[englishedelweiss]

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Todesengel Chapter Index

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[englishedelweiss]

Todesengel - Ch. 9 [ NSFW ]

'cold/warm'

Trigger Warnings: VIOLENCE, SMUT, dubious consent, blowjob, size kink, Depression, Anxiety, Social Anxiety, Neurodivergent Reader, Familial Trauma/ Death mention, minor character death, Implied Physical and Emotional Abuse, PTSD, Unhealthy relationships / DARK romance, angst (with a possible happy ending?) erotic, jealousy, possessiveness, obsession, explicit language, suggestive content, Violence, Blood, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut

a/n: kaboom. violence, nsfw, read at your own discretion. Also, please, keep sending me inboxes and replies, I eat those up and that fuels the next chapter! likes and reblogs are also very lovely. <3 thank you for all the love on the series so far!

this chapter is part of a series. Please see the chapter index to read from the start!

Prev | Chapter Index

The windshield wiper worked overtime, slamming down and up again faster than a pulse, practically thumping you awake. König cursed under his breath, and as the truck slowed to a stop, your body jostled slightly.

You lifted your head from where you'd been leaning it against the cold window. "Oh, shit."

Black, endless sky. Fat flakes rushed against the windshield, lit by the headlights. Beyond the vortex of falling snow, the road was completely white, blending into the land on either side — from what you actually could see, which was only a few feet ahead.

König had pulled over to the side of the road. He put his fingers to the radio and turned the dial up until the emergency inclement weather trill sounded throughout the front seat. He raised the volume. Behind heavy feedback, a garbled robotic voice reported a shelter-in-place warning that would last at least through to the next day.

You fumbled for your phone, hoping to look up a nearby motel or gas station. No signal—just the blank screen that mocked you with a perpetual loading symbol. König checked his phone, too, but shook his head in frustration. He reached across you, yanked open the glove compartment, and grabbed what looked like a pamphlet but was actually a map- and unfolded it until it spread wide over the wheel.

“Where are we, anyway?” you asked, but König didn't answer. You tried to peer over his shoulder as his finger traced the map, centimeter by centimeter along a vein of road that you were allegedly on. “And where are we going?”

"Nowhere, for now," König grunted. He killed the engine and yanked up the brake in one motion.

"What are you doing?!" You protested. "We'll freeze to death!"

"We need to conserve fuel. I will turn it on again in an hour."

An hour?

König leaned back, closing his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “If I drive any further, I will get hypnotized. Or we will slide on ice. Crash either way. It is too dangerous to move until the storm is over.”

"They said that wouldn't be for another day." You said, stupidly.

König again didn't reply, looking out the window for a minute. He pressed the button on the door, and it unlocked. "Stay here," he instructed, and opened the door to get out. The wind howled, and the frigid cold rushed into the car cabin faster than König could close it, making your teeth chatter immediately.

You didn't have to be told. Like hell you'd be going outside in that.

Not to mention you were in no mood to help. Despite the emotional moment when König had recovered you in the bathtub, as you caught your breath over the several hours you'd been on the road, you'd been able to put together some pieces.

So he'd used your car—your grandmother's car—for his dirty work, his 'special consulting', you thought bitterly. That explained the cleaning habit. But why your car? Why did he involve you in all of this? What had you done to deserve this, ready to freeze to death in a truck with the killer who had trapped you and dragged you into this nightmare?

You eyed his dark figure in the rear view mirror. He was kneeling, doing something. You turned and saw that he'd left the pistol holstered on the middle compartment.

You weren't a violent person. But dark thoughts slithered up intrusively, whispering to you. It could be done, with him least expecting it, to pull the trigger and leave him out here. You could return to your home. Or you could keep going, driving the car until the gas tank was empty; free from everything.

Lost  in thought, staring at the pistol,  you flinched as the driver's door opened again. König looked at you, his eyes following yours.

Somehow, just this once, you were quicker.

You snatched the pistol and hurled yourself into the passenger door, boots scraping. König lunged, but you leveled the gun between his eyes before he could reach you.

"G-get back!" You screeched. "I'll—I'll do it! I'm s-serious!"

So König paused, did as he was told,  one hand slowly reaching up, the other holding something dark and heavy.

Your arms were trembling just a bit, from the sharp chill of the wind, or perhaps the fear. The gun was also surprisingly very heavy; you'd never held one before in your life. You hoped it didn't look like it.

"E-explain everything! Now!"

König blinked slowly, his expression blank. He lifted his other arm, and you gasped, almost pulling the trigger. He was holding what looked to be a black sleeping bag. König spoke calmly. "I must insulate windows. To trap heat." He glanced down at the gun in your hands. "I will do that first, then we can talk."

You hesitated, your finger trained on the trigger.

"It will also be easier to clean up blood and brains." He added, morbid humor rumbling low in his voice.

It caught you off guard. The pressure was already getting to you, turning your stomach, sweat beading along your hairline and lip despite the whipping wind. You gave a quick nod.

König climbed into the truck incrementally, wary of the gun pointed at him. As he said, he pushed the sleeping bag over the windshield, then retreated. He used the floor mat for his window, pushed his seat forward and down, and closed the door.

You scrambled to the flat top of the driver’s seat as you lost sight of him. He opened the passenger door next, then did the same thing with the floor mat that had been beneath your boots moments ago. He closed the door, and you kept the gun trained on him, trying to ignore the nerves in your healing arm and the other complaining of fatigue. He did the same for the back seats — now there was much more space in the truck, and the door's windows were insulated. He tossed in two large water bottles and what looked like a box of protein bars, climbed into the back seat right in front of you, shut the door, locking it, and then waited politely. No matter how spacious, his big body was still somewhat cramped; his knees were hiked up high.

You raised the gun to his face again. "Start talking."

König regarded you, still calm as if you were having a casual conversation. "What would you like to know?"

With the floor and all the power thrust suddenly to you, you weren't so sure. Swallowing thickly, you readjusted yourself, awkward on the back of the driver's seat, your boots digging into the storage fold as you pushed yourself as far back as you could.

"Did you kill those people?"

"What people?"

“Don't be stupid! A-all of them! T-the ones who kicked the door in—the 'police'—the ones on the fucking news, next to the one that... that...” You trailed off, your teeth clattering.

"I did what I had to do to protect us," König finally responded.

