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PlayerUnknown’s Soulsborne Waifu Compendium	By : WickerMan Category: +A through F > Dark Souls (series) > Dark Souls (series) Views: 22045 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dark Souls or Bloodborne, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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PlayerUnknown’s Soulsborne Waifu Compendium
(A/N): Now for someone who could be seen as conventionally cute, if you were boring!
Only joking, she’s a tub waifu which makes her top tier by default.
This time we follow the gruff and rugged Bors of the Five Fingers, a barbaric warrior driven by a blinding passion for destruction and a insatiable lust for boobies and butts! Smashing his way through the Duke’s Archives, he might stumble into just the thing he yearns for in the form of a young, curvy Catarinan knightess…
WARNING: Obvious sexual content, spelling errors, bad language, cringy and heavy dialogue, crude jokes, a backwards understanding of what women are into, OC protagonists with little personality, OOC behaviour, tubby helmet ladies, technically rape turning into consensual stuff, non-lore friendly events, and my first story in around six months and my first LEMON in probably four years!
Chapter Four: Sieglinde of Catarina
He loved breaking things.
Glass and stone, body and sinew, anything that could be shattered by a swing of his mace or a slam of his malformed battleaxe rarely survived more than a minute under his scrutiny. He once thought that he would be able to find the pinnacle of destruction – one singular being or item that filled him with the greatest of joy as it burst under his blows.
But it wasn’t that complicated.
You could call Bors of the Five Fingers a connoisseur and in some ways an omnivore of sorts; a cultured brute that appreciated the finer details of everything he wrought havoc upon. From the thousands of oak splinters sent flying out of a ravaged dining set to the racket of raining glass gradually degenerating into a feeble tingle, it didn’t matter what he broke.
Only that he broke it.
Again and again.
Even his foes followed the same simple parameters as he towered over them in crude black iron plate, a smooth smack of his mace squeezing foul blood from beasts like tenderising slabs of steak. He saved his battleaxe only for the most challenging of foes, its wicked blade leaving chaos in its wake.
“Go on!” he slurred and taunted, spitting on polished marble. Two armed abominations, the pores of their skin dotted with jagged diamonds, hesitantly approached him with weapons raised. They had been humans once, though Bors neither realised nor cared. “Have some!”
Deliberately crushing the skull of his previous victim into a fine paste beneath his mighty heel, he flailed his mace like a common thug would charge up a jawbreaking punch. There wasn’t a single scenario where the creatures’ crystallised kiteshields would be able to absorb the blow full on, but you had to appreciate them for trying.
The frontmost of them took the full brunt of the flanged mace, contorting its shape into a convex art piece as it punctured the creature’s chest. Crumbling what stood for its ribs into a fine powder it flew into its comrade like a ragdoll, pinning them both to the floor in a heap.
Bors licked his lips, resting his mace upon his shoulder. “Piss weak.” he muttered, not even bothering to gloat over the rearmost’s awkward predicament. The cruel warrior swung a weighty kick into its cranium, cracking its spine in two and letting its emaciated head bob to and fro upon a now floppy neck.
He loved breaking things.
Not snapping twigs.
He’d come to the Duke’s Archives under the impression that it was filled with towering behemoths, supposedly formed of sentient crystal and sparkling diamonds. It would’ve been a hearty challenge to take such constructs head on, beating away at their impenetrable hides. It would be the wait that made it worth it, that precise moment when even the unbreakable burst into shards.
Nothing like that had made itself known so far. Some pussy footed magicians he’d snapped the arms off of, an endless army of worthless peons that mindlessly fell before him like chaff in the wind, but nothing of note. He was beginning to think that this entire foray had been a waste of time.
But he pressed onward, not because he hoped that his prayers would be answered if he persevered, but simply because he had nothing better to do. Or rather, he was too thick-headed to really think of anything else to do. That lack of direction or definitive goal had always been abused back when the world still had its head screwed on tight.
He had a thing for pretty ladies. His widowed pa had always told him to hold them dear and do what they said, and he’d believed him like the doormat he was. They’d strung him along more times than he’d care to admit with their wiles and their words and their nice perfumes; it just took a word and a smile. The shit he’d gotten himself into for women, and the shit he got in return, good grief.
They’d always lie to him, and he always fell for it; ‘just this once it will be different, she’s a good girl’, his mind would say. But he was just some dumb gullible muscle that they could play around with, and they knew that no matter how far they went he wouldn’t dare to upset them because he loved them all. And so he’d take the fall again and again, throwing his prospects away for the hope that perhaps one day they might look up to him with sparkling eyes and say:
“Thank you.”
