Im just imagining königs family are all tall-ass giraffes and youre the only shorty in that group. And youre always the target for short jokes whether you like it or not.
You want könig? Gotta power through the short jokes man!
But on the plus side, they'll defend and protect you when someone else mocks you for your height. Theyre the only ones who can bully you >:3
OKAY OKAY BUT LIKE. YOU'RE SO RIGHT. They just think you're so cute and they're not really used to someone so short being around regularly.
They'd absolutely give you shit at every possible opportunity; if there's ever even the slightest chance to make a short joke one of them is going to turn to you with a shit-eating grin and take it. I think at first König would try to shield you as best he could from it – asking his older relatives to please not be rude, scolding his younger siblings/cousins, etc – but as soon as he knows you're fine with it there's no restraining anyones comments.
I think it'd be extra funny if you also work in the military because like, you've been trained to kill – not just kill though, this isn't amateur hour, you take people and organizations out with precision – and these giants are just cooing over you. Same vibes as holding an angry cat out at arms length and calling it 'just the cutest little baby ever'.
If you ever make a joke about your height, they're going to fucking loose it. Start snarking back about them being "tall-ass giraffes" and they're going to propose to you on König's behalf. His brother is like "König this is my sibling-in-law now" with his arm slung over your shoulders, and König is like 'what the fuck happened, I just left to run into town', and it's all because you just spent the past fifteen minutes going back and forth with their dad just absolutely roasting each other while making lunch.
There's defiantly at least one family member, like that particularly uncontainable cousin or clever auntie, who just stood there and rattled off every joke they could think of until they were like "okay I think it's all out of my system for now" and you just about cried laughing over it. That moment probably did a lot to ease König's worry about you getting along with his family.
HOWEVER. As soon as anyone else so much as snickers about it they'd automatically go into this ultra over-protective, "how dare you insult our small one" mode. The person is absolutely fucking terrified because like, they thought they were just joining in on this joke and they laughed, just a little bit, and now there's several startlingly huge people standing around them and glaring and demanding to know where they get off thinking they can insult you and they're regretting every single decision they've made today. Bonus points if König's family was sitting down when this situation started so this person doesn't really know how tall they all are until they're all fangs-bared defending you.
I think it would be so funny if like, his parents were telling a friend of theirs about you and it gets mentioned how tiny you are so this friend is expecting an abnormally short person and when they meet you they're like. this. this is an average sized human being. and König's parents are like hAhaHaha yEaH.
Also, you're going to forever be getting hand-me-downs from family members. If you're keen on mending some farm-work related holes and rips you could have an entire collection of oversized flannels.
Im recently new to this fandom and your hcs just got me hooked, absolute love to you fam 💖 pls keep doing gods work 💖💖💖
@igzsatelier , I'm quite fond of the apparent fact that the two emotional states I've inspired are "hearts but angry" and "hearts but distressed".
I'm new to the fandom as well! I vaguely remember Call of Duty from when I was younger and my best friends older brother would tell us we couldn't play. I caught brainrot bad from the recent CoD renaissance.
Ironically enough, the one time I remember we snuck on the Xbox, we played Call of Duty: Ghosts. I remember there was a space station, two brothers, and a dog (???). Now I'm babygirlifying COD characters in my spare time. Life finds a way, right?
Anyhow, AHHHH I'm so happy I could contribute to dragging you into another fandom!! I definitely plan on writing more for our blood-soaked babygirls if I scrape together the time. I just posted a König thingie yesterday and have a few other ideas for König and Ghost rattling around in my brain.
From now on when I open my silly little word documents I'm going to remind myself that it is, apparently, gods work.
Come get y’all filth, you fuckin’ freaks (affectionate; fond; doting, even). This is in no way properly beta’d, I just can’t stop thinking about making König feel so good he cries.
Warnings: sub!könig/dom!reader; gratuitous use of the word “slut” but not in a bad way; overstimulation, obviously; choking; drooling; multiple orgasms; dry orgasm; light boot fetish; tiny bit of blood; spit; cum eating; crying; begging; possibly incorrect German; König has sensitive tits and a slutty little waist, fight me in a Joann Fabrics parking lot about it.
I don’t have any excuse for this. It’s about three parts smut and one part aftercare (I kept adding more detail because of @havoc973’s lovely reply on my NSFW Headcannons post).
Enjoy, my darlings.
It was rare that you got to feel taller than König. It was rare that anyone gets to feel taller than him. Even when you wear obnoxious shoes – your most teetering heels or your stompiest platforms – you still have to tilt your head back to look at his eyes and pull him down to kiss.
But here he was, willingly kneeling in front of you with his arms bound behind his back, having to stare up at you for once.
“So pretty like this, König,” you tell him, and he is – coiled into something supplicative and yearning, barely holding onto a coherent train of thought, “You’re my pretty little slut, aren’t you?”
A full-bodied shudder wracks down his spine and the blush staining from his cheeks to his chest somehow gets even worse. It’s borderline intoxicating, watching his mouth go slack and his lashes flutter as he struggles to keep his eyes open and focused on you.
Leaning forward from where you were lounged back in your chair, you run your hand across the taught line of his shoulder, hooking the knuckles of your curled-up fingers under his chin and forcing his line of sight up.
“I asked you a question, pretty baby.”
The bruises – some splotchy purple, some glaring red and a clear map of your teeth – already stand out on his skin, so you know he feels it when you dig your thumb into the junction of his neck and shoulder, pressing down hard on a dark cluster of marks.
“I expect an answer.”
He chokes out a tormented sound, keening high and squirming when you don’t let up. His hips jerk forward, and he hisses at the increased pressure, even as his cock leaks another dribble of pre-come where it’s trapped between the sole of your boot and his stomach.
“Yours! Yours, Meine Liebe, always yours.” He’s panting and grinding his cock against the treads on the bottom of your boot. Going by his dazed expression, he’s barely aware of his own desperate, harsh movements. “Y-your, ah, your s-slut. Bitte, Schatz, p-please, schade mir.”
He peers up at you, amazingly shy for someone who’s actively leaking pearlescent stains over the toe of your boot. Tears are gathering along his waterline and his voice is soft and vulnerable, “Say it- say it ah-again.”
“Oh, my sweetheart,” you coo down at him, tone just left of laughing, and soothe your fingers over his cheek, “My darling, my love. You like being my little fucking slut?”
He moans, sputtering an incomprehensible mess of cut-off English and German syllables, as he nuzzles against your palm. You forgive the lack of an answer in favor of watching how his trembling body strains into any contact you give him.
There’s raw strength threaded alongside every fiber of muscle he has, simmering with instincts honed to incapacitate and kill – vicious and efficient and an absolute fucking nightmare. You know his towering frame and wild eyes have been the very last thing quite a few people have ever seen, and yet…
“Yeah,” You give the side of his face a sharp slap, just enough to sting the flesh and jolt his eyes open, and he leans back into your hand the moment you resettle it on his cheek, “You’re my pretty little slut.”
It’s going a bit to your head – you’re aware enough to recognize how much you’re getting off at having this lethal force of nature compliant and whining at your feet, like a well-trained pet. You smear your thumb through the lines of tears on his cheek and gently guide him to rest back so he’s sitting on his folded legs, taking some weight off his knees. He makes a pained sound at the loss of your boot against his cock, but stays obediently still.
You stand in front of him and he presses his face against the top of your thigh, butting his forehead clumsily into your hip before stilling, the sharp bridge of his nose digging into your soft flesh. You smile at the rumbling noise he sighs out when you start scratching your nails through his hair.
“I want to try something, baby,” he hums at your voice, content but vague, “Can you look at me, please?”
He stares up through his lashes with such open adoration you think you can feel your heart constricting.
“Thank you, König. You’re such a good boy for me.”
He blushes, coy and so fucking cute, and it makes the silvery sheen of his facial scars more predominant.
“Wie geht es dir?” You ask.
He smiles when he hears your German, all teeth and scrunched-up nose. He loves teaching you his first language, and his eyes go soft and tender at your slow, careful pronunciation.
“Good. Ich fühle mich sehr gut.”
You hum, satisfied with the coherency of his answer and current state of mind. He was definitely in the process of going a bit dumb for you, but not so far gone that you couldn’t have this conversation.
He nods when you tell him to stay put and you walk over to your bedside table, snagging the vibrator off its charger. He stays, but shifts around to face you when you leave. Brat. You shake your head fondly and he gives you a coquettish grin.
Going back to him, you hold the wand at your side and watch him look curiously between it and you for a few seconds. You hold it out in front of you, tapping the rounded head against your palm.
“I want to use this on you.”
“For, ah,” He swallows thickly, his clever mind already catching up with your plan, “For how long?”
Your smile creeps slowly across your mouth with far too much of a sharp edge to be mistaken for anything other than predatory intent. His cock twitches where it’s still achingly hard between his legs.
“Until you can’t take it anymore.”
You kneel down with him on the floor, feeling short again, and lay the vibrator against the thick muscle of his thigh.
“It feels like this,” You click on the lowest setting, relishing in the way he jumps at the sudden buzz, “It has a few different settings, each one more intense than the previous.”
“I know how vibrators work.”
You snort out a laugh at his affronted tone, switching the wand off and leaning up to nudge your forehead against his.
“I know that, big guy, just want to make sure. Is this something you’d like to do?”
He nods immediately and shoots you a bashful grin when the force of it jostles you from where you were resting against him.
“As something you want to do? Not just because I’m interested in it?” You gently question.
“Yes. It will feel…” He pulls up the unscarred side of his mouth and squints, forming the expression you know means he’s searching for a word, “Good, but too much good?”
“Overstimulating.” You provide.
“Hm, ja. Overstimulating, danke. I am curious, about how much it will take before I need to stop. About what that will feel like.” He fixes his blue eyes on yours, “You always take care of me, I trust you with this also.”
A bloom of warmth takes over your chest, compelling you to set the vibrator down beside your knee and grab König’s face with both hands. You press fluttering kisses over his cheekbones and around his eyes, to his forehead and on his nose, before he shifts forward and captures your mouth with his own. You’re a bit breathless when you pull apart, nipping at his bottom lip as you go.
“Is there anything you need before we start?”
“My, ah, my shoulders are uncomfortable.”
You rise up on your knees and stretch your arms around him, kissing his shoulder as you peer over it and remove the leather cuffs.
“I still want them bound,” he admits, and you know it’s because he’s going to have a difficult time staying still, “Just in front now?”
You nod as you set the cuffs down, “Do you want to stay here or move somewhere else?”
“Stay, please.”
“Would you like something for under your knees?”
He shakes his head, “Nein, I want the bruises.”
“Okay, love,” You give his mouth another sweet kiss, “Let me know if you change your mind.”
König is quiet as you massage the stiffness out of his shoulders. You know he’s thinking, the slight furrow in his brow only serves to confirm your suspicion.
He lets out a blissful sigh when you work your hands over the back of his neck, soothing your thumbs down along either side of his spine. You massage his wrists next, then his hands, pressing chaste kisses to the calluses on his palms and over his long, scarred fingers. It’s only after you’ve maneuvered his hands to rest in his lap that he speaks.
“Schlampe.”
“Hm?” Your eyes dart up momentarily from where you’re focused on pressing your fingers into the muscles of his arms, aiming to relieve any soreness he may have there. He’s quiet for a bit longer.
“S-slut. Ah, auf Deutsch.”
You nearly fumble with the buckle as you bind his wrists in front of him. You finish securing the leather, taking your turn to be quiet, and checking to make sure the cuffs aren’t tight to the point of impeding his blood flow or pinching any nerves.
“Schlampe.” You say it slowly, feeling the word in your mouth.
There’s no missing the shiver that dances across his shoulders, nor the way he bites at the inside of his cheek. You curl your fingers under his jaw and rest the pad of your thumb against his bottom lip.
“Meine hübsche Schlampe, hm? My pretty slut.”
He nods quickly, eagerly, darting his tongue out and swiping it over your thumb. You reposition your hand so your first two fingers nudge at the seam of his lips; he parts them easily and you slip your fingers into the wet heat of his mouth.
“Are you ready, pretty baby?”
He groans and nods, drooling a little as he sucks at your fingers.
He stays impressively still when you press the vibrator against his swollen cock, but he downright yelps when you turn it on. The sharp cry dissolves into quick, keening moans and he jerks his hips involuntarily at the sensation.