"What about the first one then?" You grilled. "The one that— that you put in my car?"

König wilted a bit then, quiet.

“S-so, that's what you do?” You huffed, trying to control your breathing, your tears threatening to spill if you weren't so hot with rage. “You kill people? Special consulting? Give me a fucking break!”

He met your eyes, and you got your answer.

"Why?!" You cried. "Why did you use my car?!"

König's broad shoulders sagged. He looked down, around the truck’s interior. "I was going to help you," he said, but it was stiff, calculating. He was lying. "I… ran out of time for what I… needed to do… that morning. I was trying to think of the job, but…I was… distracted," he explained quietly. "by you."

"Me?" Confusion contorted your face. "So it's my fault now?"

"No! No, I thought I could…" He began, then started over, shaking his head. "I thought I could— I wanted to—"

“You used me,” you snapped, accusation lacing, poisoning the words. It all made sense now. He was just being nice to get access to you so you could take the fall for his nasty crime. He'd seen you in the park and thought you were an easy mark. It was his lucky day when he found you in the parking lot, wasn't it? Yeah, that was it. The steps would lead back to you, your license plate, and you'd go down instead, arrested, or killed by the goon who thought you'd somehow killed his friend, were in any way involved. “You were going to leave me, right? Did you feel bad or something? Did you?”

König was silent for a heartbeat, then two. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I cannot take back what I have done. But…" He did that thing he always did, searching around with his eyes for words before he spoke them.

Then he locked eyes with you in a way that made your breath hitch. He spoke, confident and assured. His eyes were wide, the whites showing, the pupils dilating in storming ocean irises. "I would slit my throat before I let any more harm come to you."

The profession, piercingly sincere, froze you; the words warmed your ears and, at the same time, confused you even more, making your face hot before sending the heat through your chest. You clenched your teeth, shuddering and shaking. Your arms were very tired. So, you'd found out some semblance of the truth, although you still weren't sure about everything. He mumbled something, and you snapped back into focus. "W-what?"

“Are you going to shoot?” König's eyelids were lowered as he looked at you through his lashes.

You realigned yourself, adjusting your arm to aim back square between his eyes. “I'm thinking about it.”

He… laughed? Low, an amused chuckle.

Confusion made you hesitate. Big mistake. In a blur, König lunged—a shadow over you. You squeezed the trigger, but nothing. He ripped the gun from your grip, twisting your wrists painfully and tossing the weapon onto the dash. You thrashed, desperate, but he shoved you into the backseat. The car door slammed into your shoulder, knocking the breath from you. Still, you clawed for the handle, but it was locked—just as it always had been.

Also, as he always had, he moved quickly and quietly. He pinned you down, your wrists immobile in his iron grip. He was laughing, amused as you squealed and squirmed in fear, a little mouse with its tail in the cat's paw. He reached back, still holding your wrists, and held the pistol so you could see it.

"If you're going to threaten to shoot, you're supposed to take the safety off, hm? Watch."

He used his thumb and removed the safety with a click. He brought it down, and you tried to struggle, but he only pinned your arms down painfully more. König was atop you, straddling your hips. Your legs kicked uselessly, trapped between his body and the tightness of the cabin. The cold metal barrel pressed against your pulse at the base of your jaw, and you stilled, terror rendering you frigid.

"Not a fucking toy, see? Not nice to point it at someone. Is it?" He jostled you, and you shrieked.

"Is it?" He snarled.

"No!" You squealed.

He scoffed and pulled it back clicking the safety back on, tucking it into his waistband. "That's right. You must not be this way, Engel." He lowered himself, his face close enough to your ear that his warm breath came through the mask. Horribly, something dark pinched beneath your belly. You didn't want to think about it, but it was present, searing, flickering heat. Undeniable.

"Will you be a nice little angel now?" He growled.

You couldn't help it. The feeling between your legs flared, making you whimper.

His huge body rocked above you, and he made a low noise in response. A rumbling predator, jeering over his prey. "You know I like you sweet. Will you be sweet? Tell me." He murmured.

"Y-yes," You gasped.

"Say it."

"I-I'll be sweet."

He released you, and you scrambled out from beneath him, pressing yourself as hard as you could into the backseat corner.Your heart pounded in your chest.

"Very good." König harrumphed. He retreated, leaned back, and turned the engine on, with a casualness as if nothing had happened. The heat began to blow throughout, more concentrated now with insulated windows.

"Get as warm as you can. We will leave it on for ten minutes."

⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄ ⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄ So you both sat that way, in an uneasy truce, for hours.

Your body was cramped. You were restless and upset; you wanted to go home. There was no home to go back to. Confusingly, you didn't really want to go home, either.

Like a feral kitten trapped in a shelter, you pressed yourself into the corner with your hackles raised. You stiffened and hissed if he neared you, even as he offered olive branches of bottled water, protein bars, and the book you packed. You refused, even when your stomach growled, and your tongue went dry. Even then, you kept your eyes on him, distrustful and hoping your rage reached him.

It didn't seem like it did. König sat with his arms folded, his head leaned back, eyes closed in a doze as he passed the time. He didn't speak to you, but he wasn't acting like you'd held a gun to him, or him to you. That he hadn't pressed a barrel beneath your chin and growled in your ear.

You didn't want to think about the confusing way that made you felt, either.

Once or twice, he exited the car — bringing the pistol and the keys with him — to ensure that the exhaust was clear of snow and debris. Every hour, he'd turn the car on for ten minutes, letting warm air flow through the cabin and listening to the weather report on the radio. But it trilled the same, and every ten minutes of warmth offered less and less relief as the temperature dropped deeper into the night.

Eventually, even in your coat, you were shivering, your teeth chattering. All the light had faded, so König was just a large shadow in the powerless car. You heard his even breathing. How was he not freezing as you were? Also, your eyes were stinging and heavy. You were dozing, too, but fear and cold held you up, awake. Your arm still ached a bit, but if you took any of the drugs, you knew you were done for.

The clock on the center console read minutes before midnight; the wind still howled, and König's even breathing filled the dark. Then you saw his breath fog in the air before he spoke, and you jumped.

"It's past your bedtime." He said in his rumbling voice.

"S-so what?" You hissed, trying to keep your shivering jaw steady and your tone mean. As if you'd let yourself fall asleep around this monster.