“Well done.”
“You’re a good person.”
That never happened.
And that’s why he hated loving them.
Which made what happened next a tad bit awkward.
His conscious mind reflecting in monologue, his unconscious mind continued to pull him through the Archives with nary a bead of sweat. Bors wasn’t quite sure how deep he was within the swirling intestines of the enigmatic libraries, but he’d found himself upon a sprawling green courtyard of sorts. Trees dotted it like pocks on teenage skin, but it was something greater that stirred him to action.
Lumbering about like a herd of elephants were three hulking giants, encrusted in gems and glimmering in the sun’s rays. Their bodies clicked and clunked as they made their illogical rounds, two cyan fellows following a golden leader as they circled the same patrol route repeatedly for seemingly no reason. Were they artificial beings, programmed to guard this single patch of land?
This aroused the want for wanton carnage that was always eager to surface in Bors of the Five Fingers’ dim-witted mind, separating brief moments of calm and clarity with long stretches of berserk rampage. There was no better word for what he would become when battle whipped him up into a frenzy, fury clouding his already clouded judgement with the desire – no, the need – to destroy.
A screech of war that would probably be written as something along the lines of “HURRRRAAAAAARRRRRGHHHHHHUHFFF!” stirred the three golems from their lethargy, the mighty Bors literally hurling his mace straight at them like a huntsman’s bola as he fumbled for his oversized battleaxe. The mace became embedded in a tree trunk mere inches to the right of the trio, splintered bark eager to make way for it.
The ensuing brawl could be best described as bedlam, the axe wielding lug fighting with neither grace nor discipline but rather throwing himself recklessly at the towering giants as if such an assault would instil them with terror. Battered and bruised Bors exchanged blow after blow with the creatures, each wound he received merely adding to his lust for destruction.
He felled the first with a swipe under the legs, the mighty thing’s tiny toes failing to maintain balance on such soft grass footing. Smashing against the earth and crushing its face under its own weight, the golem tumbled down the slight incline of the yard and rolled to a stop on the far end without its head to accompany it.
The scourge of the Five Fingers held the detached head aloft, the now lifeless blue gemstones fading into a dull grey. With a giddy exhalation he smashed it against the ground like a firebomb, basking in the ensuing mist of crystalised dust.
Mayhem returned in earnest, yet the constructs continued to fight mechanically and without inspiration. Had the loss of their brother meant nothing to them? Clubbing the golden leader about the chest with the flat of his axe, Bors howled with delight as the clumsy thing stumbled atop its compatriot and flattened him into a fine powder within moments. The grains of diamond were still floating in the wind as he brought his axe down on the flailing survivor’s back once, and then twice, and then thrice like an ineffectual lumberjack.
“Die!” he guffawed goofily, biting his tongue amidst growing enthusiasm. He was slowly but surely making a dent, and he knew he was approaching the exquisite breaking point. His lungs ached and his head thumped but he kept at it, “Die!” he repeated, “Die, die, fuckin’ die you prick!”
Whether or not the golden golem did it willingly, it eventually complied with the maniac’s commands and shattered in two perfectly down the middle like a nestling doll from Zena. The piercing sound was glorious, the behemoth finally falling slack beneath his heel. As it faded into dust with a whoosh of wind like all the others he couldn’t help but chuckle, gazing at the skies and basking in the glow of victory.
But then he heard a voice.
It was muffled at first, his frenzied mind and ringing ears still too excited to discern what was being said. He tried his best to focus on it, bending forward and resting his hands on his thighs as he drew deep breaths. His tongue was sore, it’d only just hit him.
“It was you who rescued me?” the voice said, pausing only to continue without prompt. “Why, thank you.”
Bors of the Five Fingers searched for the source of the sound and spun in its direction, his axe buried amongst diamond dust on the groud. He found the source of the voice a literal foot away from him.
A short, stocky person clad in distinctly curved armour.
A short, stocky woman clad in distinctly curved armour.
That’s how he met Sieglinde of Catarina.
Sieglinde of Catarina was, as if her name didn’t show it, a knightess of the Catarinan kind. She introduced herself verily with a slight bow, “I am Sieglinde of Catarina.” she said, “I don’t know how I ended up in that crystal, but… I must thank you again for your rescue.”