Digging your thumb into the vulnerable skin under his jaw, you quiet him by pressing your fingers down on his tongue. He doesn’t go silent, but the moans morph into a softer choking noise as he gags around your fingers. He keeps rocking his hips and you keep the vibrator firmly against the head of his cock, clicking it to the second setting. You can hear his throat clicking as he tries to swallow, the excess saliva making his lips slick and shiny.
“Good boy, you’re doing so well.”
You slide your fingers further back in his mouth, watching him struggle to keep his breathing even. The tears in his eyes spill over and wet his cheeks when you switch to the next setting on the wand. His response is just as full-bodied, if not slightly more prepared. There’s a stubborn glint in his eyes when he pushes his head down, taking your fingers into the top of his throat.
“There’s my fucking slut, huh?” You bear down, not letting him remove your fingers, ‘There’s my beautiful fucking slut, making himself choke for me. You’re that desperate?”
The question is rhetorical, and he knows that, but he still tries to nod anyways. All the movement succeeds in doing is making it more difficult to keep the burning tears out of his eyes. You relent and he gasps down deep breaths when you pull your fingers from his throat.
“Meine Schlampe,” your sweet tone contradicts how you push him back, one hand splayed on his abdomen, and run the vibrator along the underside of his cock. He’s shaking, forearms pressed together and tight to his chest, biting his cheek so hard you bet he’s bleeding.
You grin, a little feral, and kiss his swollen lips, licking into his mouth. He’s pliant and deferent as you force his jaw wider, turning the kiss open and messy. He whines when your tongue finds the freshly gnawed wound behind his lower lip – his whole chest straining with the reedy noise as you pull the torn skin between your teeth and suck, moaning yourself as you draw more of the metallic taste into your own mouth.
When you pull back, he follows – curling over himself as he rests against your chest and sinks a harsh bite to the junction of your throat. You can feel him shaking. His quick, sharp exhales cause goosebumps to spread across your skin. You up the setting on the vibrator again.
“You can cum, sweetheart, you don’t need my permission. My slut gets to cum whenever he wants tonight.”
The words shatter something in him. He moans, raw and pained, and shakes through his first orgasm, cum settling hot and thick on his stomach and chest.
You don’t remove the vibrator. His breathing comes in hitched gasps as he tries to remain still. His body twitches, muscles jerking in a way he has no control over. You can tell by the way he’s tensing up that he’s going to cum again. You’re already imagining the mess he’s going to make of himself when he-
His bound arms shoot down and shove the vibrator off his weeping cock. His shoulders and back bow as he hunches even further in on himself. He still hasn’t caught his breath and the noise of his ragged gasps act as a counterpoint to your momentarily stunned silence.
You bury your fingers in the hair above his nape and pull, snapping his head back. His eyes are wide, out of focus, and more than a little wild. He manages to look terrified and reverent all at once.
“Do not try to push me away.” He flinches at your snarling voice, at the sting when you give his hair another sharp yank, even as a strangled moan tears out of his throat.
“I- I am- sorry! S-Sorry! Bitte, I won’t- ah! Bitte! N-not again, Ich ver-verspreche e-es, I promise!”
“Up, Schlampe.” You prod at his bicep, “Give me your hands, you do that one more time and I’ll put them behind your back again.”
He whimpers but moves, immediately compliant, and you tug his arms until his bent elbows are above his head and his bound wrists rest against the back of his neck. His breathing comes out in audible huffs as fresh tears run down his face. He’ll be good, he’ll be good, he promises, he just wants to be good for you, please let him be good for you-
“Good boy.”
The new position stretches the length of his torso out in a way that, frankly, is absolutely fucking obscene. He relaxes slightly at your praise, but his body remains a livewire of anticipation. You duck down and lick a long stripe over his cock and up his abdomen, gathering some of his cum in your mouth. He watches with lidded eyes and parts his lips, tongue out flat on the bottom one, when you lean over him. You tighten your grip on his hair and let the mess of his cum and your saliva slide off your tongue and into his obedient mouth. Your voice is barely a murmur when you tell him to swallow.
You clean the rest of his cum off in a similar way – licking it up and pushing it into his mouth with a kiss. You stray from your task every so often, sucking a myriad of bruises into his chest. He moans through it, breath catching in sharp hitches when you bite and tug at his nipples. Always so sensitive here.
A latticework of scratches spreads out alongside the broken blood vessels. You drag conciliatory licks over his puffy, reddened nipples; he whines and rolls his hips at the rasp of your tongue on his swollen skin. With the taste of him still in your throat, you put the vibrator back on his cock.
Somehow, he stays relatively still when you click the toy back up to the same intensity he pushed it off at, and you can’t help but smile at the focused expression he wears.
It doesn’t take long at all for him to cum, thrashing and crying, every muscle in his body painfully tense. He keeps his arms where you instructed, but all he can do otherwise is slump against you, his head on your shoulder, and shake.
You sink your teeth into the tendons at the side of his neck and his cock jumps as one last rope of cum spurts out.
There’s a constant stream of whimpering and little sobs that bubble up from somewhere agonized in his chest. You keep the vibrator on his cockhead. He cries out, harsh and wrecked, when you up the intensity again.
He’s full-on sobbing now – tears running down his face and hiccupping around the way he’s desperately trying to pull enough air into his lungs. Your wrap your hand over the dip of his waist, a comforting gesture until you claw your nails down his side. He whines as you watch the raised scratch lines form.
Holding him still with an unyielding grip, you dig your thumb into the soft, sensitive flesh just inside of his hipbone. You can feel how it curves into his body and you marvel at the structure – every articulated piece that makes up the man you love. He hopes the bruise will hurt all the way down to that very bone tomorrow morning.
He’s gasping and panting, and you can feel how each individual shred of him trembles.
He isn’t sure what level the wand is on at this point, but when he cums this time he swears he feels it scorch through his guts. His back aches with how his spine is pulled further into a bowed arch. He knows, distantly, that you’re praising him for keeping his arms up, for being so good, for looking so beautiful as he falls apart. He knows he sees your hungry, shining eyes watch as his abused cock leaks out a pathetic dribble of cum.
It hurts. It hurts so fucking good.
It burns some sick pleasure through him, twisting his insides until he feels like he’s liquifying. He can barely hear the noise he’s making, but you revel in how every breath he manages to take comes back out as a keen, high-pitched and drawn from the base of his throat. Each whine is cut off when he sucks in another breath, only for the next moan to be even more desperate than the last.
He’s begging you now. Between his stunted gasps, he’s begging you to stop.
He could safeword out. You’ve discussed this plenty of times before, he could say his safeword – just one tiny word, surely he still has enough breath for that – and this torment would be over.
He doesn’t.
So, you don’t stop.
‘You’re vicious,’ he thinks, ‘You’re perfect.’
You gently guide his arms down, hooking his bound wrists behind your own neck. He goes slack against you, burying his face against your throat and letting the trembling spasms tear up his spine. Everything smells, wonderfully, of you.
He thinks his mind is actively falling apart. You take the opportunity presented in how he pulls you against his chest to litter bites and cruel, sucking kisses across the skin you can reach. He thinks, fleetingly, of nuclear meltdowns and system failures, of utter devastation and complete loss of function.
He feels his eyes rolling back in his head, a delirious haze clouding his vision as the world narrows down to only the cruel buzz of the vibrator and the places where your skin touches his.
He orgasms one last time, his spent cock dry and twitching, his body convulsing as his vision whites out completely and any noise fades into meaningless obscurity.
A ragged, tortured sound spills from his mouth when you take the vibrator off his cock – having the sensation stop feels nearly as euphoric as the stimulation and his body continues to shake erratically.
He’s aware that you’re talking, low and soothing. Petting his hair and skating your hands over his skin. He tries to speak but the sounds come out slurred and unintelligible. All he can do is sniffle against your shoulder and try to remember how to breathe.
You get his arms back between the two of you and unbuckle the cuffs with quick, practiced movements. When they fall off his wrists, he’s on you in an instant, clutching and needy. His hands are trembling, and you think of his sniper’s collectedness and control – how he can normally hold his hands out flat in front of him and not shake at all. Now, he roves his unsteady hands over your body with no clear plan, just a raw desperation to reacquaint himself with the shape and feel of your body.
He falls to the side – relief flooding his aching knees – laying on his hip and curling up as he wraps his arms around your waist. You stay like that, kneeling with his head pillowed on your thigh, until he can focus his eyes enough to peer up at you and whimper.
You shush him, holding the back of his hand against your lips and rubbing your free hand in circles across his shoulder blades. His skin is covered in a sheen of sweat and nearly burning to the touch. After a while, when he settles back into his body a little more, you help him stand up.
You can’t carry him, the man is fucking heavy, but you can support his weight as you help him to stagger over and lie down on your bed. You go to disentangle yourself – intending to get him water, fuck maybe even Gatorade at this point, anything with electrolytes – but he grabs your wrist, eyes wide and panicked, so you stay with him for a while longer, letting him soothe himself by tracing patterns across your skin with his shaking hands.
He isn’t speaking, any attempt at words comes out a garbled whine, so you check in with him using yes or no questions, which he shakes or nods his head to answer.
You’re able to parse out that yes, he’s okay, just overwhelmed; no, he doesn’t have any concerning pain in his wrists or arms; yes, he did enjoy himself; no, he doesn’t want a shower or a bath right now; and again, yes, he’s okay; yes, he’s sure he’s alright.
You hum softly as you trace your own patterns on his face, following his angular bone structure and tapping over the light freckles splashed across his skin. Slowly, he cracks his eyes open, and you feel summer sun warmth fissure through your heart when he grins the laziest, most satisfied smile up at you.
“So good for me, pretty baby. You did so good, König, I’m so proud of you.”
When you do finally manage to disentangle yourself and stand, you stay close at first – murmuring praise and working your hands over his aching muscles. You aren’t going to press him to take a shower, so you tell him where you’re going before you walk to the bathroom and fill a small basin with warm water. Returning to his side with the basin and a few washcloths, you set to cleaning him up.
He stays still and allows you to move his limbs this way and that, removing the sweat and cum from his skin. His breathing turns ragged and he whines when you run the washcloth over his cock. You frown silently, you’d picked the softest one in an attempt to avoid aggravating his hypersensitivity.
“It’s okay, sweetheart, I just have to get you clean, alright? Just a few more seconds, you’re doing so well, König. Thank you for letting me clean you up. My beautiful darling, always so good for me.”
You finish cleaning between his legs as quickly as possible, rambling praise as he digs his fingers into your forearms and whimpers. You press a kiss to his flushed cheek and bump your foreheads together while you swipe the washcloth once more over his thighs and torso.
You coax him into sitting up against the headboard, wrapping a fluffy blanket around his shoulders for good measure. He remains on the bed, feeling like all his bones are sloshing around, as you dart out of your room. You wring out the cloths and spread them out over the washing machine, they’ll just get tossed in with the next batch of laundry.
Next is the kitchen, where you fill the biggest glass you can find with water and a straw. You toss a mix of strawberries and blueberries into a bowl, snag a bar of dark chocolate out of the pantry, and tuck two electrolyte packets into your pocket.
You hurry back to your room and deposit the bowl and chocolate on the bedside table.
“Orange or uh,” you fish the electrolyte packets from your pocket and squint at the labels, “Orange or watermelon.”
He makes a grumbling noise you recognize as his standard ‘I don’t want to think, you pick’ communication.
“Watermelon it is then.”
König wraps a hand around your thigh while you mix the electrolyte powder into the water with the straw, squeezing with his fingers in a way that vividly reminds you of a cat. You tap the glass against the back of his hand and suppress a bout of giggles when he takes it and drains about half of it in one go. Grabbing your own water bottle from the nightstand, you pass him a handful of berries. He eats them one at a time before looking up and shoving his now half-handful toward you.
“No thank you, baby,” you push his hand away and pluck a few berries out of the bowl, “I’ll have some of these, okay?”
He nods, apparently satisfied, and continues eating. You pass him snapped-off chunks of chocolate as you both empty the bowl and finish your drinks. He gives every other piece back to you and you smile as the bitter chocolate melts on your tongue.
“Thank you,” he speaks, words only a little wobbly, as you’re setting the dishes aside, “I told you.”
“Told me what?” You raise a brow at him and pull the covers up to his waist as he sinks back down into the bed.
“You always take care of me. Make me feel so… so good.” He reaches out again and gently tugs you closer to the bedside, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, baby. Thank you for your trust.”
