitte…”

The brute sounds so helpless now, no longer the horrid thing that ordered you to “piss off” or scowled in your direction. He doesn’t know a thing about love… about how one should yearn for a maiden, only of spilling blood and seed. It’s only in the quiet of the night when the rest of the castle sleeps does he allow himself to be even this vulnerable… only his vulnerability seems even more terrifying.

His groans morph into pitiful sighs as he no doubt slows his motions, drawing out an impending orgasm in the hope that you will crawl to your door to let him in and fuck you rough on your bed.

“Just let me…”

Your thighs tremble as you weep between them in longing. The sooner it’s over the sooner you can close your eyes and drift back to sleep, no longer needing him the way he seems to need you now.

Your motions grow more heady, the patterns traced quicker and more deliberate as the heat rushes down further like the most vast wave of pure fire… When you tense, when your lips part to allow a low murmur of pleasure to slip from them, you’re met with laughter from the other side of the door.

“Ja… my lady… you do want it,” he hums as you draw your covers up and over your head in shame. You hadn’t been that loud, surely… but the way that he follows after, coming undone himself with a loud grunt as though it were some ridiculous competition…

“Let me fuck you next time,” he rasps, panting soft as he leans back. Depraved as he was, you were certain he was probably admiring the pearly paint he left along the stones. “That is my place, hm?”

#König

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konigs-left-pec · 10 days

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got a startling number or requests for this, so here’s a part two for captured mercenary! König x noblewoman! reader..!

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. medieval au, dubious consent, slightly rough smut, abduction.

On the twelfth day, you finally understand how to punish König.

The nightly incidents have grown more frequent, sometimes thrice before the sun rises. Even once when you had caught his eye from across the yard whilst he bathed in the pond. A heavy hand had curled around his manhood with the most obscene words you had ever heard a man speak spilling from his panting mouth.

You merely stared like an innocent fawn in the face of a starved hunter then, but as the day passed a deep sorrow seemed to take root, one that should have been left well enough alone. König is not an animal, but… he is an unwed brute whose very appearance had most of the servant girls running for their quarters with their hands shoved protectively into the laps of their skirts.

He’s lonely. You had reasoned that must be why he’s so hellbent on torturing you to tears, to harass you with that leaking, throbbing pillar between his thighs. His insults have come to a stop. The man you took in for a pouch of copper is more of a pity than a terror at all.

With the sleepless nights beginning to weigh down on you, puppeting yourself day by day grows to be the most awful task. He’s always lurking close: it’s what he’s here for. König’s eyes never stray from you.

It’s getting to him, too.

The midwife, of course, shyly told you that a lady of your status should hold fast to her maidenhood until the eve of her wedding. But… once the dutiful words had been spilled, she immediately followed them with laughter, explaining that some men just needed to be subjugated, hinting that that was possibly the solution to what has you so downtrodden.

You couldn’t help yourself, not when he glanced up at you in the midst of training, his sightless mimicry of an opponent made up of wood already felled and settled into the dust at his feet. You could always feign your innocence, accuse him of imagining things should he say a word. Though, you’re guilty, just as guilty as him as you reveal your body to him where you sat perched upon the window sill.

The fluttering, innocent fabric of your gown is pulled from your shoulders and pushed down your hips to pool upon the floor. The laces of your corset are hastily untied to follow down. The underdress is all but torn away when you notice the way he halts in place, jaw tightening and eyes going wide.

Like the most malevolent of nymphs, you don’t offer him a taste when he comes storming into the castle chasing that glint of hope. You wind yourself through the halls, fully clothed as he huffs and growls just beyond your shoulder of how it is cruel and dangerous to tease a man.

Something about the way he boasts of doing so much for you to receive so little in turn conjures laughter from your throat. It is not often you’re able to treat a man this way, and even less often have you learned a thing about war, but you’ve certainly turned the tables in this ridiculous battle.

Those warnings of his fall entirely on deaf ears.