"You're cold."

"S-shut up. Y—you're cold."

"I am." He agreed. "I would like to sleep, too."

"So do it." You countered, irritated. What game was he playing at? "W-what's stopping you?"

You couldn't see his eyes. You couldn't see his expression, so the plainness of his next statement threw you off hard. "I am saying it will be easier if you come here."

Silence as you let that sink in. "You're insane."

You saw just barely the outline of his shoulders lifting in a shrug. "It will be easier for both of us to lie down. Sharing body heat. For safety." He explained. "It will only get colder," he added.

No way. Absolutely not. No fucking way.

"I'd rather die." You declared. You saw a puff of your own air in front of your face as you spoke.

About ten minutes later, you were sighing loudly and cursing as you shuffled uneasily to his side of the truck. König, joyful to get his way, allowed you to come closer, unfolding his arms from his chest. You climbed over his legs, and he drew you easily onto his lap before moving to lie in the backseat with you between his legs, his long limbs hiked up and encasing you.

You flinched when you heard something unzipping — but it was his jacket. "It's alright," he murmured, trying to reassure you into relaxing your legs. You tucked them as much against yourself as you could, making yourself a tiny ball.

With his hands, he pulled you close to his chest; the warm comfort was almost immediate. He fit against you almost perfectly; the soft weight of his belly, fat shielding relaxed muscle, filled the curves of your spine and warmed your back. The cloth of his mask draped over your hair. He sighed, and you thought it sounded almost like relief.

One of his arms, a massive bear paw, folded heavily over you, the other one crooked and tucked behind his head. You were about to protest — but thought better of it. You placed your own head there, and he adjusted, giving you more room. You'd been wondering what they'd felt like ever since you'd touched the muscle the second night you'd met. Now the flesh, bundled in a jacket, was soft against your cheek. His smell — the one you breathed in so deeply when you jumped into his arms, barely a day ago - enveloped you fully. It was…comforting?

Your brain and guts tied themselves in knots over the conflict between what you wanted to feel and how your touch-starved body responded. Your eyes almost immediately sagged, but nerves trilled all up and down your spine. His closeness, his warmth — why was it almost painful, yet it felt so good?

"Okay?" You heard him whisper, the warm breath making the back of your neck stiffen.

"F-fine," You grumbled, hoping he didn't hear your heart lurching against your ribs.

But now you could feel, so close, the beating of his own heart right against your vertebrae. Behind his steel exterior, it turned out he may be human, too. Needing warmth, too. Maddeningly, you felt your inhibitions soften; you remembered the tenderness he'd shown you. You probably could've ended up killing you both, and he still managed to be forgiving. How much he had continued to protect you, to keep you safe. As much as you had been through, he had also gone through so much to try to save you.

Neither of you spoke. There was nothing you could work up to say, especially here, enclosed in his arms. But it was for safety, for warmth, you insisted to yourself. He was right.

Perhaps you could extend him just the tiniest bit of grace.

I would slit my throat before I let any harm come to you.

It was hard to argue with it as he curled around you, weighing against your body. You missed your childhood bedroom, your pillows, the tick of the clock, and the fan spinning above you. But, if it weren't so cramped, dangerous, and you weren't both in rough clothing that poked and warmed you as much as they rubbed your skin raw… this would almost be nice.

You felt König's arm tighten around your waist, snuggling you into him. Like a great big dog, he let out a sigh, his breathing slowing down with yours. Sleep clawed up your body with the newfound warmth, pulling your heavy eyelids all the way down.

When your consciousness surfaced, your eyes still stayed closed. The air felt cold, like you were back in your bedroom with the AC blasting, wrapped in layer after layer of blanket. Instead, Königs massive body was wrapped around you. Something angled pressed against your shoulder — soft enough that you recognized the heat beneath his nose, buried in the crook of your shoulder, and the rough stubble against the exposed skin it brushed. His hood must have flipped up while you slept.

All was quiet, except for soft breathing stirring against your ear. From little cracks of the home-made insulation, light shone into the truck, but otherwise you were still blanketed in gloom.

You shifted just a bit, and to your surprise, he rumbled in protest and pulled you closer, like you were a stuffed teddy he had no intention of releasing. Your mouth was dry, and your lips were chapped, and you opened your mouth to say something until you felt something else.

Pressure. At the base of your spine, poking the vertebrae, down the curve of your ass in the soft leggings you still wore.

Oh god.

Perhaps it was a trick of the stiff fabric of his jeans, or some rollover of the jacket of his shirt — he wouldn't possibly be so—

Well. Then again. His hands, his height, his heavy gait.

Heat curled shamefully, rising in lazy, low-licking flames beneath your belly button. Perhaps it had been the fatigue, or the length of time since you'd felt sensations this intense. You had been too depressed, too distracted. Now the feelings, as if they'd been repressed behind a floodgate, began to rise. It was hard to be logical, too, with one of your feet still in the realm of warmth and sleep.

That's what you said to yourself, at least, as you began to shift your hips against the stiffness emerging from König's pelvis. Once, twice.

He didn't move, his breath still even and slow on your shoulder. You arched your ass just so against him, biting the inside of your cheek. Not you, but you, inside yourself, a base instinct, was asking for more. It didn't want you to think. So you didn't. You pushed your ass against him, seeking something — relief for the ache that now flared between your thighs.

Movement. You froze. Caught.

König's hips were flush to yours, and with that last movement you made, he responded in turn. His breath did not stop in its evenness, but his arm shifted from around you, his hand drifting down over your torso. His great fingers curled into the bone of your hip and squeezed the flesh inward. Hard.

Your mouth formed an O shape. It ached, ached — it felt so good.

His other arm still supported your head. With his hand, he easily pulled your hips against him, pushing his swelling length between the curve of your ass and sliding you up. There was little movement that could be made, really. He was a huge man, cramped in a tight space, with your body making it no better, no matter how small you tried to keep yourself. But friction was your friend. That, and just a slight shimmy —

There. The apex of your groin, grinding against hardness beneath the canvas of his pants. He slid you back, and your clit, beneath the cloth of your rapidly dampening underwear and leggings, slotted hot against him.

Perfection.

Your body shuddered, something that had wound itself inside you growing taut, an instrument plucked with every motion back and forth.

König's breath puffed hot in your hair. You felt his bare mouth just behind your ear.