You lean down and kiss him slow and sweet, tinged with the taste of fruit and chocolate, before taking off your boots and wiggling out of your clothes. He grabs at you impatiently the whole time and groans, exaggeratedly aggrieved, when you step away to pull on one of his hoodies. The fabric swallows you up and he grins as you turn the lights off and walk back to the bed.
You settle in next to him, curled against his side and listening to his heartbeat. He wraps his arms around you, tucking your head beneath his chin, as he runs his hand over your hair. You let the rhythm of it lull you towards sleep as you trace along his jagged scars.
“I love you.” You whisper, sudden tears glossing your eyes.
“I love you too, Mein Liebling.”
He holds you more securely against him and kisses the top of your head. You squirm for a few seconds – pressing yourself into the warmth of his skin and twining your legs with his. The hand on your hair slows until he’s cradling the base of your skull, just his thumb sweeping back and forth on your hair.
You both go still, bit by bit, feeling as if you’re blurring together under the covers. You feel his breathing even out, the rise and fall of his chest a subtle, consistent motion under your head. A lethargic, pleased grin stretches out on your mouth; it usually takes him forever to fall asleep.
The beginning of a rainstorm starts its pattering song against your windows as you slip into blissful oblivion.
Happy holidays centaur idk if you celebrate but hope you have a good day!!
Anon. Anon, I am tenderly holding your face and giving you about a thousand forehead kisses right now. Anon, I love you. I don't have the words to convey how much this made my day. I hope you had a fantastic holiday season and I wish you the very best for the new year, congratulations on completing another trip around the sun! <3<3<3<3<3
If I wasn’t clear in my last set of sfw headcannons, I interpret König as having ADHD and Social Anxiety Disorder. I’m going to get into some diagnostic criteria and give some of my headcannons for how they appear for König specifically, and some blurbs throughout because I never learned how to stop talking.
Social Anxiety Disorder (Social Phobia):
Anxiety surrounding social situations in which there is the potential for scrutinization. I think König’s anxiety would be particularly focused around interactions (conversations, meeting new people, etc) and being observed.
- He isn’t comfortable with crowds, the dislike of being surrounded by people is intensified by the tinge of constant situational worry that comes with being a soldier.
-- If you take busy public transport, where there’s people packed into a bus or a subway car, he’ll sit bouncing his leg and playing with your hands. If you’re standing, he’ll be right behind you with one arm around your waist keeping you close against his chest; if it’s a particularly bad day he’ll hunch himself over to bury his face in the crook of your neck, breathing in the smell of you and trying to ignore everyone else.
- Even in more regular social situations he’s got this habit of coming up behind you and resting his chin or cheek on your head. You’re used to it, often grabbing his hand and putting it on your waist, but the reactions from whoever you’re talking with range from befuddlement to discomfort, to outright terror at this massive dude just lingering directly behind you.
- He does not like having his picture taken, especially when he isn’t aware that the picture taking is happening. He will get upset if anyone refuses to delete photos they took without his knowledge and permission.
-- He does, however, usually let you take polaroid with him – they develop soft enough that his worries about the photo being horrible are eased, plus he finds he’s fond of the way you’ve got them tucked around the house. Once you took a polaroid of him that he clearly didn’t like, he wasn’t really saying anything about it but you could tell, and you fucking lit it on fire – you went and got a zippo and burnt the fucking thing. He was oddly touched by your wiliness to commit a small act of arson purely for his comfort.
- I also think he’d not particularly like eating in front of others – as a result of his anxiety he thinks people watch and judge him more than they do, and there’s too many opportunities for something to go wrong, so the threat of that embarrassment causes him to take most of his meals alone.
-- The knock at his door is soft and measured, three knocks just loud enough to catch his attention but not startle him. He knows, really, before even opening the door, that it’s you. He wants to see you, he really does, but the thought of it kicks his heart rate up and he feels the urge to fidget with his hands or the edge of his shirt as he takes the few steps needed to reach the door. You’re standing there, holding two full meal trays, flashing a bright smile up at him as you explain that you noticed he’d left the mess hall without eating. You ask to come in and he wordlessly steps to the side, hesitating just slightly as he contemplates if he should ask you to leave – he reasons with himself that he’s confident if he did ask you to go, you would, and that’s reassurance enough to have you stay – before shutting the door behind you and praying he won’t do anything humiliating. You chatter about how you weren’t entirely sure what to grab him, setting his tray on his desk, and sitting cross-legged on the floor with yours balanced across your knees. It twists something unfamiliar in his guts when he looks at his tray and realizes it’s a fairly accurate representation of what he would have gotten himself. He thanks you, the murmur of his voice barely audible. Then, the battered slice of cake catches his eye. The sweets they serve on base aren’t ever particularly good, but it’s chocolate and, fuck, he loves chocolate. Usually these slices, provided to the base kitchens already in a small plastic container, are hard to get and it’s even rarer for someone to make it out of the mess hall without being forced to give it up on some grounds of hoarding. The way there’s frosting smeared on the inside of the container suggests you underwent that trial. You must notice him looking at it for longer than anything else and you immediately grin, devious and triumphant, and regale him with the tale of how you managed to sneak the cake out, all because you offhandedly remembered he’d mentioned once about liking chocolate. You even apologize for the dubious quality of it, and he thinks he could cry. The story gives him time to settle across from you with his own tray largely free of intensive notice. By the time you’ve shifted to discussing a different topic with him – giving his responses a genuine attentive regard that makes it difficult for his anxiety to think you’re secretly judging him – he swears if you ripped out his heart right at that moment, you’d find your name written all over it. It just… becomes a Thing™ to meet up like this for meals, in his room or yours. You always seem to know when to talk, when to turn your head away from him, when to let him think you don’t notice his fretting, and when to either coax him into conversation or sit in easy silence. He panics less about it. He finds himself becoming more and more comfortable with you – fond of the peculiar way you habitually gesture with your fork, how you’re always willing to split things in half to share, how you inexplicably manage to scrounge up hot drinks during the cold months – and he's surprisingly glad to have your company.
- An individual with social anxiety can be fearful of acting in a way that shows anxiety symptoms that will be seen negatively.
-- I think König would be worried most about being the reason people reject his company or take offense to his presence. He, at his core, wants people to like him, no matter how much he buries it. He has a hard time knowing whether or not you’re joking if you ever pretend to be disapproving or mad – his fear of driving you away, of you viewing him negatively, totally wipes away his ability to detect when you’re being sarcastic or playful. I think once you two are close he’d look to you in public settings for indications on when other people are kidding around or not – he trusts your evaluation of tone and social context far more than his own.
-- I also headcannon that one of the rare times he isn’t worried like this is when he’s really, really tired. When he’s exhausted, he’ll flop next to you, lean his weight on you, and laugh when you struggle to hold him up. This is when he’ll be the most blatantly transparent. You often feel like you should excuse yourself as soon as possible when this happens, but sometimes it’s on missions when he’s falling asleep while you keep watch and you can’t go anywhere; or at base when he’ll grab your wrist and ask you to stay, and how could you say no to him? All you can do is try to mitigate whatever comes out of his mouth, so he doesn’t reveal too much when he’s barely lucid. When he’s out of his mind tired is when he’ll look at you, starry-eyed and with no attempt to school his expressions into something less embarrassing, and whisper how beautiful and kind and perfect you are. He rarely ever remembers doing it – in his memories the comfort of your presence slots in seamlessly with the relief of collapsing on his bed for the first time in two days.
---- I think the same thing would happen if he’s ever on hella painkillers. He’s awake but definitely not all the way in his own brain so he’s just babbling about how wonderful you are. He’s just… narrating his thoughts. You’re the medic with him throughout the helicopter evac when he’s covered in more injuries than God should allow? You’re getting more of an honest confession of his feelings than the situation calls for. You’re the doctor moderating his recovery from a nasty concussion? Holy shit you’re going to hear about how you personally make the stars shine. Your whole medical team will know how he feels about you before he ever knowingly confesses.
- Avoidance of anxiety inducing situations.
-- I love him, but König has a frustrating habit of avoiding or retreating from you when his anxiety spikes. He needs a lot of reassurance that you don’t think of him the way his anxiety tells him you do.
- I also think, as a comorbid symptom, he suffers from a bit of body dysmorphic disorder regarding his height/size and his accumulated scars – he perceives these things, respectively, as defects and flaws due to the way they’ve only ever drawn attention to him in situations where he’d rather everyone not even notice his existence.
-- His heart is going to explode. It’s going to explode and shred through his lungs. Is that medically possible? He feels like it is. It has to be. Because this is the first time you’ve seen him in a short sleeve shirt and you’ve got your hands on his arms and you’re currently looking at the jagged silvery scar that curls across his bicep and- and fuck, he needs to remember to breathe. He offers the stories behind each scar you ask about nearly entirely on autopilot. Can you feel his pulse? He’s scared of what you think, even as you hum and trace your fingertips carefully over each flaw on his skin. He’s marred, he knows it, and he makes a desperate attempt at casualness with some quiet self-deprecating joke about how the scars are ugly, but they couldn’t really make the rest of him worse than it already was. He misses the mark by a fucking mile, apparently, because your hands go tight around as much of his forearm as you can manage to wrap your fingers around and you're staring directly into his eyes with the intensity of the goddamned sun. He wishes he could throw himself into the sun right about now. But he’s listening, mostly, when you tell him that he’s handsome and well-built and nothing even has the possibility of changing that, not to you. That you like his scars, the proof that he’s endured, and you wouldn’t change a single thing about him. He’s listening, mostly, he swears, but he’s also super fucking concerned about how his heart has definitely just exploded and every other organ in its vicinity is splattered across the inside his ribcage. He can’t function like this, for god’s sake, can’t do much more than offer a jerky nod and let you resume your exploration of his arms, littered with grumbling comments about how you can’t believe he doesn’t think he’s good-looking, has he looked in a mirror recently, is he fucking blind.
---- Bonus points if this somehow takes place before you’ve ever seen him without the sniper’s hood on; so he counters that you can’t possibly know if he isn’t hideous and you cut him off telling him he’s beautiful, and he’s like you’ve never even seen my face, and you tell him you know it’s pretty because it’s him and because it’s him it’s pretty, it has to be, regardless of anything, because he’s inherently pretty, and he just… has to blush about it for several business days.
ADHD
We all know about how our boy couldn’t be a sniper because he was 1.) too fucking big and, more to my point, 2.) couldn’t stay still. König has ADHD, argue with the wall.
- The inattentive criteria I think he specifically meets are difficulty organizing tasks, avoiding activities that require sustained mental focus, often losing things necessary for tasks, easily distracted by extraneous stimuli and that his mind seems to be elsewhere even in the absence of any obvious distraction, and he tends to be forgetful regarding daily activities.
-- I think for work stuff he’s got a whole mess of systems to help keep himself on task and completing everything he’s supposed to be doing – sticky notes in improbable places, a seemingly nonsensical ways of going about starting things, using things like the amount of time it takes someone else in the barracks common room to reload their clips as a timer for how long he has to do something of his own, etc etc. He'll drag his desk three feet to the left just so he'll notice it in the morning and remember something. I think he very often writes things on his actual self with permanent marker, usually on his hand or forearm, if he’s really got to remember to do something. He might even have a more regular system for that, like a dot on his index finger means he has one important task to remember.
-- He fucking hates paperwork. It’s boring as hell and his brain never wants to do it. Very much “but I know who’s saying I have to get this done; it’s me, and I know I’m full of shit” vibes. Deadlines aren’t real until they’re tomorrow. He bribes himself with sweets or something he actually enjoys for every few pages he gets through – if you see him buying a pack of multitudinous candy from the vending machine, he’s likely got a stack of reports to do.
-- It seems like he’s got a staring problem, and most people are super intimidated by it, but he’s usually just spaced the fuck out. You’ve got this odd habit of crossing your eyes at him whenever you catch his gaze and he sort of refocuses; he doesn’t quite know why you do it, maybe just to communicate to him that you notice, but he finds it endearing.
- Hyperactivity and impulsivity – fidgeting, uncomfortable with being still for extended periods of time, excessive talking, an inability to wait for his “turn” in conversations or blurts out answers before the question is fully asked, difficulty remaining seated, and general restlessness.