Then comes the night you no longer sense him positioned beyond your door. You sleep uninterrupted and warm, safely tucked between layers of cloth and down. The comfort of not being stirred awake by clamoring and grunting jolts you up with worry, because by this time it’s unnatural.

The peace of the night is heavy; the castle is entirely silent, no heavy soles meeting stone floors or hushed voices whispering secrets. There are crickets chirping beyond your window where a cool breeze drifts in to flutter curtains, but not a sound otherwise.

You push past your own apprehension to try the door, to seek him out with your innocent fretting, only to find that past that wooden barrier no one is stood guard.

A torch is lit and stationed upon the wall in König’s place, and the looming darkness further down the blackened hall feels so inexplicably ominous that your courage is diminished the second you place you find your footing over the threshold of the door and step out to have it envelope you in full.

König is not the only thing that would swallow you whole if you allowed it.

The realization dawns on you with each fragile step upon cool stone. He’s left you to fend for yourself, likely run off to have his fill of brothel girls and find a new band to strike you and any other pompous noble down. Your castle and your servants would all be ash come the dawn if he so chose… but it isn’t that thought that fills your heart with dread whilst you make your way out of these silent walls.

There’s a clamor coming from the stables when night air brushes over your face, the breeze pushing your hair into your eyes. You’ve heard the sound many a times when one is preparing to ride, the gathering of a saddle whilst the horses press their hooves to earth and watch on in preparation. There are no chores to be done elsewhere, and no servant would be given permission to leave the safety of the walls this late into the night.

König is leaving, abandoning you and his duties.

That’s what bothers you more than the thought of some awful demise.

You can’t place why it even matters. He’s been nothing short of a terror since the day he stepped foot in this place. He doesn’t bring your heart any soothing, only leaves it in wreckage and strikes up a wetness between your thighs. The man is not special, only cruel and ugly, sharp and bloodied like the swords he looks upon with far more passion than he’s ever given to you. Yet, the thought of being without him is haunting.

The walk across the yard feels as though it takes an age. You refuse to cry before him again, have those callused fingers wipe away your tears, but the scowl you force is only as daunting as the look of a forlorn puppy. You can’t find it within you to hate him, even when you try in earnest.

Your hand grasps at the wall of the stable as you peer inside to find the very scene from your imaginings. A horse is readied with as many supplies as it can carry, sacks of what you assume to be stolen food and weaponry hastily fastened to its sides. König is there, of course, shushing the animal with feed as the gate shuts behind him.

He would wait it out here until the night deepens and there would be no chance of anyone coming to stop him, all others preoccupied with their dreaming. As much as you would have preferred to find the sense to return to your own mattress and wait for the sun, your steps lead you inside instead. To him.

“What are you doing?” Your hiss is meek, hushed, and you know you sound more the part of a scorned wife than any authority at all. Your eyes don’t even meet his, cast down to the loose hay at your feet blanketing the dirt floor.

The man only sounds elated at the sight of you, at the idea of being caught amidst his further wicked behavior as he explains to you exactly what you already know. He does not shy away from approaching you, either. You only realize then you’re still dressed for bed without a weapon, just this loose, white gown and a betrayed stare. You’re no threat to someone like this, if anyone at all.

“You want me to stay?,” he hisses right back, taking liberty over your state to draw a hand up to your face, tilt your chin up so your eyes do finally meet his. The sadness remains in his eyes, deeper than you could even fathom, but accompanying it now is a crying madness.

Subjugate, you remind yourself when your lips press to a line. You could play the part of someone braver, bring him to his knees with words and promises up until morning where he would assuredly receive a good lashing.

The hand on your chin crawls down to your neck, thumb petting your pulse with even strokes.

“You can make me,” he continues through your bitter silence. The smirk upon his face is not charming, only cruel again; likely the same look he would give to the void each time he has heard you unravel at the mere thought of him.