Her hero, towering and festooned in jet black armour, looked upon her with bated breath. It was the sort of look you’d give a squirrel when it froze mid-step, and like a squirrel she stared at him behind her helm with a somewhat anxious expression. The man’s chest heaved with breath, the adrenaline of battle having filled his every muscle.
“It wasn’t terrible in there, but I could hardly move.” she tried to explain, not even sure how long she’d spent captive.
Her limbs stiff and weighed down by her armour, she illustrated her sorry state by hopping on the spot ever so slightly to try and will the blood back into her extremities. It would have looked incredibly silly to any onlooker, but thankfully the only one present seemed to be a bit out of touch with reality at the moment. She counted her blessings, twiddling her fingers nervously.
“May I ask your name, sir?” Sieglinde asked quietly, having still not heard a single word from the foreboding figure before her. He looked incredibly dangerous, and she hoped that she wasn’t to be his next victim. “Only it was you who saved me, and it would be right to know it.”
He growled at her.
A guttural growl, more like a frisky hound than a starved wolf.
She certainly felt like a sheep under his unrelenting gaze, and it was at this particular moment that she realised that her blade and shield were absent. Had they been lost when she was initially captured by the strange golem giants? “A-Ah…” she stammered, a little hot under the helmet. “I didn’t mean to pry, sir. Forgive me.”
As if in response the muted man knelt for his axe, his eyes remaining fixed and unblinking as he slowly heaved it about and rest it upon his broad shoulder. Was he threatening her? Did he feel threatened by her?
Don’t flatter yourself Sieglinde.
“I must think of someway to repay you.” the Catarinan thought aloud, not being the sort who allowed herself to get into debt. Father had always taught her that letting your debts stack up showed a lack of integrity, and she wasn’t about to let him down. “Only I am without coin or… Well, anything.”
The hulk began walking towards her with a deliberate slowness, his head tilting to one side and his hips pushed forward ever so slightly as if to bring attention to his groin. His fingers drummed on the haft of his weapon as he moved closer and closer, and for some reason the knightess found herself backpedalling.
“He saved me.” she thought.
“He won’t hurt me.” she insisted.
“Are you-” there was a dull conk as she hit something hard, her hero having backed her into a far corner of the yard. If she felt small before, she felt miniscule now – he crooned over her dominantly, his face silhouetted by the sun at his back and casting her in shadow. “… A-Are you well, sir?”
He rapped his knuckles against her chest, the rattle of alloy prompting a snarl of distaste. “Strip.” he muttered coarsely, his breaths still deep and husky. With the washing away of battle came a whole new surge of energy – searing lust, in need of satiating no matter the cost. He raised his voice, repeating his command to her. “Strip.”
“I-I beg your pardon…?” Sieglinde stammered in disbelief, the first word to come out of the man being the request – nay, the demand - to undress before him. She took a moment to process what he’d just said; he wanted her to strip for him? “Goodness, but that would be…” she took in their surroundings, mud and grass and leaves dominating the scenery. There was a frog in her throat, “H-Here?”
“Strip now.” he insisted, pressing his crotch against the protruding stomach of her platebody. His face was as uncomfortably close as it could be, in spite of her massive spherical headpiece. “I wanna see your tits.”
Deeply sickened by such depravity, what had originally been an admittedly scared appreciation for his rescue had become a deep disdain and disgust within moments. This man was no hero; he was a sex obsessed cur! A sex obsessed cur with a rather large axe at his disposal!
She sunk against the wall, unaware that every word her cute little voice spoke only made him long for her body all the more. “This is barbaric!” she squeaked in protest, her voice cracking mid sentence, “I-I have my pride, as a kni-”
Suddenly he lashed out, hungry hands wrestling for a grasp on the clasps of her hereditary plate. She struggled as best as she could in such a narrow space, wiggling and writhing and fruitlessly slapping her palms against his ebony chest.
“Let go!” she cried, as if that would stop him at this point. The strap of her pauldron snapped in the brief scuffle with a comical ‘pong’, her panic plateauing as she fumbled for the loose piece of armour. There was nothing she could do now but submit. Sieglinde’s heart sunk a full metre, ashamed by both the man before her and her own weakness. “F-Fine, just…” she shook her head weakly, letting the pauldron clatter to the dirt. “T-The helmet stays on, okay?”
Bors backed away not out of respect, but rather out of eagerness as his arousal urged him to get to the good part. It was fun to play with your food, but playtime was over. He snickered to himself lowly as the young Catarinan reluctantly began to strip herself down, pulling off her greaves and gauntlets as slowly as she could to try and delay the inevitable.