-- Fidgeting. Don’t… don’t ask me to explain this, and it might not be everyone’s cup of tea… but… I think maybe, maybe, he’s got a lip ring or tongue piercing that he fiddles with. It’s a secret from his superiors, obviously, because that’s definitely not military protocol compliant, but I think with how often he’s got his hood on it wouldn’t be awfully hard to hide. I’m fixated on imagining him with one silver lip ring or a tongue stud, someone please explain to me why. Anyhow, I’ve mentioned before that he will fidget with your hands, but I also think he’s prone to messing with whatever’s near – whether that be a pen or a weapon or some part of his gear or clothes; he has a habit, of dubious safeness, of spinning a butterfly knife around and has more than a few small scars from where he’s accidentally nicked himself.
-- He’s prone to squirming if he has to sit somewhere for a while, especially if there’s not much for him to pay attention to. He ends up sitting super crooked most of the time.
-- I think he uses running or otherwise working out to burn off some of his energy, especially when he’s particularly restless and when he’s on base. He hates feeling stuck in the small room he’s assigned to sleep in, and there’s something satisfying and grounding about the ache in his muscles and the way he has to concentrate on his breathing.
-- When he’s comfortable with you, which absolutely took an ungodly long time, he will go on tangents and simply not shut up until he starts worrying that he’s annoying you. If you ask him about whatever his recent fixation is, he’ll be over the moon about it. Good luck getting anyone else to believe he can talk that much though, the most they’ve heard him talk is over comms in the field and that’s nothing compared to what you’re privy to. He always apologizes when he interrupts you, no matter how often you tell him you understand and that it’s alright.
Other prattling unrelated to me thinking way too much about psychology:
- Loves that you make the effort to learn how to pronounce his name correctly. When he’d first told you his name you said it back to him, asking if you had it right. He usually would just tell people they had it fine to avoid the awkward back and forth of trying to get them to say it right, but something about the way you looked at him made him actually give you the slight correction you needed. Then – and this is one of his endless fond memories of you – you sort of looked off into the middle distance, staring unfocused at his chest, and said his name softly over and over again with entirely correct pronunciation before giving a short nod to yourself, looked back up at him and continuing the introduction.
-- He’s watched you correct other people on their pronunciations, casually but like it was absolutely necessary that everyone else say it properly, and it never fails to warm his heart.
- Very rarely gets drunk but when he does, he’s the type of drunk to call you and tell you how amazing you are. Shit, he’ll tell anyone about you. Much like how he’s quietly honest when tired, but his drunk honest is louder and more social. Tells his teammates or friends how beautiful and clever you are, tells the bartended how much he loves you, tells the people next to him how smart and lovely you are, tells the closest table how you make him so happy. Someone tries to flirt with him, they tell him it doesn’t matter that he has a partner, and said person is now trapped in a lecture about exactly how much you matter to him, complete with photos.
-- If you end up coming to get him, nearly the entire place will say hello to you because he hasn’t shut up about you for the past hour. He lights up when he sees you, holding your arms and swaying slightly as he stares down at you with the biggest smile on his face, mumbling about “See? Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you how wonderful they are? See? Look. Look at you, so perfect. I love you; you know that? So much.”
- Loves when you steal his clothes. Cannot get enough of how you look wearing his shirts.
- I will accept criticism and differing opinions on nearly anything, but I am adamant that König has the sluttiest little waist. I think he was lanky before he started gaining serious muscle in the military, and now he’s a little more bulky but still has that litheness about him so his proportions just give him a slutty little waist. I don’t make the rules, he’s just built like that.
- I think, to an extent, he knows how to sew. Nothing fancy, and his stitches aren’t even or perfect by any means, but he knows how to mend worn patches and tears well enough. Hates threading needles. But if he notices you’ve got a tear in your coat or something of the sort, you’ll just find it fixed the next day. Left exactly where it was but mended. Like a house brownie. The only way you’ll figure out it’s him is if you catch him doing it.
- I know this lovely couple, both from a country outside where they currently live, and every time the husband travels back to their home country he’ll pack all his clothes and whatnot in a suitcase and then pack that suitcase within another suitcase. He does this so he can fill the extra suitcase with all the food and things his wife wants from their home country and take her back essentially a giant package of all the stuff she misses and can’t get in the country they live in. Long story short, if you’re not yet going home with him, König absolutely would bring you anything you wanted from Austria, even if he has to bring a whole extra bag.
- I don’t think he’d carry any sort of photograph of you with him during work or on missions. If there’s a chance of anyone getting their hands on the photo, of learning that you’re important to him, of hurting you or using you to gain leverage over him, he will not have anything on his person to even indicates that you exist. I think he’d love the idea of it, the romantic sentiment of having a polaroid of you tucked in a pocket over his heart, but he just isn’t willing to take that chance. On leave though, at home, he treasures every little sign that you’re around and involved in his life – from photos to the notes left on the kitchen counter, the way you kick off your shoes by the door, the hickeys and scratches that make it look like he got mauled by a fucking tiger, how you always text and ask if he wants anything while you’re out, and even just the fact that he knows at the end of the day he gets to crawl into bed and fall asleep with you next to him.
- Piggyback rides. You can jump up on this man whenever and he will go on about whatever he was doing as if nothing’s happening.
- If he’s drinking anything hot – it might be in a coffee cup, but don’t be fooled – it’s hot chocolate. He makes the real kind at home, with real chocolate and cream on the stove.
Quick question, are you planning on writing more cod(cough cough konig) ?
Besides that, thank you for the delicious content of Konig and Ghost that you've graciously served us on a silver platter. I am forever grateful.
Hi anon!
Yes, I absolutely plan on writing more, I apologize for the nonexistent schedule by which I operate. I just posted some stuff and I have some other stuff in the works – I am nearly positive I'll have a smut thing to post sometime tomorrow – and I promise I’ll always give you my nattering I have as soon as I have it adequately finished.
Thank you so much for reading, I’ll keep the platter polished for you <3<3<3
just wanted to pop in and say that your writing is incredible!! you characterize the babygirls so well its insane <33
also please think about könig during Grey Sweatpant Season <3
“the babygirls” anon I’m fucking cracking up, it sounds like they’re a sultry duet band
Thank you thank you thank you, endless thanks, I’m still astounded people are enjoying the bullshit I’ve written, thank youuuu, I’m cherishing you in my heart forever <3. I hope you like this!
I’m a huge supporter of Grey Sweatpants Season. My two favorite pairs of sweatpants are grey and stolen, through non-explicit means, from guys. So cozy. But, fuck, König in grey sweatpants? I had to sit and stare at this ask for about five minutes because I was blue screening.
- I don’t think he’d wear sweatpants out in public, he usually has jeans or some other kind of more sturdy pants on (he values having several pockets on his tactical pants, he’d absolutely understand the joy of discovering a dress has pockets). Around the house though, on nice lazy days, he’ll wear them.
- I also think sweatpants and a loose, probably black, t-shirt is what he wears to sleep while he’s in a safe environment (ie. home, with you).
- Okay, now, let’s get one thing established: König, for all his lovely shyness, is incapable of not wearing sweatpants like an absolute whore. It’s not even on purpose and you can’t decide if that makes it more or less frustrating. He just always ends up with them slung precariously low and just sorta crooked across the jut of his hipbones. It’s offensive really, how good he looks. Especially when you happen to wake up before him and he’ll amble blearily into the kitchen, fluffy bedhead, his t-shirt rucking up when he stretches, still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, smiling lazily when he sees you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
- I think at home he’ll pad around barefoot most of the time, quiet as a goddamned cat, but when it’s particularly cold he’ll put socks on. He tucks the bottom of his sweatpants into the socks – like Matt Murdock in that one eps of Daredevil – and it looks lumpy and ridiculous and utterly adorable.
- The first time he sees you in a pair of his sweatpants that you stole from him he walks directly into a table. You’ve got the legs cuffed a few times so you can actually move around and you’re. You’re wearing his clothes. It sparks something possessive in his chest that persists even while he stammers through explaining that he’s fine, just accidentally ran into something, don’t worry. He’ll conveniently leave items of his clothing around for you to pick up and wear, never mentioning how much it affects him. You’d definitely figure it out the first time you wear something of his out in public and he cannot keep his fucking hands off you, more so than usual.
- I know we’re all wondering about his dick, okay, I get it. It’s… very obviously there. Even when he’s not hard. It's just. There. Big. Outlined in the grey fabric. Like a taunt. And you promise you’re looking respectfully. Nothing but respectful. I think once he figures it out he’d be a bit smug about it because, I mean you’re complementing his dick for one, but also because sweatpants aren’t an inherently alluring article of clothing and you’re still leveling him with that heated stare that makes it a bit difficult to breathe.
- I think he’d go a bit screwy in the head if you ever grabbed him by the waistband and pulled him towards you. In sweatpants I think you’d have to get the whole waistband to pull but. Tug him by the beltloops or jolt him off in some direction by his actual belt. The man is going to follow you anywhere.
- Would you like to see this man lose all his braincells at once? Yes? You didn’t plan it, you swear, it just ended up happening. Maybe you were just insatiable horny one day and that’s why you slithered into his lap while he was relaxing on the couch. Maybe he was feeling sufficiently mean that day and that’s why he just let you settle over him, one knee on either side of his leg, pawing at his chest. Why he just smirked and watched you with hawkish eyes when you started whining about needing him. Why he just grabbed your hips, pulled you down against his thigh, and told you if you were really that desperate you could entertain yourself for a while. He feigned disinterest for longer than you thought he’d be able to, if you’re being honest, resting his hands on your hips but not doing anything to help you move. Pretending his attention was held by something other than the way you were writhing in his lap, rocking against his him. The most he would do was flex the corded muscle of his thigh, forcing more pressured friction against you, and very nearly laugh at the way your movements would stutter and you’d moan about it. When he finally acquiesced and began to move like he was going to pick you up and carry you to your bed, that’s when he saw it. It’s fucking noticeable. The wet patch on his leg. Dark against the grey fabric. It’s wet and warm and soaked through his fucking pants. And you still have your underwear on. Which means. Which means you’re worked up enough, desperate enough for him, just from griding against his thigh, that you’ve leaked and soaked through both your underwear and his sweatpants. He’s frozen, just staring, for a few breaths, long enough for you to feel heat creep into your cheeks and start to make an apology, and then he’s snapping into motion, grabbing you around the waist and all but throwing you down against the couch. Shoving your shoulders back when you try to sit up, plastering himself over you, and kissing you so hard it nearly hurts your jaw. (Also, along the same vein of things, if you got him to cum in his pants there’d be an equally obvious stain, he’d just be fucking mortified about that one).
- I think, for as much as you go feral over him in sweatpants, he’d also equally love the soft lazy days you two have together. Where you’re both removed enough from the chaos of work to relax and wear comfy clothes that aren’t meant to store weapons and supplies and offer some protection against bullets. When everything is warm and clean, and he can just hold you. Curl up with you and take comfort in your steady breathing and the way your ribs occasionally shake from laughing at whatever silly movie you’re watching. The way he can hear the quiet shuffle of your fluffy socks when you trail after him on the way to grab snacks from the pantry. I think he’d really enjoy just the fact that he can be yours in this environment too, that you trust him not only to watch your back in the field, but also enough to be lethargic and vulnerable and still with him.
You’re right, desperate anon, this is a matter of upmost importance. Of course I will, thank you for the ask!
- This man isn’t going to know what the hell to do with himself. König getting a crush has about the same disruption to his daily function as getting a legit brain disease.
- God fucking forbid you start flirting with him. Somehow you also having a crush on him would make him so much worse at handling his. He’s like a deer in headlights and someone may actually have to smack him on the back of the head to recalibrate him.
- He’s not used to having a crush, okay? He very rarely gets close enough to people to get attached, let alone for them to get wedged somewhere irremovable next to his heart.
- I feel like he wouldn’t really notice he’s got a crush formulating until its way too late to even try not to fall for you. He just sort of absently recognizes that he actually enjoys being around you – as opposed to most everyone else he knows – and there’s so many things about you that are interesting, and you’re kind and helpful and you can startle a laugh out of him so easily and oh shit, oh fuck, he has a crush????
- Once he does realize, he goes straight into panic mode about it. Do you know? Can anyone tell? He feels like everyone can tell how his face heats up under your attention, even when he has his hood on. Everyone has to know, God what if you’re just being polite by not telling him to get lost? There’s no way someone like you would even consider returning his affection. His anxiety flares up hard and he’s going to convince himself over and over again that you actually hate him and a thousand other equally unrealistic things. He’s absolutely horrified you’ll reject him, and he doesn’t want to make you uncomfortable so he just… doesn’t do a damned thing about his crush.
