Tags: dubious consent, dark romance, power imbalance, gaslighting, manipulation, yandere, Stockholm syndrome, injury recovery, fluff and smut, slice of life, implied non-consensual drug use, size difference, gratuitous use of pet names, metaphors, and descriptions of König's eyes
When it was time for König to prepare dinner, you hovered at his elbow like a nosy housecat, tail wrapped around his calf as you signaled a need for attention. You were close enough that your hand brushed against the side of his sweatpants, and your clammy fingers instinctively gripped at the material. Eventually, he glanced over his shoulder at you, head tilting in question.
“Do you need something, Hase?”
You blinked, chastised, even though his tone was gentle. “No,” you replied, unsure. “I dunno.”
König let out a soft sigh. It was an affectionate sound, airy and light, not annoyed — otherwise, you might have burst into tears on the spot, as fragile as you felt — but like the kind of noise he might have uttered to a lamb, bleating sadly with its tiny hoof caught in a fence.
He lifted you onto the counter beside him, and you settled in, hands retreating into your too-long sleeves. Sitting there might have been awkward, but he pressed a cookbook into your lap, offering you something to do. You kept a thumb between the pages he needed and flipped through while your sock-covered feet dangled over the cabinets, lightly tapping the wood. Some of the age-yellowed pages were moisture-damaged from spills or speckled with spattered sauces. The corners were discolored from spice-dusted fingers, evidence of recipes well-loved, cooked again and again until they were committed to memory.
König tucked up his hood and brought a spoonful of sauce up to his pursed lips, blowing gently over the steaming surface. He tasted thoughtfully then licked away a stray droplet at the corner of his mouth, swiping his lips clean, leaving them soft and damp.
You realized you were staring and looked away quickly, busying yourself by flicking through to the dessert section of the cookbook. But your eyes soon drifted from the cakes and pastries back to König, hunched over the stove. His forearms flexed as he slid a pan back and forth across the flame, skin and scar shifting enticingly over muscle and bone. The swell of his pecs and softness of his belly were faintly outlined by his shirt, soft cotton clinging, offering a preview of what lay below. Something deep inside of you heated up just like the pad of butter he added to the skillet, melting and sizzling across the surface.
His hood fell back over his mouth and beard, excess fabric pooling around his shoulders. You squeezed your thighs together, subtly chasing relief. He didn’t get fully undressed before you often — or ever, had he? No, only bits and pieces here and there, other than the time you'd spied on him as he got dressed after his shower. You felt just as lecherous now as you did then, eyes drifting lower, below the waistband of his sweatpants where the curve of his ass was unmistakable through the fleece.
“See anything you like?” König asked, eyes darting to you in a sideways glance.
“Oh, I—” You jolted at his words, eyes snapping up. Your mouth dried in an instant, coherent thought evaporating just as quickly. “Sorry?”
He nodded toward the book in your hands. “The recipes,” he offered. “Did you find one you like?”
“Um, yeah,” you replied absently, realizing you were at the index now, not even on a recipe anymore. You swiped back a few pages before he noticed, landing on a carefully decorated cake. “Well. They…all sound good.” You cringed inside, sure you looked as foolish as you sounded.
“I should have known you would go right to dessert.” His eyes flicked from the page to your face. “Craving something sweet, little one?” His eyes narrowed with an unseen smile, but you could hear the mirth in his voice, a gentle tease that brought heat to life across your cheeks like stoked coals.
You stared numbly down at the cake recipe you’d landed on, then back up at him. He leaned forward, just barely invading your space. Your chin was already tilting of its own accord, eager to agree with him — yes, yes — pleasant and tame under his gaze.
“Mm,” he hummed knowingly, his eyes fixed on yours instead of the dips and swirls of chocolate icing and glossy red cherries printed on the page. He leaned closer yet, voice dropping as if he was letting you in on a secret. “That’s alright. I am too.”
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