He twisted the handle of his axe tauntingly, reminding her that it wouldn’t be a very good idea to make him cross. He had no intention of hurting her, but it wasn’t like she knew that was it?
Sieglinde shyly removed her plate, the unhooked casket of metal instantly clattering to the floor like a tower of matchsticks and freeing her breasts from captivity. Yelping in surprise at her sudden nudity she miserably tried to contain her spilt cleavage with her forearm, pressing her thighs together and shielding her womanhood with her free hand. As promised, she had stripped herself down completely – sans her oversized helmet, from which a trembling voice echoed. “O-Oh goodness…” she shuddered, struggling to keep her wayward bust contained. She glared at him, detesting his audacity. “There, happy?
Her liberator stared her over like she was a marble statue from the halls of Anor Londo, his lips curling into a smug smirk. Sieglinde fidgeted under his scrutiny, unintentionally swaying her hips from side to side. She didn’t like being stared at so voraciously, it made her heart flutter and her skin crawl. “D-Don’t stare so much...” she murmured, her bare toes wiggling in the dewy grass.
Obviously that only made him stare more, the discomfort of the young woman pleasing a peculiar palate years of teenage sexual repression had formed. Smitten by her unique physique, he swung his axe to the dirt – causing her to jump and jiggle in fear – and leant against its pommel like a cleaner’s broom. “Twirl.” he commanded, particularly enamoured with her somewhat tubby stomach. She did nothing, lowering her head reluctantly. Bors repeated himself with a snarl, “Twirl.”
She did what he commanded, clumsily shuffling on the slippery grass as she spun around in a wobbly circle and gave him a good view of her figure in the process. The brute nodded in amusement, her juicy hips and large, wobbly posterior in particular grabbing his eye. “Nice arse.” he said in a less than gracious way, containing a smug snicker. “Nice, chubby and cute. Like the rest of you.”
“I-I’m not chubby…” she flushed, strangely concerned with what the man who rescued her thought of her. Sieglinde had always been incredibly self-conscious about her waist – she wasn’t fat or overweight in the slightest, frequent sparring and exercise dominating her life as a warrior. However, being from Catarina she naturally took from their festive diet and unique physique; while a nation of seasoned warriors their meals were hearty and filling, and everyone she grew up around had an affinity for a refreshing Siegbräu after every dinner from a young age. She, like all her countrymen, had a natural bulk about her as a result, and it always embarrassed her on her travels across Lordran. It wasn’t easy being the ‘large’ girl all the time. Her arm was growing tired, her tight grip over her cleavage losing its strength and exposing more and more to the pervert’s probing eyes. “Can I put my armour back on? Please…?”
Bouncing breasts, jiggling bottoms, meaty thighs, shy dispositions, a bit of tub going about the belly, Bors ticked off his mental list joyfully. Just imagining it was enough to turn his bandit knife into a Zweihander, and here it was in the flesh. Call him peculiar – which he was in many ways – but a girl with something to hang onto would always beat the sort of twigs that populated the Five Finger Delta.
“Shit.” he mumbled to self, his need screaming at him for relief. His axe cluttering to the floor he quickly paced up to her with a peculiar gait, as if his balance had been burdened by a newfound weight. The black armoured lug placed his hands atop her shoulders, noticing that there was some meat to be found even there – something to pinch and squeeze to his leisure. Before she could even process what he was doing Sieglinde was pushed down to the ground firmly, sinking to her knees and coming face to face with his crotch as he fumbled at his belt.
Is he…?
His bulging member burst out of the confines of his armour, flopping against her helmet and resting against its cold iron as it trembled with overflowing lust. “A-Ah…” the knightess exhaled, flinching anxiously as he slowly nudged his dick against the grooves of her helm. This was humiliating. “I don’t like this…” she murmured, her protests falling upon deaf ears. Holding his cock by its base he whipped it against the helm with three wet splats, his oozing precum dripping all over it. “Promise to be gentle with me… Okay?”
Turned on all the more by her unintentionally kinky words, a groaning Bors pulled her tiny hands to his length and began to jerk himself off with her delicate palms. It was incredibly awkward to get her to cooperate with him, but just this was enough to get him shuddering. He breathed deeply, the discomfort already fading away. Sieglinde squeezed her fingers a tad, a restrained growl of approval from her liberator filling her face with red. The noises he was making sort of made her happy.
She wanted him to make more.