- That’s the other struggle of it too – this man falls hard. The amount of time it takes him to recognize his own feelings pretty much ensures that they’ve been long-lasting and real enough to mean he really, really likes you. He likes you, alright? He likes you. Even just thinking the stronger word is terrifying.
- So, in all this mess of nerves and self-doubt, König pulls away from you. He backs up, retreats on all fronts. If he isn’t around you, if you never find out how he feels, then this whole situation, the fluttering bird trapped in his chest, can’t hurt him, right? Right? He talks to you less; he spends less time with you. You’ve got to talk to him or otherwise confront him about it to snap him out of it. He’s still out of his mind worried and hyperaware of every single thing he does, but if you say you don’t want him to distance himself? If you’re upset that he has? He’s too devoted, and perhaps too selfish, to deny you.
- Speaking of, this man has Gomez Addams levels of devotion and admiration. He’ll do anything for you, and most of the time you don’t even have to ask. He’s bashful and mostly silent about it but his crush seeps through the gaps behind each favor, every insistence at being helpful, every kind gesture, every small gift given.
- Everything reminds him of you. Or maybe it’s just that he’s always thinking of you. Who’s to say. But he does, you’re on his mind nearly all the time. He doesn’t want to say he’s obsessive, but he’s definitely excited each time he learns something new about you.
- I think he’d really value your opinions. He loves knowing what you think of everything, and he treasures being someone you trust with your honest thoughts. I think he’d really be affected by noticing he can tell when you’re shaping your presence to deal with someone. Like your polite “I need you to clear these papers before our next mission” way of interacting with personnel on base. His heart aches for a bit when he’s startled at hearing you swap into your “costumer service voice” when you take a phone call. He isn’t as social as you, and he’s definitely not as socially graceful as you, so he doesn’t have many demeanors to swap into. But you do; you’ve got various outward ways of acting and speaking for dealing with situations in the way that gets you, and often your team as well, the most favorable result. He admires your ability to navigate being sociable like that. But right now… he knows, he can hear, how the voice you use with him is yours. You speak with him as yourself, wholly and entirely you. He can’t figure out what it is about it, but he holds the realization tight against his heart. Also, on a more trivial level, I think if you guys were out shopping for civvie clothes he’d definitely get something for himself purely because you said it looked good.
- Does he have family? Is he close with his family? I don’t fucking know, I’ve never played these games, sue me. But in my head, he grew up on a farm and he’s got fairly good relationships with his relatives. Sure, they bicker pointlessly sometimes, but they’re there for each other always. I think his family would be that specific kind of rural kind and willingly helpful vibe. The types where no matter what they’ll be like “oh I haven’t seen you in so long, it’s so lovely to see you, you’re too skinny! König haven’t you been feeding them? Skin and bones, you are, I can’t believe my son/brother/grandson/nephew/etc isn’t feeding you. I thought we rasied him better. Come, sit, I’ll make you schnitzel.” Anyhow, I think he’d start thinking about if you’d like his family way before he ever says anything about meeting them. Again, idfk, but in my head he’s really close with his grandma specifically, and it would mean the world to him if she approved of you and if you liked her. He knows she’ll like you though because he’s definitely told her about you when he’s been home on leave and then she bugs him all the time to bring you home and he’s like “Oma please, I’ve only just started dating them” and she just harumphs and grumbles about it.
-- Also, it literally does not matter how trained or involved in the military you are, you’re getting the shovel talk from several siblings and cousins. They’re very familiar with König’s anxiety and they know how much he likes you, which means they’re aware of how much damaging potential you have. They just want to make it known that they have access to a plethora of spots where no one will ever find your body; or, if they feel like being particularly thorough, a drove of pigs who will eat you, marrow and all.
I hope you see this and enjoy anon, I wish I could tag you directly. Thank you again for sending me an ask! <3
no I just read your analysis in König's hands and I cannot possibly understand if someone can have hands like that, I EVEN GOT MY TAPE MEASURE OUT AND IT SCARED ME
basically, I'm 4'11 and my hands are small, like barely 5", my phone has the same height and it's too big for me to use with one hand only and I still can't comprehend how is that possible. It doesn't make sense (I mean that's the fun part of it but damn, sometimes I forget how much of an oompa loompa I am)
anyways thank you for your writing! it's absolutely amazing, sorry if something doesn't make sense, English is my second language. Take care, love you!
@boingboingboom NO BECAUSE I WAS LITERALLY SITTING THERE WITH MY STYLUS AND TAPE MEASURE GOING “what the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck”
That’s why I did three different photos, each with their own reference and scale, so I’d be able to get a collective average, but he just kept being huge. He’s fucking huge.
We know there tends to be a positive correlation between height and the size of someone’s hands — the taller someone is, the more likely they are to have bigger hands.You’re 59 inches tall with nearly 5-inch hands. I’m 68 inches with 7-inch hands. I’m 9 inches taller than you and my hands are 2 inches longer. Our dearest König is 82 inches with, presumably, 10-inch hands. So, he’d be 14 inches taller than me and his hands would be 3 inches longer. He’d be 23 inches taller than you with a nearly double hand length. That is fucking terrifying, but it does make some proportional sense.
I was poking around in NBA height/hand size listings because I was like “hey that’s a bunch of absurdly tall people with publicly listed hand measurements” and it does line up that people around Königs height have about 9.5/10-inch hand lengths.
I don’t know anything about basketball so don’t ask me who these people are, I was just looking at their measurements, but for example:
Greg Smith is 6’10” with a hand length of 9.8 inches, he’s our boys height and literally 0.2 inches away from my wonky estimate.
Connie Hawkins, at 6’8”, was 2 inches shorter than König with a hand length of 10.5 inches
Kawhi Leonard, at 6’7”, is a whole 3 inches shorter than König with a hand length of 9.75 inches
The bit about your phone is so funny because I found out there’s this dude (Boban Marjanovic) who’s 7’4” and uses an iPad as a phone. A fucking iPad. Human genetics are so fucking weird, I swear.
There are people as tall as König irl — there’s even people taller than him — they’re just way above the average. I’m fairly tall for a female born person but like, one of my friends is 7 inches taller than me so I forget that I’m “tall” until my other friend reminds me that I’m 6 inches taller than her. I think you’re short, but König would think we’re both short lol.
But yeah, I’ve been freaking out about how big König is since I did those measurements, like holy fuck.
You’re welcome, thank you for reading! Absolutely do not apologize for being bilingual, that’s an amazing skill, and everything made perfect sense. Love you too!
omg I swear I’m living for your könig headcanons, you absolutely killed me with the hand size comparison, I’m only 5’2 (1.58) so he’s an absolute GIANT compared to me I just can’t wait to read more of him on your blog because I AM IN LOVEEEE 🤩✨💕🙏🏻💕
Okay, but for real, what is he so big for? What are they feeding him?
YOU GUYS IN MY ASKS ARE SO TINY OMGGG, I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH AND I ALSO WANT TO CARRY YOU AROUND ON MY BACK
Little cuties. I cannot fathom how tall 6’10” is for you, jesus fucking christ, you wouldn’t even come up to his shoulders.
I’m indescribably happy you like my interpretation of König, I’ve really been enjoying writing him but the fact that you love him too just makes my fuckin’ day. I’m plugging away at writing more König content for you, I promise <3<3<3
I just want to say I'm deeply enjoying your writing a lot and hope you continue writing even if it's outside of mw2. Also Your writing has inspired me to write more for ghost and König because I love your depections of them they're soo great and they match up to what I think they'd be like -🐺 anon
(Ps I hope you don't mind me branding myself as wolf anon I'll probably be on your blog a lot so I wanted to distinguish myself lol)
Hello, Wolf Anon!
I’m so happy you’re enjoying my writing!
I’ve involved myself with an ungodly number of fandoms over the years, and I always have story ideas, but I’m a little too scattered and indecisive with my ideas to have ever written a full-fledged fanfic. As a result, I never felt like I had anything complete enough to post.
When I scribbled down "Hallowed by your Hands" – I literaly wrote it on actual paper – I guess I just decided fuck it, I’ll start writing out my little nonsense thoughts and partial scenes. Posting them on here is to give myself an organized timeline and to have a way to help me differentiate between ideas I’ve already gone batshit over and things I could still work on spinning.
I never expected that so many people would read my posts. And that people actually like them?? Inconceivable. Astonishing. Fucking wild.
Maybe I will end up writing outside of MW2, but right now these big lethal masked men have me in a chokehold, König especially. The babygirlification of Call of Duty is healing my soul and watering my crops; badass and babygirl can coexist within one person and I’m here to prove it. Dualism, right? I'm practically a philosopher.
Hearing that I’ve inspired you to write puts a big stupid smile on my face, I’m literally over the moon thinking my babbling resonated with you enough to inspire you to write. Incredible.
And lastly, I absolutely do not mind that you’ve distinguished yourself. I’d honestly prefer to know when I’m writing to someone I’ve conversed with before, and I certainly hope to be seeing you again!
Thank you again so very much; I hope you have abundant ideas and easy flowing words for your own writing.
HII !! I live for your König writing, it makes my unhealthy obsession grow so much more 😻 May I have some headcanons about the reader and König comparing hands since König is a cute big boy 😇
THANK YOU, I LOVE YOU
Oh, holy fuck, yes you may. Thank you for asking so politely, dearest.
I fucking love hands, idk if that’s been made clear or not but. Yeah. Hands.
Lovely anon, unbeknownst to you, you've been enabling my own unhealthy obsession. We make a great team, no?
Your ask spurred me to do some slutty research and horny math, which I’m happy to explain the process of if anyone would like to check my work. Basically, I just figured out a size scale using different objects I could find dimensions to – weapons schematics were particularly useful, even though I had to puzzle out what irl gun the COD ones are meant to be – and used a corresponding grid to take measurements. I thought it was funny to find out that his smoke grenades are U.S. army ones; but now I have an unchecked theory that it’s because the M18 smoke grenades were used in WW2, so they might’ve already had a rendering of the canister from the WW2 COD game?
Anyhow! I ended up with this rough estimate for about how big König’s hands are, according to images I sourced from screencaps or snagged online. I sort of muddled my various references together and gave some grace room because I figured he isn’t rendered(?) exactly the same each time. It’s super messy and could totally be off, but here’s this:
Please note that I have no idea how to actually draw hands, I just spent ages brutalizing references.
Nevertheless, I ended up with my general König hand size reference sheet??
Wrist to tip of middle finger: 10” (25.4cm)
Tip of index finger to first knuckle: about 5” (12.7cm)
Width of index finger: 1” (2.54cm)
First knuckle to wrist: about 5” (12.7cm)
Width of wrist: about 3.3” (8.38cm)
Length of palm: 5” (12.7cm)
Width of palm: 4” (10.16cm)
Tip of thumb to first knuckle: about 3.5” (8.89cm)
They’re fucking huge. I urge you to get a tape measure and really look at this shit because it’s so much bigger than you’re imagining. I’m rationalizing it as possible because I’m 5’8” (172.72cm) and my palm is 4”x3” (10.16cm x 7.62cm) and my whole hand length is 7” (17.78cm). I’m going with that he’s 6’10” (208.28cm) tall like I see everywhere so??? He’d have more than a whole foot (30.48cm) on me so sure his hands could be 3” (7.62cm) longer than mine. I’ve got tall af family members and they have big hands so I’m like sure?? This tracks somehow?? This is biologically possible??? Y’all give me your height and hand measurements, I’m curious.
The headcannon I had before I did all the aforementioned fuckery was this: I think he’s got lanky hands – not necessarily delicate, and not spindly by any means – but his fingers are long. His hands are broad as hell, but he’s also got slightly rectangular palms, and paired with his fingers it gives his hands an almost elegant look. So, as it turned out, THE FUCKING MESURING/MATH BULLSHIT I DID ACTUALLY SUPPORTS MY LONG HAND AGENDA ASKDJFHSKA.
Ahem, moving on, he’s got so many calluses and rough patches under those gloves; scars everywhere, especially on his knuckles, and nicks littering his fingers. The tendons and veins stand out on the pack of his hands. I think he’s broken at least one or two fingers before, so he’s got some crookedness going on. I headcannon him as being ambidextrous at most things but primarily writes with his left hand. I also think he holds a pencil like a fucking freak, so it rests on his ring finger, and he holds it super bunched up and way too tight, so the end of that finger is slightly turned inwards.