You separate yourself from him with a wounded glare, barely keeping yourself together at the thought of finally allowing this brute to unite with your being in such a way. The reasonings as to why you should not are a blur now, reeled back by a more demanding series of thoughts. A secret you could keep, just as long as…

“You really will? If I allow you to…”

“Ja,” König answers simply, gives you a firm nod as to further express his answer. The truth of it was, he finds you dumb. After many months being here, you’ve picked up on a few words of his mother tongue and still he seems to think of you as a simple woman. “Zeig mir deine pflaume.”

You think you may even look the part of some naïve, overly trusting creature when your gown falls to your ankles to rest of the hay covered floor.

The man does not kiss you, only weighs your breasts in his hands, squishes them and paws at their plushness until his breathing grows heavy. He’s grown hard beneath his tunic already, without so much as a moan or a touch from you, but with his eyes locked onto what lies between your trembling legs and the flesh in his hands you almost feel a swell of pride.

His face dips to press into your chest, an eager tongue snaking out to wet you… everywhere. Perhaps he isn’t the most experienced with women, perhaps he’s only sampled what the brothels had to offer.

There’s no care for your pleasure here, only a tentative exchange made clear by the way he gropes at you with such force and tugs your nipple between his teeth as shallow pants and low whimpers leave your parted lips. The bites grow in intensity until you bring your hands to his scarred face to shove him away, only then does he relent back to feverish licks.

A hand trails down to your hip, all too eager in its exploration. There’s no warning when he tests your willingness, pets at your cunt like a well-loved pet. And damn it all — you are wet, as much as you would like to be frigid and resentful here, your body sings for him with soft whines instead of birdsong and dew over the petals of your own flower. He hums appreciatively while suckling at your tit, pushes a finger into your slit so suddenly your body jolts forward to grasp at his shoulders for purchase.

“Not here…” You try to reason with him. There are beds in the castle and walls so thick not a soul would hear. You didn’t need to be fucked in a stable like a breeding mare, it’s unbecoming for both of you.

Not that König even had the sense to listen. You’ve placed a hearty offering at the altar of a starved god, and he would be a fool to allow room to have it snatched away.

The response he gives you is not in words. It’s with a sudden spin that leaves you grasping at the gate of an empty stall, your back to him. You’ve never felt quite so vulnerable, never so horribly heartbroken when this beast chooses to take you from behind instead of nice and slow, in a bed that smells of lavender and incense.

There’s a soft rustling as he pulls his cock free from his garments, his head pressed to where your shoulder and neck join where he whispers what you imagine to be pure filth in his mother tongue, takes in your scent with panting breaths. The fat tip of his cock is diligently rubbed against you in hasty strokes, gathering your wetness until you feel yourself beginning to quiver.

Any chance to turn back is ripped out of your grasp the second he loses patience and begins to feed your drooling cunt each girthy inch. The hands that directed your face with most of your interactions are now cinched firmly against your waist. The sounds that leave him now are unlike any you’ve heard prior; a hand as hard and rough as his could never quite feel the same as what you’ve blessed him with.

“You feel…” He halts momentarily when he’s stuffed himself into you entirely, listening to each soft sound that’s pulled from your lips as you shake around him, for him. He doesn’t need to speak, really… you feel it too, the immediate heat and immaculate bliss of being joined in such a way. You’ve seen that horrid, thick thing countless times but to imagine it would feel so heavenly inside…

“Fick mich… so tight…”

His fucking becomes rampant when you cast him a look over your shoulder, one of utter rapture. Any patience he feigned is lost, because his cock spears you open again and again at a pace that jolts you in place and has your nails splintering the wood in your grasp. The teeth that pulled and bit at your nipples sink into your shoulder to keep those foul words contained, but does little to stifle the desperate groans and keening whines. The sounds of impact join him, filling up the shush of the night air.

