#photo credit: @xbruised_peachx | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

xbruised-peachx · 11 months

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Welcome to my blog!

I figured I'd finally make of one these; howdy! Welcome to my tumblr. You may know me as bruised_peach/xbruised_peachx, I was "namedlunagoddess" but just changed my url to xbruised-peachx to match, but it's easiest to call me Peach! I do 3D renders, write, and do edits!

Master tag list for renders!

My fics (all are x Fem!Reader as of now)

Mauschen (König) | Sowa Team (Gromsko)

Writing Drabbles! (Mostly answers to asks)

Gromsko | Fender

Other links

Patreon | Twitter | Tiktok | Instagram | Pinterest

I'm okay with use of my renders in edits, PFPs, cover photos, and as a reference for drawing, I just ask for credit/inspired by credit if I inspired you! I'm incredibly honored but I just ask you take a few seconds to type my name! :)

For requests, I don't take requests for renders just due to the sheer amount of ideas I have for that myself, but writing requests are OPEN! Feel free at anytime to shoot me an ask if you want something like a quick lil prompt (especially for Gromsko :3) and I'll try to get to it!

#peach speaks #welcome post

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aghostiewitdahoodie · 2 months

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⟣ Synopsis: “If the children are unkind, you should meet my mother.” Have you ever wondered why a mountain of a man enlisted at a young age of 17?

⟣ Pairing: None, just König

⟣ Warnings: Angst, Eating disorder (?), Body dysmorphia, Ill-treatment

⟣ This is my work, my writing. Do not steal or repost elsewhere.

⟣ Credit to xbruised_peachx for this photo

A hesitant stride of my foot is placed on the frigid floor, avoidant of the certain creak that seem to always stir her awake from a peaceful slumber. As if I have forgotten to breathe, my slits are shut with a force so secure you cannot agape them, awaiting for the dreadful stomping to alert my organ of hearing of her arrival. The stillness is deafening, almost as awful as the bickering of the neighbours whenever I set down a foot away from the comfort of my home. It is ghastly how it remained silent, the warmth of the bed of mine slowly dissipating with each passing second, and I could only erect still, an amble away from a craving I need to gratify.

The berating attempts to infiltrate my sensibility, the wounding words recurrent and gnawing to a depth so great one cannot crawl out. To cause myself pain, I ruminated, wretched by the penitence that was consuming me. The sound of hunger sent a piercing chill down my spine. I am a vessel too broad for my mother’s liking. A void fills my stomach with despair and longing, lambasting my hesitance to reach what is beyond me.

Numbers are only as they appear to be, until they are no more. To me, they have become deprecating of my existence, and I loathe them far more than who birthed me. They whisper grotesque words to her and she is a puppet of their little game. To secure victory, dear mother have to berate the appearance I cannot control, yet the reward is unbeknown to me.

A lonesome indication of frailty descended from my pathetic cheek. I can recall when she adored pinching it, until the day she could not bear it no more. Why do I feel this way? I do not understand. Does it make me less of a man? If she were to gaze upon me, would she connect her palm to my sensitive buccal with an impact sufficient to make me plummet to the unloving floor of a place I must call “home”?

A man must not manifest meekness; otherwise he is a nuisance, and such a man has no place in our home. I connect the sleeve of my clothing to the cheek of mine; no one should sense the sudden absence of my masculinity.

As old as tales, it is known that there is no greater love than a mother’s love. A pastry sliced and shaped like a heart I filch from the neighbouring juveniles, aching to experience what I lack. My lunchbox is as bare as I am of nutrition, my orbs examining how their mouths chew in a hurried pace, blissfully unaware of their privilege. Their utterances, filled with revulsion upset me without fail. It is becoming repetitive to hear the unceasing and same insults; perhaps one day I will be numb to their belittling. Yet, they will only guffaw if they were to gaze at that word. How does one belittle an adolescent that struggle to fit through a door?

My clothing is to be discarded and replaced with a size unbefitting to my form. It is a scheme to raise awareness of my sudden and unceasing growth. My identity plastered on the cobblestone walls, labelled as a burglar whenever I seize a garment proper to my measurements. They do not remain in their position longer than half a day as I rip them away; do not fret. Mother must not find out.

Placing my hand on my stomach, I attempt to veil the weep of my hunger. If only I were nimble, then I would not be petrified by the approaching stomp of a certain pair of feet.