Okay, I’m so sorry, I’ve never been calm about anything in my life, ever. Now, to the part you actually asked for, dearest anon:
I can’t decide how the first time would happen. Because I said in my SFW headcannons list that he loves to play with your hands so like, this becomes a habit of his, but I can’t decisively when the first time is.
- Maybe you just straight up make a remark about his hands one day and tell him to hold it up against yours.
- Maybe you were intentional about it, flirty and purring to him about how fucking big they are, looking up at him with that grinning bright-eyed look that takes his knees out from under him.
- Maybe you do it out of pure curiosity, maybe it’s completely innocent and awestruck.
- Maybe you’re both cleaning weapons at the same table and somewhere along the disassembly process you snatch his hand, press your own against it, and make a little “huh” sound as you look at the size difference. He short circuits so bad he has to stare at the bits and pieces of his gun and dig into his brain – for something he could normally do in his sleep, mind you – to remember how to put it back together.
- Maybe it’s at the tail end of a mission the two of you ran together. A clean mission, in and out, no injuries besides a few bumps and scrapes. You’re sitting side by side, legs stretched out, with your backs to a wall – he’s dutifully ignoring how he thinks he can feel your body heat where you’re pressed together from shoulder to thigh and you’re hyper-analyzing the way he’ll knock his boot against yours every so often. Just sitting in comfortable silence and waiting for evac to pick you up. You’re fiddling with something or another, a piece of your scope maybe, and he’s got- well, he’s got his gloves off.
For the first time you’ve ever seen, he takes his gloves off. You feel like a rabid Victorian as you watch him pop his knuckles, flex his fingers a few times, and rest his palms on top of his thighs. You’re just looking because they’re so defined and long and broad and– “Can I see them?”.
The words are out of your mouth before you think about them and he startles, sucking in a breath to ask you for clarification on what you wanted to look at. You beat him to it as you tilt your chin towards his lap and say, “Your hands, may I see them?”.
He gives you a jerky nod to the affirmative.
You haul yourself around 180° to face him, sitting with your legs drawn up so the toe of your left boot is pressed against the wall and the jut of your other bent knee rests where it falls on his right thigh.
You’re holding his right hand in both of yours, thumbs pressed into his palm, and his free hand shoots out to grab the leg you have against him, like he’s trying to ground himself. He grabs your armored kneepad, really, but you can feel the pressure of his grip and when his finger slips off the top of the reinforced plate you feel it like a shock through the thick fabric of your pants. He sits stock-still as you move his hand around, tracing its lines and curves and angling it this way and that, articulating his fingers with your own.
You made an approving noise and tell him, “They’re gorgeous.”
His whole body is tense, nearly vibrating with it, and his spine is so straight you’d think it was welded that way where he keeps his back pressed to the wall. He still has his hood on so you can only see his eyes – wide and a little terrified, staring unblinking at where you’re coxing his fingers straight again and pressing your hand to his. He’s grateful that he still has his hood on because he can feel how hot his face is, the blush burns at the tips of his ears, and he has to remind himself how to manually swallow.
You hold his wrist with your other hand for a few seconds as you line up the bottom of your palms and he’s trying so hard to choke back the groan that threatens to rip out of his throat.
Your hand is so small against his. Slowly, he curls the joints of his fingers down over top of yours, and you both watch the way his hand nearly engulfs yours. He doesn’t know what to do, what he should say. He should say something, right? Something sweet about how cute your hands look. Something observant like how you both have nearly identical scars just below the base of your thumbs. He should say something. He’s about to open his mouth and speak, wholly unsure of what’s going to tumble out, when the comms in your headsets crackle.
Someone is telling you your transport is arriving, and just like that the moment has passed; the two of you are scrambling up and he’s shoving his hands back into his gloves, still bright red under his hood.
If he starts taking his gloves off around you more often, if he starts sprawling the full length of his fingers across the table when you sit with him, if he starts twisting around pens and utensils in front of you, if he starts loving the way your eyes will follow his hands… well, that’s no one’s business but his own.
- Maybe you’re a medic and he begrudgingly goes to you to get a cut taken care of; he’d gotten the edge of his palm sliced open and it just will not stop reopening and bleeding. You’re focused and professional the whole time, removing the length of fabric he’d wrapped around it, cleaning and then dressing the wound with Steri-Strips – you know he doesn’t like needles, so, when you saw him hesitating at your door, you’d promised him no stitches unless absolutely necessary. You turn his hand this way and that with the cutest furrowed look, until you’ve finished wrapping the fresh gauze around the wound and you just slowly hover your palm directly above his and stretch your fingers out. You still look like you’re concentrating so hard as you marvel at the sheer size of his hand vs yours. He almost thinks you did it entirely out of some anatomical curiosity rather than an interest in him, until you jolt out of your transfixed headspace and immediately rush into explaining your expectations for him to be careful with the wound and to come back to you for follow up. He pretends he didn’t notice the flush on your cheeks, but the thought of you flustered by just his hands – by whatever you were thinking about them – has him giddy.
- If he were the one to initiate it's 100% a spur of the moment, pure fascination thing. He’ll either take note of what he wanted to see and move on with the day, only to have the embarrassment come screeching at him full force that night at 2am, or he’ll clam up and apologize for it right after he does it.
No matter how it happens he’s going to be stuck on it for ages – replaying it in his head again and again, trying to remember where your fingers came up to, the exact difference in your skin tones, thinking about the rings you had on, about the temperature of your skin. He’s not going to stop being fixated on it until he can take your hands in his whenever he wants.
Also, NSFW, but he’s absolutely fantasize about what your hands would look like on him, wrapped around his cock, and how you’d feel under his own hands. He wants to know how they’d feel grabbing his hair, whether or not you could get your hand around his neck, how you’d feel clenching around his fingers, how your nails would bite into his skin, what it’d feel like to have you grab his jaw with your fingers hooked under his chin and your thumb pressing down on his tongue, etc, etc etc.
And two extra thoughts I had while writing this, free of charge:
- When he’s fucking you, he has a habit of soothing his hand along your arm, pushing it into yours, and twining your fingers together. If it’s sweeter sex that’s his go-to for holding you down – as opposed to wrapping his hand around your wrists or forearms – just pressing his weight down onto your palm with his own and watching you curl your fingers over his knuckles.
- When it’s cold out he still wants to be able to hold hands and feel your skin, so he’ll grab your hand and shove it in his coat pocket along with his.
I know I’ve said like three times now that now that a post has gotten out of hand but this one really got out of hand, eh?
I have this specific image in my head of being at the airfield or base or wherever right when he gets back from a mission, so he’s still decked out in all his gear. Once the two of you are away from prying eyes, he leans down as you pull his sniper hood up and hold it back over his helmet so you can kiss him. It’s a hungry kiss – full of “I’m so glad you’re safe; thank you for coming back to me” and “I thought about you every night; we’ll always find our way back to each other”.
It’s urgent yet loving and you’re pressed as close together as you can be – some of his gear digging into you – both his hands holding your face, but then he can feel you start grinning against his lips. It morphs into you smiling so much it isn’t even a proper kiss anymore, until you’re outright giggling into his mouth. He pulls back, quirking his brow at you in question, but you’ve dropped your head to his chest. He holds you steady as you shake with laughter, smile now pressed against his tactical vest. When you pull yourself together enough to speak you do so with a little tug at his hood, telling him how it’s like you were pulling up a bride’s veil.
He’s frozen, starring down at you with so much adoration it hurts, and he grips your biceps when he asks you, softly, if you’d wear a veil at your wedding. He doesn’t specifically say if you were marrying him, but the hope is plainly evident in his eyes. The hope boils over and scalds the inside of his chest, trickling down his ribcage, when you giggle again and say how it’d only be fair that he has to push past some fabric to get to your lips after you’ve done it to him so many times.
He surges down to kiss you again and the only thing he can focus on for the rest of that week is wondering exactly how lovely you’d look standing with him as you exchange rings.
Your könig headcanons and ghost fic was sooooo good!! I'd love to see an nsfw version for könig maybe ghost too if you're up for it
I have some fantastic fucking news for you, my beloved anon, you absolute psychic. I just posted nearly 4k words of König NSFW headcannons and you are more than welcome to read it.
Thank you so much, I’m glad you enjoyed my nonsense!! Let me know what you think of the recent post!
I will probably end up doing an NSFW headcannons list for Ghost as well, but the way I write is literally me getting possessed and scribbling down everything at once so unfortunately I have absolutely no timeline for you.
It’s the quiet ones; it’s always the quiet ones. NSFW, obviously, minors DNI (SFW headcannons here). A lot of x reader babbling because I am down horrendous for this man. Again, this got incredibly out of hand, and I needed to just stop. Enjoy the filth, my loves.
- I wholeheartedly believe this man is amazing at foreplay. Maybe it’s inadvertent, but he wants to experience as much of you as he can for as long as he can. He loves just kissing you and feeling your body move against his, he wants the time to trace over every inch of you. He’s fascinated by the way your muscles and bones move under your skin and he loves mapping out any freckles/moles/marks/scars/etc you have.
- Treats sex like a skill, something he can hone, something he will make himself good at it for you. He catalogs your responses, memorizes your facial expressions, and takes careful note of how each touch affects you. He wants to be deliberate about how he makes you feel; he puts so much effort into learning how your body reacts to him until he’s an expert at taking you apart piece by piece.
- Praise this man. Do it. All the time. Tell him how good he’s doing, how sweet he is, how good he makes you feel, how beautiful he looks. He’ll blush and duck his head, but he thrives on your words.
-- He’ll whine when you grab his jaw and make him look at you. Make him repeat your praise back to you, make him say that he’s so pretty, that he’s such a good boy, make him say he’s yours and yours alone. Make him stumble through the compliments and clench around him when he’s nearly got the words out properly; laugh when he cuts himself off with a gasp and moans and flexes his fingers into your skin, and make him say the praise again.
- Marks. He wants them and wants to give them. He wants dark bruises that are impossible for him to ignore with the way they ache every time he moves his neck. He wants bite marks everywhere and he wants scratches on his back and arms. He doesn’t mind if you make him bleed with your nails or teeth; he wants to keep the stinging feeling for as long as possible. Definitely the type to press his fingers hard against his bruises to feel them hurt and to make them stay longer. When they eventually do fade, he wants you to give him new ones immediately. If you want marks too, he’ll go just as feral on you.
-- Can’t think straight when you unabashedly show off the marks he gave you. Because he knew he was doing then, he knew there’d be marks when he was sucking and biting at your skin again and again. He knew there’d be bruises where he held onto you a little too hard. But you’d moaned so sweet and told him to keep going, to cover you, and how could he have refused? Now, in the light of day, in public, with people around, he can’t help but flinch at the openness you share them with the world. Because people see. Fuck, people stare at the patchwork of mottled bruises and aggravated blood vessels on your neck, your chest, your collar bones. At the line of dark hickeys stretching from just below your ear, down the beautiful line of your throat, across your chest to where they disappear under your shirt. At the clear shape of his fingertips bruised into your hip when your shirt rides up as you reach for something – something you didn’t even have to reach for because he’s right here and the size of a fucking mountain. You just grin and wink when he puts a hand on your side and grabs the thing for you, and he goes beet red because that’s- that’s how you got that bruise in the first place, from his hand sprawled out against you, fingers gripping into your soft flesh, and his head is fuzzy with it as he snatches his hand back. And you go about your business cool as can be, as if you’re totally unaware of the people around and what you’re doing to him. You’re in a grocery store for fucks sake. It’s agonizing and he’s so conflicted because he’s so antsy about the attention, but he also just wants to mark you up even more. People see and they see you with him and they know. They know he did that to you; they know you let him do that to you. They know, and he feels half wild with it, a little drunk with how they know you’re his because you’re showing them you’re his.
-- He likes giving you hickeys even in non-sexual situations too – for example, if you’re sitting in his lap reading, he’s got his nose pressed against your neck and he’s mouthing at the side of your throat and across your shoulders, and you just end up with several bruises sucked into your skin. He just really likes doing it.
- Before being involved with you he actively tried to ignore his body. Being so tall and imposing served him well for his jobs in the military, and his muscles were a product of maintaining that use, but outside of work his build was just something that drew more unwanted attention to him. The first time you got his shirt off you took a stunned moment to step back and sweep your eyes over him, and he was immediately on edge. The nervous feeling, the anticipation of your disapproval, half dissipated when you locked your bright eyes on his with a sharp grin and yanked him down into a hungry kiss.