Though you try to keep yourself contained, when a hand rises to squeeze at your breast and pinch your nipple between two coarse digits, any hope of biting your tongue is snuffed out. The sounds of your pleasure only add to his derangement; his thrusts become almost unbearable as he fills you with the length of his cock, pulls out to where his tip snags at your entrance only to fully bury himself again in quick repetition.

You don’t even come before he grows sloppy. Each stroke comes less intent, shifting from too fast or far too slow. It’s maddening, the way he sinks in to press his balls to your clit, already drenched in your essence, like a proper lover only to pump you like a common whore following.

He announces his impending orgasm to you in a grunt before sinking his teeth into your neck. Your hand detaches from the gate to slip between your thighs where König immediately grips your wrist as directs each movement as you circle your clit. There’s no tact or beauty here. He forces you to set a rough pace, desperate to feel you squeeze around his cock before he fucks his seed into you; the brute grows impatient and bats your hand away entirely as he pinches and flicks at the nub until you sob, because as torturous as it is, it works.

You’re brought to an abrupt end, eyes squeezed shut and jaw tightening as your hips jolt to meet his palm and your cunt pulls him in to pulse. He laps languidly at your neck while he gives you only a few stilted thrusts before the entire affair comes to an end. König doesn’t have near enough sense to keep himself contained, how no curious servant was pried from their bed by the pleasured bellow he lets out then is remarkable.

The man who fucks his palm near thrice a day still manages to fill your cunt to bursting with his seed. It slips down your thigh when he pulls away from you, tugs at your cheek to take in the view with a satisfied grunt that makes you want to recoil from him in a fit of misery. Maybe even love, because you find yourself so regrettably content now that you wouldn’t even mind sleeping in this sour smelling stable if only he would keep an arm around you…

König’s thoughts are elsewhere. He adjusts himself back into his clothes and pulls your gown from the floor to present it back to you. There’s no romance, only a subtle hint of something more than disinterest when he flashes you an almost boyish grin while you straighten yourself out as best you can.

A warm bath followed by a pillow beneath your head would be nice, but instead this romp blesses you with more dread.

The horse König had so diligently prepared is led out of its stall, and you… You’re hardly given a moment to react before you’re seated on the saddle by a pair of thick arms, the owner of which follows suit while you shoot him an uneasy glance. The question of where he’s taking you is only met with a palm curled over your mouth and an affectionate peck to your temple. You’ve no intention of being thrown off a horse or further tempting fate, even if it seems the easier route than whatever this proves to be.

“My lady wants to stay with me..,” he purrs as the reins are forced into your hands. That same hand slips down to push up your gown again and pivot your ass to rest over his crotch. “So she will come with me, hm?”

The cock finds its way inside of you again as the horse takes quiet, metered steps. Your eyes grow wet with tears unshed, and your protestations are muffled by that grip over the lower half of your face. König seems almost sympathetic even with the transparency of his renewed arousal throbbing inside of you; his hand falls free from your mouth as the horse carries you both past the threshold of the gate, replaced instead by a kiss both fiery and soothing.

You sulk and demand he return you home, to the safety of that stone nest, only to be shushed each time by a sweet press of his mouth to yours, your cheek when you will yourself to turn away. His free hand pets at your side, your breast, any where he can touch to calm your trembling. It doesn’t help… much, but your heart does seem to soften amidst the confusion and bereavement.

“I will take you home,” he mutters as he toys with your clit again, beckoning you to grind back against him. Your head lolls back again his shoulder, dazed and shaky from both his touch and his horrible deceit.

Home. Back to whatever pit of sulfur and grime he came from to drag you back down into it with him.

“… I’ll take care of you, little dove.”

It’s a shame this gentle side of him only decided upon showing its face when the roles reversed in his favor. Prisoner or wife, you meld against him wholly, sigh your pleasure as he whisks you away.

#König

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konigs-left-pec · 11 days

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Ex Husband König x You ❤️‍🩹

Thank you a million times over to @shotmrmiller who’s ex husband Si AU fully inspired this and because Toni brainstormed with me, dreaming up the vile creature that is König your X. We are the toxic.

