What if you are the curvy goth girl, metal baby, girlfriend and König is the pretty pillow princess when not in uniform…just saying that pink ribbon…man likes soft buttery lacy things to show his morticia addams girl…
könig in uniform is terrifying. all broad shoulders, heavy boots and a silence that makes men twice his size shrink back.
but when he’s in your apartment? when he finally has his pretty goth girl ready to take care of him? he’s stretched out across your sheets, mask pushed up, thighs parted, blush crawling all the way to his chest. a pink ribbon you tied around his wrist earlier is still there—his big hand flexing against it like he doesn’t know what to do.
“maus…” he murmurs, voice low, shaky. “you make me feel…so small. so yours.”
you climb onto him, band tee still clinging against you, eyeliner smudged from the night out. and he looks up at you like you’re the whole damn world. like you’re dangerous, beautiful, his.
you ride him slow, steady, dragging out every whimper until he’s trembling under you, trying not to beg. his hands hover at your waist, scared to grip too tight, until you grab his wrist and press his hand flat against your stomach.
“touch me,” you whisper. and it breaks him.
he moans, head falling back, eyes squeezing shut. his big hands finally settle on your waist, squeezing the flesh there like it’s the only thing he has left. “don’t stop, bitte. i could stay here forever. let me be good for you, ja? just like this. i’ll be good for you as long as you let me.”
you lean down, kiss him messy and his whole body arches up into you like he’s desperate to disappear inside your skin.
“my love,” he groans against your mouth, “i’ll be so good—don’t let me go.”
his voice is broken when he says it, cracking open in a way you’ve never heard before. you kiss him again, swallow the sound, ride him deeper until his words turn to noise—soft, desperate whimpers he can’t hold back.
his hands start to wander, still hesitant, still trembling like he’s afraid to take too much. but you guide him, lace your fingers through his and press them flat against your chest. his breath hitches, eyes flying open, and he looks up at you like you just handed him the world.
“so beautiful,” he whispers, almost like he doesn’t mean for you to hear. his hands are huge and soft against your breast, lightly squeezing like he’s scared to hurt you. “never thought i’d deserve this. never thought—” his throat closes up on the words, tears threatening, his whole body arching into you.
you hush him, drag your nails down his chest, keep him anchored with your weight. every thrust is slow, deliberate, wringing another moan from his lips until he’s begging, babbling in half-german, half-english, not making anymore sense.
“maus, bitte, i’m yours—always yours. make me stay. make me feel good. don’t let me go.”
and when he finally breaks, when his voice splinters into a raw sound and he clutches you like you’ll vanish, it feels less like sex and more like worship—like he’s giving you every piece of himself and praying you’ll keep it.
authors note: i feel like i accidentally spun this into something you weren’t asking for so i apologize 😭💋💋 but nonetheless i hope you enjoy—i always love your requests <3
Thinking of König who grew up in Austria. Austrians and Germans are notorious for going half and half, right. But he meets you and then all his home training is out the window.
He’s on a mission in America and sees you as he walks past the shops. Suddenly he’s in the mood for a.. cinnamon pretzel? What the fuck are yall eating in the US?
Alright. Anyway. He makes you bump into him, watching as you give him a dirty look, saying he should say excuse me.
“Excuse me?” He questions, not expecting such hostility from someone like you.
“You’re excused.” You say, paying for your pretzel.
Okay. This was not the interaction he was thinking of when he wanted to talk to you.
“… A-all that sugar isn’t good for you.” He says, following you out.
“A-ask me if I care.” You mock, making your way down the street.
“…..” he blinks. Oh my god. American women are fucking cutthroat. Okay. New plan.
“Where are you going?” He asks, catching up to you.
“None of your business.” You respond. Turning into the doors of your local mall.
“Do you have a nice bone in your body?” He asks, following you in.
“No.” You deadpan, heading into the lingerie shop to hopefully deter him.
But he’s been to all types of stores shopping with his sisters. This was nothing.
Upon the realization he wasn’t leaving, you decide to play your cards.
“I wish I could get that. Look at this fucking price…” you mutter to yourself. But you know he heard. It was a pretty set. One he’d love to see you in. He’d get it for you. No need to pay him back :,)
He’s out the store, trailing after you, set in hand as he follows you to the next store. He’s abandoned all duty. He was on rest right now anyway. They wouldn’t miss him. He had to tend to his girl now.