Your world tilted, a heady haze in your mind. Pathetically, it didn't take a lot — you only needed a little stimulation, a little bit of back and forth motion, and you could feel the ache and swell, closer, closer —

Thump!

A loud noise startled you both. König sat up, and you yelped as he brought you with him, so you both were lurched erect. He kept an arm protectively around you, the other pulling his mask down. He then reached for the pistol. After long minutes of listening, König nudged you off of his lap and — frustration at the unfinished business biting behind your teeth — you moved away.

König used a finger to peel back just enough of the floor mat against the window. The light glared, and you squinted, turning your head away. It seemed all was clear, so he quietly unlocked the door from the front and opened it up.

Thumnk!

Snow fell heavily from the disrupted door. König, understanding now, turned and pulled the sleeping bag off the windshield; a sheet of ice and snow had slid from the roof of the car and now lay in lumps on the hood.

The motion of the car had perhaps disturbed it a bit, and it melted now in the brilliance of the winter sun.

"Oh, Christ," You puffed out a sigh of relief, and König tucked the pistol back in its holster, also relaxing, letting out a bemused huff.

Taking down all the insulation, the sun glared back harshly against your eyes from the snow, making you rub the sleep out of them. You got out of the car, every joint and limb aching and creaking from the cramped sleep. König, too, was tilting his head to crack his neck, rolling his shoulders back… and adjusting his pants.

Face heated, you turned away and pretended to keep stretching, the snow crunching beneath your feet, sinking up to your calf with each step. Later, you were perched in the open passenger-side door, chugging water and chewing on a protein bar in silence, refusing to meet König's eyes as he packed everything away, adjusted the seats, scraped the windshield, and dug the truck a bit out of the snow. He didn't ask for help, and you didn't offer.

When he finally got in the car, ready to go, awkwardness seized you, made you frigid, and made you overthink.

"Engel," König said softly. He placed something on your knee — the map. "Do you know how to read that?"

No. Not really at all. "Kind of?" You lied.

König looked at you for a moment. He reached over and pinched your cheek gruffly but affectionately, then started the engine of the car until it growled to life. You put your hand just where his fingers had been on your newly hot cheek, pretending to wipe it off, but, really, trying to commit the feeling to memory.

"Time to learn. You will be leading the way."

[haciaelmar]

wanderings | Mamiya RB67 | expired Fuji NPS 160 | 2025

[bluerrosee]

me and the 3 other rust fans don’t play about him

[tipsy3honolulu6kiss]

[mncxbe]

[englishedelweiss]

Todesengel - Ch. 8

'games'

Trigger Warnings: VIOLENCE, SMUT, dubious consent, blowjob, size kink, Depression, Anxiety, Social Anxiety, Neurodivergent Reader, Familial Trauma/ Death mention, minor character death, Implied Physical and Emotional Abuse, PTSD, Unhealthy relationships / DARK romance, angst (with a possible happy ending?) erotic, jealousy, possessiveness, obsession, explicit language, suggestive content, Violence, Blood, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut

a/n: a long one, a sad one. literally word vomited this and I could not wait. lock the fuck in, my beloved readers-- it only gets more buckwild from here.

this chapter is part of a series. Please see the chapter index to read from the start!

Prev | Chapter Index

Like off-white-to-dishwater curtains stirring in a breeze through the cracked window, the days blended into one another, and you lost count of how much time had passed. König folded all of your clothes neatly into your shelves and hung the rest in your closet. He'd wiped everything down twice, so the interior looked more like a model home than a place anybody lived in, much less the depressing rat's nest you had made it over the previous handful of months.

Also, you had found your phone — abandoned under your bed, dead since the night you'd been attacked. You'd charged it and turned it on, to no messages or calls, of course. You weren't surprised, but you were still somehow disappointed. Minutes later, König swiped it from your hands and shut it off. He explained that your location could be pinged that way, and you subsequently cursed him out, which he ignored, only infuriating you further. Helpless, you spent the evening giving him the evil eye and ignoring his bids for conversation.

He kept his mask on all the time now, until you went to bed, which you presumed was when he showered and ate; at least you thought so. Each morning, he was freshly bathed and changed. With the painkillers, you couldn't stay awake to sneak and see, so you were left to wonder.

At first, you would sulk in bed to avoid him and whatever he was doing — König was always busy: doing the dishes, changing your bandages, cleaning his rifle and pistol, taking inventory of ammo, making coffee, breakfast, dinner. It was definitely some habit picked up in the military; constantly keeping himself occupied, maybe so he wouldn't lose whatever was left of his mind.

You monitored König distrustfully from a distance, hovering in doorways or around corners or in the shadowed wall of the hallway, making sure he didn't destroy any of your grandmother's things with his awful big hands or knock something over with his tree-like limbs. He never did, acutely aware of his height after a lifetime of living in a world that was built too small for him, and you told yourself you hated him all the more.

Most of the time, he trustingly kept the broad expanse of his back to you, busying himself with whatever. He didn't mind being watched, unlike you. When you thought he was moving his head to glance over, you'd vanish behind the corner, an anxious little mouse keeping track of the terrifying bear roving in the kitchen and living room.

Until finally one evening, after a shower, you peeked from the kitchen doorway as König stirred dinner in its pot. He announced without looking over, "Will the little angel watching over my shoulder hand me salt?"

You pushed the shaker toward him with your hand and scampered away. You didn't follow him around as much after that. You tried not to. You kept your distance as much as you could, really. König didn't seem to mind the long stretches of silence, and, admittedly, neither did you: There was no pressure to make conversation on either end, which generated comfortable silence.

But it wasn’t always peaceful.

Other than the little inch you gave him by tucking your sweater into the suitcase, you refused to pack. You followed none of the instructions he gave you for preparation, blowing him off and making excuses. You convinced yourself didn't want to leave, and you didn't want to believe anything he'd told you might be real. To convince yourself, you resisted packing and tossed the bag into your room or onto the floor. The suitcase vacantly stared open-mouthed at you each morning, perched expectantly at the foot of your bed or on the chair. No matter where you tossed it, it returned in the morning.

It was clear his patience was wearing thin, but you needed this small thing to hold against him, spare ground you could stand stubbornly on. He had steamrolled over almost everything else.