Freeing her hands from his grasp he relinquished control, expecting the kneeled Catarinan to continue to pump his throbbing cock. She had absolutely no idea what she was really doing as she slowly tugged away, pulling his foreskin over his tip only to bring it back down. There was a pungent odour about it, the mix of sweat and precum strangely hypnotic to her within her poorly ventilated headpiece. Bors began to thrust into her awaiting palms, resting his hands atop her helmet.
Was she doing it wrong or something?
Maybe he really liked it?
She thought she was doing okay…
He didn’t hate it, did he…?
Suddenly he pulled his dick away, falling to his knees and pressing himself against her; unable to contain himself. His large, probing hands aggressively groped her body as he nuzzled hornily against her tits, breathing hot air against her freezing skin. She winced in surprise at such sudden contact, her hero hungrily exploring her ample bust. Unconsciously her hands patted around his lap blindly, finding his twitching cock and continuing their work. “C-Calm down.” she said quietly, his hands tracing the curve of her back. She’d always been a bit ticklish there. “I’m not going anywhere or anything…”
The tracing ten fingers of the man from the Five Fingers moved lower and lower, until finding the grand prize and clinging to the Catarinan’s soft, squishy ass. His powerful digits began to knead and rub, playing with her sweet cheeks. Sieglinde couldn’t help but sway her hips in response, playfully resisting his assault when deep down she’d surrendered to his whims long ago.
Hot, wet warmth sent a shiver up her spine as her hero’s two-pronged assault entered its next phase, his tongue lapping away at her pink, puffy nipples. Beneath her helm she bit her lip to contain a moan, having found a good rhythm with the rock hard cock between her hands. He swapped nipples, rapidly flicking it about before…
His teeth…?
“N-Nuh!” she moaned loudly, her legs wobbling with uncontained pleasure. Trying to regain her composure she squeezed his cock tightly, pushing her chest forward and smothering the brute between her breasts. He certainly liked that, breathing in her scent. Sieglinde pouted, “Don’t be so rough with me. That hurt…”
It hurt so good.
Within moments she freed one hand and brought it to the back of his head, lightly pressing him against her tits and encouraging him to be just as rough as he had been ten seconds ago despite herself. Bors continued his assault, loudly slurping and suckling her nipples and aggressively cupping her ass.
What was happening to her? Wasn’t she disgusted by all of this a second ago? Where did all her reluctance go?
May deep down she was just a slut that wanted to feel good?
Sieglinde of Catarina, knightess of a proud noble family, well behaved and desperate for a good fuck.
A loud spanking sound of hand on flesh stirred her from her thoughts, causing her to yelp in pain and surprise. “H-Hey!” she groaned, her right ass cheek glowing a slight red in pain. Bors gently patted the afflicted area, a dull sting spreading across her bottom. “Warn me next time…” she sighed soppily, only to shyly push out her posterior for another slap.
Within an instant he spanked her left cheek just has hard, prompting an adorable squeak from the knightess. She wiggled her tush in delight, the kinky cur of a man before her spreading her aching cheeks and experimentally prodding her dirty ring with his fingers.
Sieglinde could feel her own arousal now, overflowing from her centre and permeating her mind. She was struggling to contain herself, rubbing her thighs together to try and cope with the ache. She wanted it so bad right now, even if this brute had forced himself upon her.
But she promised father that she would save herself for the right time. She couldn’t give that away so willingly, she had to resist the temptation. The only one that could take her virginity from her would be the one she married.
Although to be honest she’d marry him right now if she could.
Moans echoing within the confines of her helmet, Sieglinde breathed sharply. “T-This feels sort of nice…” she murmured the understatement of the century, Bors having changed his focus entirely on her ass. Even she had stopped pumping away, almost paralysed by his manly touch. He wasn’t being gentle at all, kneading her red cheeks like dough before clenching them tightly in his fists. She grumbled to herself quietly – it felt good and all, but she really preferred a nice hard spanking.
… Did she really just think that?
Suddenly releasing her from his grasp Bors rose to his feet. The knightess was hit by the sudden cold of his absence and wanted him and his warmth close again, but he didn’t offer a command and so she remained on her knees. He furiously began to masturbate over her, resting his balls atop her helmet as he fapped away. “I-I sure hope no one can see us…” she thought aloud. He growled like the animal he was, rubbing faster and faster and occasionally slapping his cock against her visor and leaving strings of precum.
Was he about to cum?
Wasn’t she supposed to do something?