-- The first time you saw his cock he would have laughed – if he weren’t so nervous – at the wide-eyed, parted-lips look you gave him. He jumped in surprise when you took him in your hand and groaned at the feel of him. He timidly asked if you were alright and nearly laughed again when you rushed out a breathless string of “König there’s no fucking way you think this is average, I’m going to kill you if you think this is normal, I’m literally going to sue if you’re unaware of how fucking big you are, fuck”. He didn’t respond verbally, but shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “how should I have known?” and does start smiling at your incredulous grumbling. Nothing had prepared him for the dark stab of heat through his gut when you looked your pretty eyes up at him and said, with all the earnest sincerity in the world, “You’re gonna split me in half, big boy; I’m gonna feel you for days.”
-- Now he can’t get enough of watching your face as he pushes his cock into you. The way you whine as he guides your hips down. He is mesmerized by the visible bulge in your stomach when he’s all the way inside of you, watching it reappear each time he sinks into you – he pressed his palm flat down on it for the first time and nearly came right then and there when you choked out the most pathetic, keening noise he’s ever heard and scrabbled to grab at his biceps.
-- Fucks you against the wall, holding you up with his hands tight on your waist, sliding you down on his cock like you’re a fucking toy, listening to your punched out gasps each time he fills you.
-- He loves how he has to take his time getting even his fingers inside you.
-- Loves how he can easily hold both of your wrists in one hand and how large his hands look against your body
-- Loves when you’re on top and you settle into his lap, gasping for air because you swear you can feel him in your fucking throat, panting against his neck about how big he is. When you push his shoulders down and splay your fingers out across his abdomen and bounce in his lap. When you make him hold his arms above his head – looking down at him as you take his cock again and again – telling him how good he is, how pretty he looks letting you use him, the stuttered “y-yes ma’am” he manages to choke out when you ask him point blank if he likes getting used like this, if he’d let you ride him until you’re satiated but he’s still hard and aching.
-- Fucked you in front of a mirror – both of you on your knees, you in front of him between his thighs, with one of his arms banded across your stomach, his hand covering your hip, and the other up around your throat with his forearm pressed against your chest – and, fuck, it nearly ruined him to see how his body dwarfed yours. He held you tight against his chest, occasionally ducking his head down to suck busies into your throat and shoulders, but he mostly made you keep your eyes on him through the mirror. Watched the way your breath hitched as he fucked into you, the way you wanted to crumple forwards when he snaked his hand down between your legs but the other hand around your throat kept you upright, murmuring against your ear about how beautiful you are and how you take him so well.
- All the above size kink shenanigans being said, he won’t fuck you until you’re ready for it. No matter how desperate you are, how much you beg him to just put his cock in you already, he won’t. Not until he’s worked you open with his fingers and tongue and he’s absolutely sure he won’t hurt you. He furrows his brows with this cute little frown when you beg him and promise you’ll be fine, like he can’t believe how desperate you are for his cock, and tells you how “no, you are not supposed to be this tight, it will not feel good for you, let me relax you, let me make you feel good”
-- And on that note, he loves you absolutely dripping for him. Slick and hot and already sensitive. He wants you close to crying for it by the time he pushes his cock into you.
- He will shove his fingers in your mouth and press down on your tongue as he fucks you.
- He fucking loves eating you out. Like to an obsessive degree. He’s gotten so damn good at it that it’s impossible to say no. Sometimes when his mind is too busy and too fast, he just wants to lick into you until all he can focus on is how you taste, your hands tugging at his hair, and the sweet noises you make for him. He’s gotten off so many times rutting against the sheets just from having his head between your thighs; the first time it happened he was so embarrassed, and you were just stunned and amazed that he came practically untouched from how much he enjoyed pleasuring you like that, you had to reassure him that you weren’t mad or disappointed and he got so sheepish when you explained exactly how hot it was.
-- This man wants you to sit on his face so fucking badly but he’s too shy to say anything. The moment you bring it up or ask him about it he is hauling you up his body, desperate to get his mouth on you. Doesn’t let you hover, he wraps his arms up around your legs, fingers digging into the soft flesh on the inside of your thighs, and pulls you down until you settle your full weight on him. Eats like he’s fucking starved, cannot get enough of the taste of you. He’ll watch you the whole time he does it, starring up at you with such a blaze in his eyes that it’s honestly a little frightening, he’s so intense about it but he just doesn’t want to miss any of how beautifully your body shakes for him. You’re reminded of his sheer strength when he won’t let you up; he doesn’t even bother with words, he just makes a dissatisfied noise against you and seals you down with an iron grip. You’ll literally have to be crying from overstimulation and yanking at his hair to get him to take his fucking mouth off you.
- I think he’d prefer to give you oral but of course he loves when you suck him off, seeing you look up at him through your lashes and wrap your pretty lips around his cock. Loves watching you struggle to take as much of him as you can.
-- When you first started giving him blowjobs, he had no idea what to do with his hands and even when you told him he could touch and even pull your hair he was so afraid of hurting you.
-- Holds your jaw/cheek and hair so gently, even when his hands are shaking and he’s fucking into your mouth. He’s downright ashamed of how much he likes it when you take him too far and gag, how he loves seeing the tears gather in your eyes when you try to take him in your throat.
-- Loves when you’re mean about it – jerking him off and sucking the head of his cock until he can’t stand it but not letting him cum, popping off him with a filthy wet noise, asking him what’s wrong as he gasps and bucks his hips because you’re rubbing your thumb over his slit and it feels so good but he thinks he’s going to die from it.
- Along that topic, he loves edging and love-hates overstimulation. I think he’s got fantastic stamina so you’ve either got to have him fuck you several times or edge him within an inch of his life. Loves that desperate feeling when you bring him so close to cumming only to back off, over and over again until everything is hazy and all he knows how to do is beg you to let him finish. When you don’t stop after he cums he gets this quick sharp realization that he’s absolutely screwed because it’s too much and now he’s begging you to stop, whimpering and twitching his hips but it’s too much and he’s got tears running down his face and you’re telling him he can cum again.
-- Overstimulates you all the time because, again, stamina, and because he just fundamentally can’t get enough of you. Loves when you’re shaking, clawing at him and sobbing with these little hiccup gasps, and can barely say anything except his name and “please”
- Okay, okay, I said about how he loves watching you put on makeup. So maybe, maybe, one day he’d let/ask you to put some on him. Just to see how it looks, how it feels to have on. He loves the look of concentration you fix on him the entire time, getting a little bashful when you hold his chin and appraise your work before grabbing something for the next step. When you’re done you sit with him as he looks in the mirror and he’s shocked. He wasn’t sure what he expected from this curiosity, but it isn’t heavy, and he doesn’t look like a clown. He looks… pretty. You’ve made him look soft and delicate, like he deserves the shimmer you’ve put at the corners of his eyes and the faint color on his lips. It twists something equal parts visceral and shameful in his gut, but his cock certainty takes interest in the proceedings when you tell him how beautiful he looks and how he’d look even better with the lip-gloss smeared and the mascara running down his cheeks.
- Another thing I alluded to in my last sfw headcannons list: he’s cum in his pants before. That specific time I was talking about I think would be the first time he ever did it and he was fucking mortified. Like, would have run out of the room had you not been literally in his lap. He’s blushing so badly you can practically feel the heat coming off his face. He’s not even trying to talk; he’s just got his head tilted back with his hands pressed to his face. Mortified. He didn’t mean to. Obviously, he didn’t mean to. But you were so close to him, and you smelled so good, and you were kissing him – licking into his mouth like you wanted to consume him, biting at his lower lip, pulling the collar of his shirt aside so you could mouth and nip at his throat, barely giving him time to breathe. He was so hard it was nearly painful and all any of his senses could pick up on was you and he just. He just came in his fucking pants. And now he feels like he’s going to cry. But you’re speaking to him softly and nudging his hands away from his bright red face and you’re smiling at him. Once he calms down enough for you to convince him that you don’t think he’s pathetic he watches, transfixed, as you skim your fingers over the wet patch on his pants and he full-body shivers at the way you’re looking at him – all heat and predatory intent – and he’s still just trying to wrap his head around the fact that you still want him even after he made such a fool out of himself. It’s definitely not the last time it happens, given how much you like to wind him up, and he gets a little more comfortable with the whole thing as you repeatedly tell him how much you like seeing him lose it.
- While we’re talking about cumming, he loves to cum inside you. He buries himself as deep as possible, which is pretty fuckin’ deep, and stays pressed as close as he can the entire time he cums. Then he pulls out and holds your thighs apart with bruising strength and just watches you twitch as his cum leaks out of you. He fucking groans at the sight like you’ve pulled the sound out of his lungs. He’ll push it back into you with his fingers just to watch it leak out again.
- Tall man. Well-muscled man. Hmm. He absolutely does the Knee Thing. If you’re making out laying down and he’s half-kneeling, leaning over you with his weight braced on his forearms, he’ll absolutely be slotting his leg between yours, pressing his thigh firmly against you. The first time he does it instinctively, just by nature of being as big as he is and trying to balance above you but also be as close as possible. He’s amazed that you feel so strongly about such a simple action but when you start to buck your hips against his leg, he vows to always do it. Which means he later figures out he can shove his thigh up between your legs while he’s got you backed against a wall; and because he’s so tall he can force you to drop almost all of your weight on him, your toes barely touching the floor as you squirm.
- So, I also think he’d really like thigh-riding. He loves seeing you so desperate and grinding against him, too needy and impatient to do anything else. He loves how you whine and grab his shoulders and try to get the perfect friction. He’ll move you himself, guiding you with his hands gripping your hips. Loves how you react when he flexes the thick, corded muscle against you. Seeing you fall apart like this kind of makes him understand why you like seeing him cum in his pants.
- He is so incredibly careful with you. The very last thing he wants to do is hurt you, he’d never forgive himself. I think one of his limits is he won’t hit/slap you in any form. Even if you’re into it, he can’t shake the sickening feeling that he’d be hurting you so it’s a go-no. He was shaky but vehement when he told you it was just something he couldn’t do.
- I also don’t think he be a fan of any sort of degradation – he wants to be praised and all he wants to do is praise you. He’d never call you any degrading names.
- Loves lazy morning sex and any instance where you two have time to be slow and he can just hold you and kiss you everywhere he can reach.
- He loves tying you up, loves the trust you place in him when you let him restrict your mobility. I think he’d really enjoy shibari (intricate rope bondage). He likes the artistic and technical aspect of the knots; it’s an almost therapeutic process to create different patterns and restraints across your body. He likes how relaxed and calm you get, pliant as he shifts you around, the dopey-eyed looks and lazy smiles and contented hums you give him. He loves the way the rope looks against your skin, and he loves the marks they leave after. He loves the intimacy of tying you up, the intensity of having you tied up, and the returning intimacy of untying you – he murmurs praise to you as he removes the rope, he presses kisses at each place he undoes a knot, rubbing your muscles and soothing the skin that has marks.
-- I don’t think he’d be particularly into bondage on himself. The most he’d do is a pair of soft leather cuffs, but if he’s ever been captured and tied up or cuffed by an enemy then he will absolutely not like bondage on him.
-- That being said, I think he absolutely fucking thrives with mental bondage. You tell him to keep his arms at his sides and he will not move them. You tell him to keep his wrists crossed above his head and that’s where they’ll stay until you tell him otherwise. You tell him not to move his hips, to keep his hands on the headboard, to keep his mouth open, you tell him anything and he will do it. It doesn’t matter that you don’t actually have the strength to physically hold him down. It doesn’t matter how needy and desperate he gets, how much he shakes and whines, it doesn’t even matter if he’s crying and begging. He’s disciplined and you told him not to move so he won’t move, not one single inch.
- Aftercare king when he’s the dominant one. At a minimum he makes sure you drink water, gets you your favorite snack, makes sure you communicate how you’re feeling, tells you how good you did and how much he enjoyed you, cleans you up, and will hold you for as long as you want. This man will do anything to make sure you’re comfortable and happy.
-- When he needs aftercare, he’d particularly need lots of reassurance. He’s always worrying about whether or not he did well with regular sex so for more intense stuff he needs your soothing words even more. I think he’d really like to have you in his lap with his arms locked around your waist and his face buried in your neck, listening to your breathing or you humming, while you rub your hands up and down his back – the soft noise and the repetitive motion grounds him and he likes to be able to smell the lingering perfume and sweat-salt on your neck. He won’t talk right away but eventually you’ll get to verbally check in with him. No matter how long you stay with him he’s always going to be a little grumpy when you tell him you have to get up and get him hydrated and clean.