Whenever he brought it up, your interactions would get a little tense.

Then you had an especially significant fight when you found the diner application crumpled up in the trash. It was insignificant, a faraway dream now, but still, you felt furious, despairing at your helplessness, and at König’s audacity to come into your life and wreck it so completely.

You were restless;  As much as you wanted to stay, you wanted to leave the house, go to the park, and drive through the town's potholed roads. The memories in the walls and the resulting distress were driving you crazy, but König's tight control was unrelenting. He disapproved of you even being too close to the windows. It was usually you who would snap at him. His way of losing his temper with you was being cold and clipped, freezing the blood in your veins with his looming body, the coolness of a steely, controlled temper in his voice, or his icy eyes. You'd yell some hurtful curse, and retreat to your room and slam your door like an enraged adolescent.

One morning, while he was distracted, you'd tried the windows to your bedroom. Only to discover, chillingly, they'd been nailed shut.

However vicious the day's fight was, you two had developed an unbroken routine at night. After dinner, you would go to your room, and he'd follow. He'd redress your wounds. You were hyper aware of his hands, but he didn't try anything like the first time (you felt mixed emotions about that). You'd take your painkillers — you needed a little less every day — and he'd sit on the chair, leaning back and as unobtrusive as he could possibly be with his great form, and kept watch until you fell asleep.

Confusingly, as guns unnerved you so, and you truly despised even the implication of violence, it made you all the more relaxed when you saw he'd kept his pistol on his knee, his hand wrapped around it as he watched over you.

You were aware of how well he used it. So you slept a little better.

But it would always return to the cycle of strife and unease in the morning.

A nondescript afternoon, one just like the last few. You had showered, and your hair was wet down your back, water droplets blooming on your oversized shirt. You mostly wore pajamas these days, since you were always inside. You spooned cereal into your mouth as the static visage of a woman filled the large-backed television. The volume was kept low, so you could monitor where König might be in the house; maybe make a quick getaway if you heard his heavy-booted steps approaching. With a manicured hand, the anchorwoman pointed to the green screen behind her, on which bloomed a large, coagulating purple-then-blue-then-aqua shape sprawled over a lined map of the state hour by hour. The text scrolling beneath the weather lady's shiny white smile and hay-colored waves included snow totals, which had been mounting with every commercial break since you'd turned the T.V. on.

In fresh bandages, you were tucked into the corner of your couch, sinking into the plush armrest where the pillow was missing. The lights were off — König had insisted that you stop using lamps and overhead lighting, especially at night, so no one could see from the street that anyone was home. But that day the sun shone through hard, goose feather gray morning clouds, bleaching it and casting cold illumination among the shadows of the spotless house.

You were looking for the remote to switch channels when the news cut to the male anchor. His mouth moved rapidly; next to his head floated two portraits, side by side, of rough-looking men who scowled at you. You flinched hard when your eyes met the second one, like you'd seen a ghost.

Because you did.

Black coal eyes. A slit of a mouth. Clearly a mug shot, making the skin all the more sallow and sickly.

NOTORIOUS INTERNATIONAL GANG MEMBER BODY FOUND BENEATH MILITARY FORT DOCK; SECOND IN TWO MONTHS.

You searched more urgently for the remote; you couldn't hear much. Your eyes stayed glued to the screen as your breath quickened. "K-König?" you shouted over your shoulder. "König!"

DETAILS STILL UNCLEAR; SUSPECTS REPORTED TO BE AT LARGE. AUTHORITIES INVESTIGATING—

Grainy security cam footage: a gray hatchback crawling along the road, eerily similar to the one parked outside in front of your house.

The one König had cleaned so well, except for that dark stain in the trunk.

You dropped your bowl, and the spoon clattered with it.

Blackness swallowed the picture. In the screen, you saw your reflection: you perched on the couch, with a great figure behind you.

You whirled around. König placed the remote down carefully on the arm of the couch. His eyes were hard. There was no arguing. The force of his expression, combined with the fear that now constricted your throat, left no room for it. You had no room to process the fury of what you’d seen on the television, what he’d done with your car.

"Ten minutes." That is all König said.

You leaped from the couch and sprinted to your room.

You yanked open drawers, pulled out pants and underwear, and grabbed the first few shirts from the top of the second drawer. Your favorite book of all time, your worn journal. Quickly thinking, you pushed the drugs in there too; for some reason, you also put in the dried sweet alyssum, wilted but still beautiful in the jar, petals falling onto your clothes as you placed them on top and closed the lid securely.

You pulled the sweater you’d put in the case on, then the same oversized work jacket you always wore, and your boots over your lounge leggings; there was no time to change. The last thing you took was a photo of your grandmother and you from where you'd stuck it in the mirror, and shoved it into the inner pocket of your coat.

Breathless, you met König in the hallway. He was in a dark, heavy jacket, his sharp jaw outlined by the fabric of his mask, which he had tucked into the collar. He took your bag, and you followed him out into the stinging cold air; you shivered hard, but the outdoors were refreshing after being cooped up for the last couple of days.

König had pulled his ginormous truck around back to hide it from the street. His work over the last few days was more apparent now; several cases of what you could only think were supplies, snug beneath a black tarp in the bed of his pickup. He put your suitcase in the roomy backseat, then opened the passenger door and extended his arm to help you inside.

You hesitated, your grandmother's house looming, a presence heavy behind you. "W-wait," you stammered, taking a step back. "I—I forgot something."

König's eyes were blue flames, both annoyed and almost furious. "Tell me what it is, I'll go back and—what are you doing?!" He barked sharply, but you had already turned to go back inside. You rushed through the garage, down the hall, into the kitchen, and opened the cabinet above the sink.

Your grandmother's recipes, all snug in a bundle of yellowed index cards. You pulled them down and held them to your chest. König had even made sure they were in the same order that your Grandmother had left them, after he referenced them for your dinners.

König caught up to you. His eyes betrayed his irritation, but it relented just a little when he saw what was in your hands.

"Okay," you breathed out, resigned. "I'm ready."

He nodded, but then his head whipped around, past you. His blue eyes widened. He'd heard it before you had; Knocking hard against the door. Crashing. The hinges are busting in from the force of a heavy kick. Then another.