Hastily, I rushed to open the refrigerator and grasp what I could within reach, undisturbed by its raw scent and atrocious taste. The excess fat cramming the corners of my mouth, the crimson waste tumbling from my cheek, yet I chew and chew and chew.

“König! You pig!” A wail departed from the lips of my mother, a twig suffocating on her unforgiving clench. I am aware of what is to come, not that this is the first occurrence. I have lost calculation; perhaps it is because I grew to loathe counting.

I am exhausted from counting the calories I am allowed to consume, the disgusting weight I never seem to lose, and the remaining dignity I have left.

Yet for the first time, I did not cease, and I devour the meat until its hue dissipated, negligent of the mess I created.

“1.” Mother began, announcing the pain she will bestow upon me. “2.” I did not dare to gaze at her. She will always despise me, and there is nothing I could do to please her. “3.” My organ of hearing became aware of her approach. Out of compulsion, I balled my fist, which she berated for being colossal, and struck her. I have never raised a hand to anyone, yet I felt no remorse.

To ill-treat someone is to cause harm. Stupor is apparent in her silence, and I observe how she remained still on the ground as if to gain my pity. The wounds she has given me will never fade, just as I will never fail to remember how kind of a mother she never was.

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konigsblog · 3 months

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cw: age gap (20s-50s), pre-consensual somnophilia

photo credit: xbruised_peachx on x (twitter)

thinking ‘bout mean, old man könig :(

könig doesn't even act as if he cares about your pleasure as he views you as a sex toy, made for his pleasure. he doesn't put any effort into your pleasure, aside from lazily pumping your cunt full with two, calloused hand fingers, your hand gripping his wrist and your eyes rolled backwards. you're too far gone, lovesick and delusional, that you don't care about him being so selfish! he's just tired. he'll let you bounce on his hard dick, because he's got a sore back and is tired.

he'll even allow you to ride him while he's asleep. you're so playful, too energetic. like a puppy, you're restless. and all you wanna do is pull down his boxers and sit on his lengthy, meaty cock. slowly easing down with your hands sprawled out across his hairy chest. he'll wake up eventually from your loud, needy sounds, two hands on your hips as he degrades you and shames you for being impatient, attempting to fall back asleep while you get off.

you're so smart, a young thing like you is supposed to be in college, but instead sucking off old 50 year old könig because he's drunk, angry and horny. :(

#orla speaks #konig x reader smut #konig x reader #konig x you #konig x y/n #konig #konig mw2 #konig call of duty #konig smut #könig x you #könig x reader #könig x y/n #könig fanfiction #könig call of duty #könig #könig mw2 #tw: age gap

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konigsblog · 2 months

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CW: RAPE, NON-CON. AFAB!GN!READER

DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT. 18+ – THE MEDIA YOU CHOOSE TO CONSUME IS YOUR OWN RESPONSIBILITY.

PHOTO CREDIT: XBRUISED_PEACHX

reader who has a low libido, and könig who has a high libido - unable to keep himself from forcing himself onto you.

könig knows he should be ashamed and mortified, as his wide and hung cock squirts another load along your stomach, your thighs soaked in sweat and his thick, hot semen, mixed with your blood as his roughness and aggression causes crimson to drip out your slicken, leaking pussy.

your body aches and your thighs tremble with the burning sensation of his large size stretching your tight hole out, your head spinning as you become light-headed and dizzy, unable to mutter a coherent word after wailing for no more. not a thought remains in your stupid head after the third round of his inhumane abuse, feeling him rub and slide his bulbous, hot cock back and forth along your sensitive, swollen folds while you push weakly against his sturdy, broad hips.

the feeling of weakness leaves you with no other choice, but to give in to his sick and disgusting desires. you should've realised this would happen, schatzi. getting into a relationship with a man who's addicted to the warm, wet feeling of your pussy around his hard, large cock - it was obvious he had no good intentions, with being in the military only increasing his intentions to take whatever he wants, a controlling bastard, who cares for himself selfishly.

könig doesn't like being controlled or told what to do, he'll take whatever he wants and will expect no struggle or fight against it. your protests are hushed by könig who rams into you rapidly with his grunts hoarse and hearty, hammering against your bruised cervix for what feels like the millionth time while you mouth opens widely, in pain from the constant and rapid thrusting.

your raw cunt swells around his girth, eyelids heavy with exhaustion, feeling defeated with your eyes filled with tears, glistening against the dim light in his bedroom. he can caress your curves, your soaken and tearstained face, but nothing will take the throbbing, agonising sensation away - his touch only bound to leave marks along your skin eventually.

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