I’m hella excited about this one. Dark subject matter & smut ahead (possessive and obsessive behaviour) - MDNI and proceed with caution ta x

You couldn’t put a finger on the pulse point of what went wrong with König.

Maybe it was the long months he spent away, that made distance begin to swell in your heart, eating through the purity of the love you had for him. Perhaps it was the fact he missed the birth of your third child, a baby girl, because he was earning huge amounts of money doing god knows what, in some far flung corner of the world.

When he came back to you there was a second honeymoon each time. All pacific blue eyes and puppyish adoration, that boy like charm lightened his harsh features and reeled you in. It was almost suffocating. König adored you and the family you gave him. But you felt he enjoyed the violent glamour of mercenary life more, continually putting it above you all, and that was a bitter pill to keep swallowing.

Then there were the moods. Black storm clouds of darkness that seemed to descend on him without rhyme or reason. It could be an innocuous comment about his absent and longed for father, made via Skype by his Oma. Or just an everyday inconvenience like someone cutting him off at an intersection. But tendrils of a vicious melancholy would inch over his personality like a sickness, dragging you under the heavy mist of it too, until you were at each other’s throats spitting venom.

König would beg your forgiveness, tender kisses and stolen moments when the children were in bed. Then he’d be gone again with the promise of improvement, spending more time at home in the near future, that never seemed to come to fruition.

Your babies would sob for him and you would have to sweep up the pieces of your lives, for however long it took him to get paid.

The straw tenuously holding you together, was ripped to shreds after König told you he was sending money, in lieu of coming home for Christmas. He couldn’t understand why you were so upset, he’d make it up to you once he got back and buy the kids plenty of tat to help them forget it. As ever his selfishness stung, but this time it tipped you into a precipice of self preservation.

You’d packed the 4x4 up and left to stay with your parents for the foreseeable, your darling boys and sweet sleeping girl in the rearview. When you sent the divorce papers to his base, he returned them with a post it note stating plainly he’d signed up for ‘death do you part’. König intended to hold you to those vows by force if necessary.

It was clear in his normally neat handwriting, now blurred with fury. Splashes of ink staining the paper like droplets of murky blue blood, rips in the fragile material where his fist had driven the pen clean through it.

That should have been a warning sign.

König took the next flight home, though no amount of pleading would change your mind. So an uneasy truce was reached, you would stay in the house he paid for indefinitely and König would get visitation whenever he was on leave. Everything remained in his name, the bank accounts were always full of his dirty money, but he signed the papers legally ending your duty as a wife.

Except that it made absolutely no difference.

König came home like a victorious barbarian every few months. Sliding easily back into the house and heading straight for your marital bed. It was such a pain to get the locks changed after all and honestly you doubted whether that would stop him.

Before you could protest, he’d be nose deep in your folds, eating your pussy so rapturously it almost made your sleepy brain forget about the bullshit of being married to him. König would make love to you with his tongue and you’d make excuses for why he couldn’t fuck you. It was inappropriate for one thing. But König barely listened, sensing the way your resolve crumbled every time you felt his hung cock harden just for you.

“No one else can fuck you like this Maus. Let’s have one more baby ja? We always wanted four and I know you would like another girl.”

It was insidious, the way he made you question your own valid reasoning for abandoning the ship wrecked union, every time he brought you to a shaking peak beneath him. He would be ravenous, pussy drunk and it reminded you of sweeter times before the tempest of separation took hold. Hands in his cropped hair dragged him into the crook of your neck, where he dealt burning love bites like he wanted to replace your missing wedding ring.

One night, after eons without the weight of a man between your thighs, you got ballsy and let the sweet guy from the bar take you home. Out with your girlfriends, they encouraged you to accept a drink from him. In the half light and under the influence of a crisp Chardonnay, he was cute and you wanted some affection.