König reacted faster than you did. He pulled out his pistol and put a finger to his mouth. He took you by your arm and yanked you to the side, further from the front door, into the first inlet — the bathroom. He pushed you into the tub, a heavy hand on your shoulder, until you crouched in the ceramic.

"Lay down. Stay quiet."

"K-K—"

"Don't move."

"P-Please, don't leave me—" you pleaded.

"Quiet!" He hissed, and pulled the shower curtain over the lip of the bath. You heard the door snap shut, swallowing up all the sound behind it.

Utterly alone, lying in your tub. Your nerves felt as if they poked three feet out of your skin. You listened, terror running you cold as the ceramic your body pressed against, your pulse in your ears.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

When you were a child, it was an overcast day like this one. A group of children huddled in the park, and you watched, a lonely little planet orbiting a cluster of bright, lively stars.

Back then, you still believed in the illusion. You wanted to be included, to try and be normal. You thought you could be. The children were a giggle fest, planning and shouting over each other excitedly about a game of hide-and-seek, deciding who would be it. The count would be to ten.

Can I play?

You thought you said it loud enough. You were sure. You repeated yourself, but no one looked your way. In your mind, this was acceptance; it had to be. No one was yelling at you to go away, which sometimes happened and was clear to understand. You understood repulsion and hard shoves. Ignoring was still a nuance you hadn’t figured out yet.

Someone began to count, and the children dispersed, darting in all directions.

Elated, thrilled, you ran too, speeding on your little legs into the treeline.

You found a good enough spot as the person covering their eyes shouted their count. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good — a tall tree, the roots bulging out, forming a perfect chair for you to tuck your body into. So you did, and you waited.

And waited.

You heard the shouts and giggles of children around you getting caught, and you pushed yourself further into the spot, elated, waiting for someone to pop out and shout your name.

Found you!

When you're caught, you’d be brave enough to volunteer to be it, to find everyone else. You promised yourself that.

You waited longer. The sun cast long shadows against the trees, blazing the sky with tangerines, purples, and pinks, and finally the blue of dusk.

You stopped keeping track of time.

No one came.

There you are!

In the dark, something shone on your face; a bright light that made you blink away at the glare. You heard your Grandmother’s voice, exasperated and relieved. She’d found you. You jumped up into her arms, and she put her laughing mouth to your hair as you embraced, her sweet powdery scent filling your senses, softening the cruel blow to your heart.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ✦ ‧₊˚ ⋅

It felt like hours. It could have been minutes. You had pushed all your senses outward, trying to hear what could possibly be going on through your shuddering breath. The sky darkened out the tiny window, and you were washed in dusky gloom. You dozed, faded. The bathroom was dyed blue in evening illumination. Your vision blurred out and refocused with an intermittent blink.

You recoiled as you heard the crash of the front door slamming ajar, shaking the foundations even from the bathroom; Footsteps. Heavy, but lighter than Konig's assured foot. You recognized his steps well at this point. Low murmurings. Men talking, another language. Two, you think, based on the pause between words being said.

They got closer, louder.

"This is the police," You heard someone call into the hall. "We know you're here. We aren't after you. We're after him."

You froze and listened.

"Come out quietly with your hands up from where you are. Your cooperation will be rewarded."

For a moment, you considered it. Maybe König had been lying; the police could be trying to help you after all. You could call out and go with your hands up, and you'd be safe from the terror of the huge man stalking through your house, who had killed someone in it. You could be done with this altogether.

But you didn't move.

Maybe it had been all this time you had spent with König, listening so carefully to the sparse words of conversation he sprinkled into each day. But barely, just barely, you recognized the slightest lilt in the muffled voice. It was trying to hide itself with a thick American pronunciation, but it was too theatrical, too warbled; just enough for you to catch it, on certain words.

An accent. Like König's. But not his voice.

You remained still. You waited for the sound of the doorknob turning, still as you possibly could keep yourself. They were right outside, talking urgently to one another.

Then it quieted.

You imagined them right outside the door of the bathroom; perhaps they'd heard you, your thoughtless mistake of making a noise like a cornered prey animal. waited for them to open the door, to yank open the curtain, and drag you by your hair to your execution.

You heard a pop, then another in swift succession, loud enough to make you jump and your boot to squeak against the tub.

Gunshots? Is that what those were? If so, where? Exchanged with whom? Konig? Was he still out there?

What if he got hurt?

The plunging feeling in your chest stabbed right into your stomach at the thought.

It was quiet for a long, long time, allowing your mind to run in circles with panicked questions. The blue had darkened to indigo, and soon enough you were shivering in the dark of your own thoughts.

König had left you behind.

He had wiped down the place to ensure his fingerprints were nowhere to be found, but yours were still there. It had only been you, perfect bait to dump into the circling throng of sharks.

No one was coming. Not your grandmother, not König.

No one.

Then the bathroom door creaked open.

Your blood froze, your heard pooling to your feet. So you prepared again, for the second time in a few days, for death.

König pulled back the curtain, breathing hard, his huge chest rising and falling as he huffed and puffed. He knelt on the bathroom tile, looking searchingly at your face, your body.

“There you are.” He rasped.

There you are!

The emotion that had pooled in you flooded, and ran over. You cried out in relief, throwing yourself forward, your arms around his neck. Tears jumped into the corners of your eyes. You buried your face into the cloth draped over his neck and squeezed.

König stiffened in surprise beneath your embrace, his back straightening up. You had thrown all your weight forward, but he caught you without moving so much as an inch. Gradually, he put his arm around you, the hand clutching your shoulder as you sobbed with relief into the crook of his neck.

“Are you hurt?” You heard him ask.

“Nuh uh.” You shook your head that you’d buried into his neck. "Are y-you hurt?" It smelled stronger of the scent you knew as his detergent and — now that you were close enough to smell him — grass, undercut with a lemony citrus.

"Nein, Süßer Engel. Du bist jetzt in Sicherheit." He breathed out a sigh. His voice was shaky, which filled you with a surge of emotion that made you pull yourself tighter to him, unthinking, just needing. König's hand slid down to your waist. With ease, he pulled you up, up, over the lip of the bathtub, and set you on the floor. "We must go now." He whispered, the cloth warm against the shell of your ear; he was stooped down as you still clung around his neck.