“Y-You’re coming? Ummm, okay I’ll…” the naïve Catarinan glanced back and forth, having no clue what she was meant to do at this point in spite of her enthusiasm. After a moment of thought she fumbled for her damp drool-coated breasts, holding them up and fondling them in a way she thought was seductive. She couldn’t believe she was about to say this to a stranger, but with a stammer she urged “C-Cum on my tits!”
But he wasn’t there yet, not even close. Bors shook his head with effort, still furiously jerking away at the sight of her. Sieglinde was incredibly flustered by this – what was the matter? Did she do something wrong? Did she not look good enough? She placed her hands on her lap, arms upper arms squeezing her breasts together, and she waited.
Awkwardly.
… This was too much.
You want him. You want him to fuck you dry.
Staring at his rock hard cock in all its glory was enough to make her flutter. What would it be like to be forced down by that big raging bull and just fucked relentlessly? How loud would she yelp and how much would she shudder? It would be ecstasy for him to fuck her into the dirt, slapping and spanking her ass with every thrust until she was a silly mess.
She was getting lightheaded, her giddy fingers dipping and prodding and rubbing and swirling deep within the confines of her womanhood as she watched him fuck his hand like an animal. It wasn’t enough to satisfy her growing wetness, she needed his big fat cock.
His ejaculation came suddenly for the both of them, his virile dick releasing years upon years of sexual frustration in ten powerful spurts. It was at this point that Sieglinde began to regret her refusal to remove her helmet, much of his spunk splattering uselessly upon heavy iron instead of on her face and tongue where it rightfully belonged.
“You got it all over my helmet…” she berated as he rest his spent member atop it with a deep sigh of satisfaction. Canals of cum began to dribble down the curvature of her helm, following its grooves and dripping onto her breasts. She squeezed them tightly between her arms, letting his hot jizz pool between her cleavage. “Well.” she whispered, timidly giggling at the thought “I-I’m not cold anymore, at the very least.”
The two remained like that for a few moments, Bors slowly milking the last remnants of his orgasm out onto her helm as the lust washed over them and permeated the air for just a tad bit longer. Sieglinde felt like she could stay like this forever.
For about thirty seconds.
Realisation struck mere moments after the lust settled, as the Catarinan began to process what she’d just gone through.
Oh gods, she was covered in sweat, spit and cum!
How base! How slanderous! How tarty!
Her slapped bottom stung from the cold air alone!
Dross! Terrible! Foul!
She’d just let a complete stranger force himself upon her! What was wrong with her? What would dad think?
And not only that, but she’d loved it!
Oh dear, oh dear, she’d be in a right pickle if he ever found out…
Bors of the Five Fingers fiddled with his belt quietly, now spent and sexless as was typical of men. She called out to him, “Excuse me, sir!” she pardoned herself, grabbing his attention. He looked down at the woman, his spunk still pooled between her breasts. One had to wonder what would happen if she let go of them. “This is a secret between you and me… D-Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
The black armoured brute glared at her antisocially, before shrugging his shoulders and muttering “Whatever.”
Taking that as a yes, she sighed with relief. As her liberator pulled out his axe and mace from their respective spots, she bowed her head in thought. Was it strange that that his strong silence, crude accent and sudden ignorance to her presence had a certain… Allure to it? Rubbing her knees together awkwardly, she considered her current state of undress.
She felt strangely unsatisfied.
Turning to leave in search of new things to destroy, Bors strapped his battleaxe to his back and kept his mace on hand for any stragglers in the archives. His business was done here.
“S-Sir!” the pretty, chubby woman called out to him. He turned his head as he walked, having almost forgotten that she existed.
Sieglinde, still on her knees, wiggled her tush flirtatiously. She remembered his compliments; ‘nice, chubby and cute. Like the rest of you’. It was just a simple request, surely he wouldn’t mind? “C-Could you perhaps… Spank me one last time?”
Bors of the Five Fingers grunted as he came to a stop, looking back at the nude Catarinan and her cum glazed breasts. With a roll of his eyes he turned back around, lobbing his mace away and lodging it within a second tree. “No helmet this time.”
He hated loving women.
X
(A/N): Maneater Mildred VS Sieglinde of Catarina, primal T H I C C VS shy T H I C C, take your pick readers!
Next time we wrap up the first “arc” of Compendium stories with everyone’s favourite trap god waifu, who needs to demonstrate his authority to the Darkmoon Knights when one of his most loyal men blasphemes!
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PlayerUnknown’s Soulsborne Waifu Compendium