In his apartment, you examined the extensive collection of Warhammer figurines, painstakingly decorated with a steady hand.

It was a solitary and average shag, which you thought little about. It scratched that particular itch, a craving for closeness you’d been so sorely lacking. A few texts were exchanged afterwards, then you politely dipped out of the conversation.

You had no idea that while eating cheerios at the kitchen table one morning, your sons had innocently mentioned to König that their aunty had babysat. The little boys were full of excitement, telling their daddy how they’d watched cartoons until past bedtime, not noticing the violent possessiveness clouding over König’s features.

“What time did mama get home, tell me?”

They told him happily you hadn’t come back until morning. You were none the wiser as to why König’s usually mischievous disposition had evaporated, replaced by something frighteningly savage.

It was also news to you, that König had the password to your phone. He needed that to install a tracker obviously, so silly maus to think he would allow you to roam around unchecked while he was abroad.

It took him less than five minutes to find out the man’s name. Your chat history had signed the poor blokes death warrant.

A few days later, you’re idly flicking through the channels on the TV, sipping a coffee from the expensive machine he bought you for your birthday. There’s been an animal attack in a park nearby, suspected bear but the details are unclear.

Then the image of your one night stand plays across the screen and you choke, rasping for breath. Shit! It feels odd to see him plastered on the monitor, especially because you have no idea why anyone would go camping in the middle of November. It’s even more puzzling that he got attacked by a wild creature in your quiet little town, that hasn’t seen anything of the sort for years.

But you’re busy, dealing with an increasingly territorial ex husband and three little ones. König’s intensity is bordering on obsession, he insists on going everywhere with you under the guise of not missing out on time with his children.

You try and argue that the kids are at school and you don’t need him to help with the groceries, but it falls on deaf ears. He’s got tinnitus remember? From one too many explosive devices being detonated nearby.

So your weird feeling about your now deceased night of fun, is replaced by concerns König is getting a little bit too comfortable. Out in the garden, König unashamedly dumps his blood soaked clothes into the fire pit, building a roaring blaze so hot, it takes hours to get it cool enough for you all to toast marshmallows on.

Later on, he lays easily in the kingsize you bought when you moved in, long legs spread out like he owns the place. He does of course, but that isn’t the point. You try not to think about what the sight of the dark hair covering his navel and creeping down underneath his boxers, does to your libido.

“The spare room is made up. You can sleep in there tonight.” You tell him firmly.

König grins maliciously up at you.

“I can’t eat your cunt out that far away maus.” He stretches languidly and gets under the covers, then pats the bed beside him. “Get in and don’t argue.”

You try and make a fuss, ranting in hushed whispers that he’s overstepping your boundaries. In one dizzying motion, his body is next to yours, broad palms on your cheeks, so you’re forced to look up into his marred face, every scar waxy in the warm light of the bedside lamp.

“I could drag you into bed kicking and screaming Schatz, but I’d far rather you spent that pent up energy sitting on my face.” He looks entertained by that, like it’s tickled his odd sense of humour. He always did snort with poorly timed mirth at other people’s misfortune.

Snarling with annoyance at the sight of him lounging in your high thread count sheets, you turn on heel and make towards the chilled hallway.

A heavy hand lands on your shoulder before you can reach it, almost weighing down your steps until it feels like you’re moving through treacle. Then he locks the bedroom door and puts the key on top of the wardrobe. He knows you can’t retrieve it up there.

Like so many nights before, König has you straddling his lap after hours of sloppy, desperate foreplay. His thick fingers cut into the meat of your hips, as he drives your shuddering body down on his weeping prick at an unnaturally savage pace.

Every vein obvious on the tautness of his swollen shaft is teasing you, effortlessly dragging against the walls of your hyper stimulated core until tears pool in your eyes. The sound of your slick is pornographic, bouncing off the tastefully painted eggshell walls.