You nodded, unlatching yourself. He released you, too, his fingers dragging up your back. You clung to his arm as you walked down the hall, through the kitchen. There was no one there, at least it seemed so; the house was eerily quiet. König stopped so suddenly you nearly crashed into him. He turned to you, and you could see that as he looked at you, he was turning something over in his head.

"Do you have it?" He asked quietly.

At first you didn't remember, but then you did; you fished in your pocket, and pulled out your grandmother's recipe cards. Despite everything, you smiled up at him.

For a moment, his expression warmed, but sobered just as quickly. "You must stay close to me. Close your eyes. Do not open them until I tell you. Do you understand?"

"W-why?"

"Do you understand?" He repeated, harsher.

Instinct told you that wanted to argue back with him as you had been for the last few days. But second thoughts came; he'd come back for you. He was trying to protect you; that he had made clear enough, over and over.

So you nodded.

In a double measure anyway, König clamped his big hand over your eyes, guiding you through the yard beneath the crook of his arm. Immediately, the air outside that hit your nose carried an ozonic, metallic smell; razor sharp and warm against the cold, making it all the more distinct.

Blood?

"Don't look," König repeated gruffly under his breath, pulling you along. Remembering now, with clarity, the shots you heard. You clenched your teeth; you weren't sure you'd want to see what horrors could possibly be behind his hand at that point. So you obeyed.

You heard the car door open and felt him take you by your waist again. Only then did he remove his hand from your eyes, and he lifted you into the passenger seat of the truck.

"Don't look!" He ordered fiercely, and you screwed your eyes shut. He slammed the door, and you heard him come around into the driver's seat. "Keep your head down," He ordered. You didn't need him to command you to do that; you clamped your hands over your ears and tucked your head into your knees, trying not to hyperventilate.

The engine of the truck roared to life. König yanked you both out of the driveway, and you only got a slim, rushed glance back at your grandmother's house before it disappeared forever behind you. Tears fell hot down your cheeks. Outside the car, as you both plunged into the night, soft white flakes had begun a descending dance in the winter air, dusting the road and covering the tracks.

[englishedelweiss]

at times im wondering if im defeating the purpose of it being 'x reader' by having specific situations of explorations of grief and particular memory the reader has in todesengel. I appreciated someone saying to me yesterday they felt they could emotionally invest despite all the specifications I've made -- I feel this grief and suffering also informs a lot of the decision s / thought process 'you' have / make, but I don't know. But then im like its my circus and my monkeys so whatevs but still...

[rrondo]

[phlegmaphoto]

[englishedelweiss]

todesengelheads rejoice. my council of wise eunuchs (my homies) have approved the outline i have for the next few chapters. strap the fuck in

[worldsandemanations]

枝垂蘭（薄ピンク色), 2009

[englishedelweiss]

life so beautiful . its 7:00 on a Saturday night im pouring over the dimensions and trim designs of a Ram 3500

[sheepy1900]

[englishedelweiss]

Todesengel - Ch. 7

'sweet/soul'

Trigger Warnings: VIOLENCE, SMUT, Fluff at the end, Male masturbation, dubious consent, blowjob, size kink, Depression, Anxiety, Social Anxiety, Neurodivergent Reader, Familial Trauma/ Death mention, minor character death, Implied Physical and Emotional Abuse, PTSD, Unhealthy relationships / DARK romance, angst (with a possible happy ending?) erotic, jealousy, possessiveness, obsession, stalker, explicit language, suggestive content, Violence, Blood, Slow Burn, Eventual Smut

a/n: oooo shit now its popping off

this chapter is part of a series. Please see the chapter index to read from the start!

Prev | Chapter Index

König eventually coaxed you into eating breakfast. He set your favorite cereal in front of you. How did he know? Simple, he answered: several empty boxes around the house and next to your bed. The embarrassment petrified you, but you were too starved to hover for too long. It felt like you hadn't eaten for days, which was perhaps true, so you got seconds and thirds.

"Not healthy," König grunted. "But at least you're eating."

König did not sit with you; he gave you your space, floating elsewhere in the house. When you were finished, you put your dishes in the pristine sink. You found him as you tiptoed through the hallway on newly socked feet. He stood with his back to you, pulling one of your sweaters from the dryer. You watched him smooth it with his hand, fold it tenderly, and place it on the washer beside him.

You saw several bulging black trash bags right behind him, slumped in the corner near the back door. Anxiousness pooled in the back of your mind and down your neck, freezing you in place. Was that… just trash? Your imagination raced; hunks of your attacker's flesh chopped up in each one, among your trash and rotting food, dispersed so they would never be found and put together again.

König was cleaning up the crime scene.

The thought alone made you nervously edge away a bit from the doorway, but König had already seen you. He raised his eyebrows and reached for the sweater he’d just folded. He approached you and offered it. Warily, you took it. It was still warm. It folded around you as you pulled in on like a cozy hug.

"Why are you washing all my things, anyway?" You grumbled.

"So you have more options," König replied. He absently reached out and tugged your crooked pajama collar from the sweater's neck hole.

You tried not to overly think about the contact as if his fingertips had burned you, and didn't quite let what he said sink in. "What do you mean?"

"For when we leave."

That grabbed your attention fully. "Leave?" You repeated back loudly in genuine confusion.

König narrowed his eyes and looked away, pulling more of your clothes from the dryer. He had that same calculating look as when he'd been carefully choosing what to say to you while you were bedridden. "That man. The bad one," he clarified, as if you wouldn't know what he was talking about. "There are more of him. His… 'friends'."

Despite the sweater's warmth, your whole body chilled.

König rolled his neck to face you, his eyelids lowered, resigned. He let you read the rest on his masked face, in his eyes.

"Wait, so, you're saying— you're saying we're going to have to leave? Leave the house?" You spluttered. You were utterly flattened by the revelation, the laundry room spinning. "And go where?"

Now, König faced you with his body. He tilted his head, his shoulders jumping, so casually you were horrified. "Anywhere you want."

You choked. "But, but—"

"Engel," He raised his hand to you. "We will not leave tonight if you do not wish. They may not come tonight. Or tomorrow. Maybe not for a week or a month." His eyes darkened, and so did his voice. "But they will come."

"König," your exasperated tone faltered. "I don't understand."

Why, why did this have to happen? Why did it have to be you involved in all of this? They wanted Konig, and now you? "W-why do I have to leave?" you probed, shaking your head like a petulant child. "I have nothing to do with this. So why? Why me?"