Someone tell me what absolute crack they’re sprinkling these masked Call of Duty men with. I’ve got major König brainrot and this got wildly out of hand, like a five-page word doc out of hand – I had to just stop because it got so long. Might do an NSFW one, lmk if you’d want that. I love you all dearly, enjoy!
- He’s really good at Tetris. Don’t ask me how or why I arrived at this conclusion, I myself have no idea. Dude just likes Tetris. It’s fast paced and demands his attention so he can usually sit still if he’s focused on the game.
- Compulsively chews the skin off his lips and the inside of his cheeks. Can’t help it. Used to bite his nails but that faded throughout his military involvement as he wears gloves pretty much all the time.
- This man has a list of things about you memorized. He covets each piece of information. He knows not only your favorite kind of tea but exactly how you like it prepared. Knows every single favorite you’ve ever mentioned – foods, flowers, books, movies, weather, what songs or types of music you’ll listen to depending on your mood, the colors you like and the colors you think you look best wearing, if you prefer gold or silver jewelry, etc. etc.
-- Started keeping this list long before he ever actually really spoke to you with things he overheard you say. He was so worried he’d slip up and you’d think he was creepy.
- Fucking loves giving you things. Like I said, he has all your favorites memorized, so it’s easy for him to grab things when he sees them. MFer would give you a rock if it made you happy, he just loves seeing your face light up.
-- Toward the beginning of you two, when he knew he liked you but was still too anxious and shy to really interact with you, it was so much easier for him to pack all his sentiment and feelings into the things he gave you. He could push them into your hands with maybe a word or two — sometimes literally just saying “here” or “for you”, though often it was without saying anything at all — and hope you got the intended messages of “I thought of you; this suits you; I want you to enjoy this; I care about you”.
-- He heard you mention some obscure recently published book you wanted to read one time and he immediately began looking for it. When he found it, he bought it with an intensity that scared the bookshop owner; he nearly slammed it on the counter and shoved a handful of money at them, he was just so damn excited to be able to give it to you. And yet, he still carried it around in one of the bigger pockets on his gear for days because he was nervous to actually give it to you in person
-- Gives you food all the time. Just appears next to you holding out something or another and vanishes before you’re even done saying thank you. You could be stationed anywhere and somehow this man has found? made? acquired? something delicious and he will be giving it to you.
- On that topic, he’s a really good cook. Like legitimately everything he even attempts to make comes out amazing. He loves when you hang out with him in the kitchen while he cooks.
-- The first time you offered to help he was so startled he nearly dropped a knife. He comes to loves how seamlessly you two work together and move around each other in the kitchen.
-- He gets to listen to you talk but the tasks at hand give him something to focus on and do, which makes the heat of your attention and his supplying the other half of the conversation easier to bear.
-- Plays quiet music as he cooks, asks you for songs to put on and loves hearing you sing along as you work
-- He loves when you hop up on the counter, you look so cute swinging your legs and watching what he’s doing.
-- Will absolutely do the nonna thing where he swats at your hand if you try to steal something before the dish is ready but he also does the nonna thing where he’ll chop extra veggies so you can eat a few, or he’ll give you a handful of chocolate chips before using the bag. Basically, snacking is fine as long as it’s König approved snacking.
---- One time, when he walked back into the kitchen to see you sneaking bites out of the pot on the stove, he reflexively swatted your backside with the dishtowel he’d had over his shoulder. He turned bright fucking red when you whipped around, shock written all over your face and the wooden spoon still in your hand. Immediately began stumbling over his words trying desperately to explain himself, god he was so fucking stupid and he felt like a chasm was opening up in his chest, until you broke out in a grin and started laughing so hard you got tears in your eyes. He was still mumbling apologies as he went to add spices to the pot, still bright red because you were leaning against his side trying to catch your breath.
-- Loves sharing the things you make together, loves sitting down and having meals with you
-- I also think he has a sweet tooth and he’d love it if you liked to bake
-- While we’re talking about food, I think he really enjoys clementines for some reason. The fruit looks extra small in his hands as he takes the rind off, he’ll always pull it apart and offer you half
- Loves snow. Like kid-rushing-to-the-window loves snow. Stands outside with his head tilted back watching it fall.
- Rarely gets cold, he’s like a walking furnace.
- Trust issues af. Distanced himself from you, especially when he found himself liking you.
- Dude is big. Really big. He’s aware of that. But he never really thought about certain applications of his size; like how your hand fits in his, how your eyes shine when you look up at him, how his fingers fit around your waist/throat/wrists/thighs, how you look wearing his clothes, etc.
- You’re his first kiss and he is nearly shaking out of his own skin when it happened, but he makes up for the nerves and inexperience with hesitant enthusiasm and pure adoration.
- His phone screen is cracked. Badly.
- Good with animals, the type of person to be going about his day with a cat perching itself on his shoulder. Oddly loves waterfowl – birds like ducks and geese and swan.
- Good with kids in a quiet way. He’s a little awkward with them, they’re so unpredictable and don’t really have filters so they’re a little terrifying, but they adore him. He listens and nods as they babble, lets them hang off his arms, and gives as many piggyback rides as he’s asked for.
-- Would love it if you were good with kids. If you were playful and indulged their imaginations, yet you took them seriously when they had questions and concerns. It’s a bittersweet thing to see you being so attentive and caring because he would have done anything for someone so kind when he was younger.
- Loves when you sit close to him and press your thigh against his, or when you stand and lean against him
- Either cannot make eye contact or stares. If you’re doing something that requires your visual attention but still talking to him, like driving, he’d be staring directly at you the whole time; until you glace at him in the passenger seat and suddenly he’s looking at anything else
-- When he gets flustered, he tends to look upwards and trys to even out his breathing
- Speaking of driving, he absolutely says “horses” or “cows” when you pass a field of animals. Totally monotone and watches them as you pass by.
- Took him a while to get accustomed to casual touches from you, even longer for more intimate touches, but once he’s comfortable he cannot get enough. Touchstarved.
- Opens every single door for you
- Talks too fast and gets flustered when he trips over his words, which doesn’t help him speak any slower. He has poor volume regulation and either talks either way too quiet – and mumbles when he does – or way too loudly.
- He doesn’t usually stutter but it happens a lot around you. He wants so badly to talk to you but you’re so kind and pretty and his thoughts are going a million miles an hour in about four different directions, and he just ends up so nervous. He tries to say two things at once and stutters through his sentence, he tries to say one thing but abandons it half way through to say something else, repeats certain words, and of course stutters on certain letters.
-- He’d be so so grateful if you didn’t laugh or mock him. He’s used to people finding ways to get out of talking to him, inventing reasons to cut conversations short, for a whole host of reasons – his accent, how intimidating he looks, the way he talks, the tripping up on words – and he remembers when he was younger and either no one wanted to speak to him or he’d get bullied for speaking at all.
-- He loves that you’re patient and let him work through his sentences – and he will, because he really does want to talk to you if he could just sort his brain out.
-- The effort you put into making him comfortable, making him feel at ease talking to you, knocks the air out of his lungs. The attention sometimes makes his anxiety flare up, but he can’t help but love your dedication to talking with him.
- On kind of the same topic, he will make noises or hand gestures to communicate. Sometimes only responds with a “hmm” or “mmhm” but he is paying rapt attention and wants you to keep talking, he just can’t make his own words work right then.
- If you are outwardly confident, maybe even a little cocky, he eats that shit up. Winking while telling him you’ve got it, grinning after an impressive display of competence.
-- If you speak up for him or defend him, he’ll lose his mind
- He loves playing with your hands. He’ll do it absentmindedly – rubbing circles on the back of your palm, toying with your fingers, tracing over the ridge of your knuckles – and always blushes when he realizes, no matter how many times you tell him it’s alright.
-- If he gets more comfortable and in a relationship with you, he’ll lace your fingers together and pull your hand to his mouth so he can kiss the back of it.
-- Also, if you put your hand on his face and hold his cheek he’ll grab your wrist – fingers wrapping all the way around it and then some – press your hand more firmly against his face, and turn his head to kiss your palm.
- Never feels like he’s allowed to touch you and will kind of linger around you until you initiate something or ask him what he needs (embarrassed as hell when you make him tell you exactly what he needs in a more NSFW context, but he loves it). Will always always always ask before touching you if he’s the one initiating. Once you do give him permission, he’s on you like a shot.
-- Clingy as fuck. Always wants to be near you. If he can’t be next to you he’ll keep his eyes on you, you’ve lost count of the number of times you’ll look at him to find he’s already watching you.
-- Uses his strength to his advantage when he wraps his arms around you and won’t let you get out of bed in the morning.
-- Loves when you hug him so tight he thinks maybe you’ll crack his ribs, it feels so safe and he’ll rest his head on top of yours. I also think he’d be the type to hug so than his arms are under yours; yes, he knows it makes the whole thing less convenient because he has to lean down more, but he wants to be able to draw you in against his chest as securely as he can.
- He has stretchmarks on his arms/back/thighs from growing so much so fast. He’s really self-conscious about them.
-- I also think as a result of growing so fast there was a period of time when he was young where he’d faint in the mornings. There’s a type of syncope that can occur during the years growth spurts happen, especially when a child grows a lot, caused by a lack of blood (oxygen) to the brain; it’ll happen especially after getting up from sleep, due to slow blood circulation, and in the shower, due to the warm temperature and humidity. He’d just space out, get black spots or narrowing vison, and pass out. Wake up quickly, maybe with a little vertigo, and be fine.
- Remembers and treasures every single complement and nice thing you’ve said to or about him. Complements and praise make him a mess.
- Can weave flower crowns.
- If you wear makeup, he loves watching you put it on. Maybe one day you’ll doll him up with it and tell him how pretty he is.
- Not fond of needles, doesn’t have any tattoos or piercings.
- Not super comfortable with PDA.
- In private, he loves kissing your forehead and the top of your head. When he’s more comfortable with you he’ll stoop over to kiss to the back of your neck, gently brushing your hair out of the way to press his lips right above the last knob of your spine.
-- Loves kissing you when he’s sitting down and you’re straddling his lap, his thighs splayed out and you raised up on your knees to accommodate for his height, one hand on your waist and one up grasping at the back of your neck, and you kiss him filthy and tell him how good he is. He’s inexperienced so he gets overwhelmed quickly, resting his forehead on your shoulder and panting while he tries to focus on anything other than how badly he wants to pull your hips down and rut against you. He’s definitely cummed in his pants befo- *I am forcibly removed from the stage*
- Babyboy gets flustered and embarrassed so easily, has a blush than spreads down to his chest.
- Loves having inside jokes with you. Loves the side glances you shoot him, your suppressed smile, the little nudge you give him with your shoulder or elbow
-- Loves that you two talk enough to have these jokes and references, and that you remember them. It reassures him that you enjoy talking to him.
-- He especially, maybe selfishly, loves when someone asks about the glances and the snickering and you tell them that it’s an inside joke, that you refuse to offer any further explanation, that you want these little jokes to be yours and his alone.
- Loves when you play with his hair, lets out very contented hums when you scratch your nails over his scalp.
- Gives you massages. He’s really good at it, big hands, okay, and he’s so warm. Especially likes relieving your shoulders, back, and hands but will give diligent attention to any of your sore muscles.
- Doesn’t wear any jewelry but is absolutely the type to wear a little woven threads or beaded bracelet forever just because you gave it to him
- Because of how tall he is, he’s used to being cramped up when he sleeps so he sort of always curls up as much as he can when he sleeps, even if he has room to stretch out.
-- If you’re near him while he’s asleep there’s a good chance he’ll wrap himself around you.
- He has so many little fun facts on an absurdly large number of topics and could ramble for hours about the subjects that particularly interest him.
-- If you mention something you’re interested in he will do extensive research to learn about it. He wants to show you he cares and he also wants to be informed so he doesn’t make himself look like an idiot in front of you.
- Loves teaching you things, he feels more sure of himself when he’s instructing you through something he’s knowledge about.
-- Loves being taught as well, he’s very good at following directions and always wants to impress you.
- Never forgets birthdays, anniversaries, or any other important dates. This man will remember your pets birthdays.