König is glassy eyed too, his short hair sticking up at odd angles, where your hands attempted to tug him away from suckling your clit until it throbbed with both pleasure and pain. It’s what you needed, the thing you crave the most while he’s gone. A ferocious fuck that has your body transformed into liquid by the end, a burning sensation in your gut where he’s planted himself so deeply it’s like he wants to reshape your body to fit his.

“Look at me.” König hisses through his teeth, the words strained as the muscles in his chest tense, fighting to hold off his impending release. “I want to see your eyes roll back when I make you cum again.”

He snaps his hips up hard, pounding into your soaked cunt and spreading your legs so wide you almost break then and there. Deep set and heavily lidded, his gaze sweeps your sweat sheened body, while he grunts with each jerk inside you.

König flips you onto your back, arranging one arm so it rests on his muscled shoulder, face now so close to yours that you can almost taste his perspiration. The new angle of his cock tearing into you, makes the crest of the wave shatter and you cream for him, a milky collection of your arousal forming a ring at his base.

When you finally regain consciousness, following the blissful sensation of being fucked through a hard earned fourth orgasm, König is tense above you. Like a coiled spring, every nerve in his body is alight with the need to spill until your cunt overflows with his seed.

“Let me finish maus. Bitte.”

There’s a pause, but the minute you give him the order he’s rutting into you until he starts to soften, painting your soft walls with thick spend. König lies shaking at your side, back to his needy alter ego, with gentle touches and huffs of endless devotion.

You forget sometimes, that there’s nothing your former husband loves more than being your loyal servant. A man who’s life has been built around following explicit commands and who craves your direction. Even while he revels in asserting himself over you, ultimately you’re the one who gives him permission to let himself go fully.

The power exchange is a hell of a drug. A guard dog tamed into your lap, while it snarls at everyone around you with a curled lip and harsh fangs.

You wake the next morning feeling boneless, melted into a mattress still sticky with sweat. König gets up early always, you can hear him downstairs with the kids. No doubt he’s playing house. A brief interlude where you’re not there to remind him, he can’t choose when he steps into that role on a whim.

By the time you make it into the kitchen, everyone is in the garden running riot. You watch König using the hose to aim icy jets of water at your boys, as they shriek and duck, while your youngest hangs off one of his thick calves.

The news is still repeating the macabre bear attack story on an endless loop. It makes your skin prickle, a nervous sense that there’s something at the periphery of your consciousness you’re not picking up on, because it won’t move into the daylight.

König is now standing at the outside tap, scrubbing copious amounts of coppery mud from his heavy boots and flushing it down the drain.

“Do you think we should be worried? About bears?” You ask him, thinking about the way your property backs onto open woodland.

He doesn’t even look up from the movement of the stiff brush against the soles.

“No, you don’t need to be worried.” König flicks a bit of grass off one of his laces nonchalantly. You ponder the easy sincerity through which those words are formed. That same uneasy sensation gnawing at the pit of your throat.

“I got the boys a present, it’s in the car.” There’s something in his eyes a little like malevolence, the baby blue of them crinkling at the edges as they flash wickedly up at you from his crouched position.

It’s a Warhammer introductory set. Eerily similar to the figurines you admired in the apartment of your one night of fun.

Nausea creeps into your stomach, a dread filled tingling sense of horror at the realisation your ex husband borrowed your car that night. The same car you’re standing next to, door half open. The one that has the little car seats in the back, your daughters beakers and stuffed toys haphazardly scattered throughout the interior.

You don’t hear him approaching behind you, until he’s pressed up against your back. He moves quietly, no heavy footfalls, only the steps of a trained soldier, bred to sneak towards the enemy unawares.

Wide glossy eyes gaze up into his satisfied face.

“What’s the problem Liebling? You like these little models do you not?”

Oh fuck.

^ Me pelting out of that garage at full speed to get away from him. Imma have to do a part two of this because I enjoyed writing it so much.

@cutiecusp @sigrid666 @pxssygxblin @misshugs

#colonel könig #König

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