König's eyes closed. For a heartbeat, then two, he was quiet. "Because you saved me." He said softly.

It hung in the air, but you didn't understand. You couldn't. "What?"

"Because you... Are connected to me. I will leave, but they will still kill you. They will kill you very slowly, to try to find me." When his eyes reopened, they were narrow slits. "Your life—it is too precious. Your soul is... clean. It is worth so much more than a sacrifice for mine. I will not allow it."

Your heart plunged, your lip quivered. Warmth spread across your cheeks, and your mouth dried. Genuinely, you were at a loss for words, the emotions in you whirling like scattered leaves.

What was more, you didn't believe him. You weren't worth more than anyone.

"You don't know anything about my fucking soul." You spat.

Without allowing another word from König, you retreated on fast feet back to your room. There, an open suitcase had been placed on your bed.

You grabbed it with both hands and threw it into the hallway, hearing the crash before you slammed your door. You tried to muffle your cries by jumping into bed and burying your face in a pillow. Your eyes stung from crying. You have been crying so much lately. You were afraid you might dissolve into tears.

You don't remember nodding off, but you did.

When you awoke, your pajamas had rolled up to your shins, and the sun outside had hazed the room in afternoon light. But you refused to leave your room, even with König's knocking and the delicious smells of dinner drawing you into the kitchen. You did what you did best—you froze. You burrowed beneath your blankets, willing the scents to become nauseating, trying to resist the reality of this nightmare.

You heard heavy steps approaching your room as the sun set. When a soft knock — three, as always — reverberated on the door, you said nothing. When the handle jostled, you pretended to be asleep, turning your head into the pillow. The shuffle of pills in bottles reached your ears as König placed a tray of dinner on your table. You felt his eyes on you and turned farther away. If he knew you were faking, he didn't say so; he simply retreated back out of your room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Only when you heard him retreating did you sneak a glance. He had set out what looked to be some kind of casserole; you blinked hard, memory flashing like a beacon.

In the kitchen, your Grandmother had kept a stack of index cards in the cupboard, full of recipes for desserts, soups, everything she ever cooked. You recognized this one by the texture, the vegetables—all the ones you loved—and the way it crisped at the top. It was your Grandmother's recipe, followed to a T.

I cannot cook. But I will try for you.

As you ate in bed, you sniffed so as not to salt your meal with tears. You took slow bites, savoring the taste and memory. It was as if she'd cooked it herself.

You finished and, hesitatingly, brought your tray back to the kitchen. König sat with his back to you, his long legs spread, the chair pushed out to accommodate his huge frame. His hands were working on something, his shoulder and arm jumping.

Suspicion flaring, you inched a little closer.

He was cleaning his pistol. The magazine was on the table, as were other parts, while he wiped down the barrel, pieces spread out on a rag so they wouldn't stain the tablecloth.

"Thank you for dinner." You announced curtly. He did not stop what he was doing for even a beat.

"You're welcome." He replied simply. He didn't look your way. You watched his fingers maneuver the weapon dexterously, almost lovingly, his wrist turning it this way and that.

It made you itch.

You wanted to say something. You didn't want to apologize. You refused. But you needed to say something. You lingered awkwardly in your own kitchen on unsteady feet. This is when all those years of neglecting to interface with others bit you in the ass the most. Someone clever, someone good with talking and people, would know what to say. They would be able to sort the feelings storming and clashing like thunder in your body into a few lines, say what they are with confidence in a way that you never, ever did right. You wondered about the proper tone, how to use it; the complexity stretched before you like an impossible math problem with infinite variables.

"I'm sore." You decided flatly, with all the charm of a deflated balloon.

König placed the disassembled pistol down carefully. "Do you need my help taking your medicine again?"

His fingers in your mouth. Your tongue remembered the texture well. His thumb swiped across your lip as you choked down the pills.

Inexplicable heat streaked across your face. "No," you replied. "Tell me what you made me take, and I'll go to bed."

König stood and headed for your bedroom. You teetered behind. "I can do it myself," you insisted to his broad back doggedly. He ignored you, so you repeated yourself. Nothing.

Nonetheless, you seated yourself on the bed, waiting for him with your hands between your thighs. Your eyes wandered to the fragrant bouquet among the vials on the table, the little petals shrunken even more by his great form.

"What are the flowers called?" You asked.

He produced two bottles in his hand. You read the labels, and he let you; then he popped them open. "Sweet alyssum," he replied. "I saw them during a deployment overseas once. Killed only by great frost." König didn't look at you directly. His accent was thicker as he reminisced. The mask cast shadows over his face, but his eyes still glowed.

You fidgeted with the glass in your hand. "Do they have a meaning?"

"The sweetness of the soul," König replied gently.

Your soul is…clean.

I like you, sweet.

You don't know anything about my fucking soul.

You winced.

König took the water from your hands. "I will refill this and return. Then you will sleep." He walked out of your room, and you followed him with your eyes until he disappeared down the dark hallway.

The hallway, long and gloomy, stirred something in you. It unnerved you. You imagined those coal-black eyes again, shining in the dark as they watched you, the cut wound of a mouth flitting in the darkness. You jumped out of your skin when you saw something move — but it was just Konig returning with your water.

"Goodnight," König murmured and turned to leave.

"W-wait!" You called.

He looked back at you, and you opened your mouth, but no sound came out. You clamped your jaw closed, and you hesitated. You had to say it. You had to.

"Will you, um, stay with me?" You stumbled, then looked up to him, sincerely fearful. "In— In case they come." The vulnerability seared your stomach, so you quickly followed up with, "Until I go to sleep, then you can go." König's eyes crinkled at the corners. He nodded. "If that is what you want."

You burrowed into your blankets, and König settled in the chair at your bedside, his arms folded over his chest. He kept his eyes on you for so long that you had to look away out of embarrassment. You lie on your side, one eye closed against the pillow. König had turned the light off, but you could still see the dark outline. It was… really, really comforting. Your mind was easing into sleep already, the medicine kicking in and coursing through you.

“Goodnight, Engelchen.”

The next morning, König was gone from the room, coffee smells again wafting in the air.

In his place on the chair was the suitcase. You stared at it for a while before slowly pulling off your sweater and placing it inside.

[phlegmaphoto]

[dreamstars]