“Fucking prices are crazy.” You mutter again, smelling a perfume.
You’re in another aisle already as he sniffs the perfume. Fruity. He’d get it for you if that meant he could come home to that smell.
He’s twenty five bags in and down 600 dollars by the time he realizes he’s walking you to your car. He sets everything in the trunk, looking at you like he just solved cancer for you.
“….” He looks down at you and you look up at him.
“Let me take you out.” He finally breathes.
“Why?” You ask, standing in front of the drivers door.
“… cause. I’ll be good to you.” He settles on.
You eat dinner at a place you weren’t aware existed in your town, donned in fancy clothing he picked out for you.
He’s unapologetically staring at you the entire time.
You order to your hearts desire, enjoying the princess treatment.
“I. Uhm.” He says, standing at your door, having dropped you off. But he wasn’t done yet. He needed more time with you.
Be mean to him. Please. He didn’t know he liked it, but it sounded sweet coming from your mouth. He just needed to be told what to do and it’d be done.
“May I come in?” He asks finally.
“Why?” You question once again.
“I don’t want sex or anything.. just. Uhm. Please?” He says.
What could go wrong? Inviting a 6’10 military man who could easily bench 5x your weight never went wrong for anyone.
His face is a bright pink under the mask as you show off your clothes, enjoying the fashion show you’re putting on. The clothes he bought you.
You come out of the bathroom, showing off the last outfit. Or what little of it actually covers your body.
“….” He’s never felt better about providing financial support for someone before.
“Thoughts?” You ask, giving a 360.
He’s lapping at your middle before you could even process what was happening. Muttering praises and curses in the language you assume he grew up with. But you don’t think too hard as your eyes roll back, letting him suck and lick you. As desperate as he may be, he’s good at it.
Every twitch is monitored and stored in the database that is his brain. Easily learning your body, wanting to make you feel good.
He doesn’t even think of his own needs, just content on his knees with your legs thrown over his shoulders.
You’re asleep as he finally deals with himself in your bathroom, using your undergarments as a stimulate.
You’re still asleep as he makes breakfast in your kitchen, something hearty so that you’re full for a long time. He sings quietly in German, humming a tune you were unfamiliar with as you pad into the kitchen, draped in his shirt.
“What’re you making?” You ask, coming to his side.
“Breakfast.” He answers, kissing your hand before going back to his task.
You’re too tired to fight for a more sufficient answer, relishing in the smell instead.
Anything you needed or mentioned briefly shows up at your doorstep when he’s on duty.
He properly proposes after about a year of being your personal boy toy. You accept of course, enjoying the thought of waking up to orgasms every time he’s home. Plus he pays the bills and you get to save your money.
You enjoy the music he plays when he gets ready in the morning. The bass is absolutely disgusting and you love it, nodding your head with him as you brush your teeth next to him.
He’s finally fucking content after decades of war. He likes that he can surrender himself to you as you bite, slap, and mark him in bed. You have no problem edging him, or begging for him to be rougher. Whatever you want. He wants what you want. And that’s all he needs. You’re all he needs.
Can I request a Konig size difference, submissive kink unlocked Konig, being tied down to a chair (he lets you he knows he can break your knots you’ve been training weeks to suprise him with) he loves his plus size bby but damn if he doesn’t realize how much he likes when you are such a soft dom who likes to be called daddy…
You can spin this anyway you want!!!
A/N: you can request anything you want bb!! i hope you enjoy, thank you for reading <33
Warnings: smut, sub!konig, soft dom!reader, size difference, praise, konig’s tied to a chair, etc etc
(big boy😩 anyways!)
At the beginning, it was simply for his amusement. When you first came up to him, lashes fluttering innocently while you pitched the idea that you should be the one in charge for once, he smiled at the thought. His pretty little thing, dominating him? Surely that wouldn’t even work.
And when he saw you practicing those pathetic little knots? The ones you were gonna use to tie him up? The same ones he could snap in two seconds without breaking a sweat? He couldn’t help but chuckle, suddenly excited to see you try.
But when the time finally came, when you finally had him tied to that chair for the first time, at your mercy, he didn’t laugh. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t tug out of the rope just to tease you.
He just looked at you. Real quiet. Real still. His chest rising and falling with slow, heavy breaths. Like it was all sinking in at once. That this wasn’t a joke to you. That you’d been training, planning, working to make this good for him.
And it was.
It was good.
Too good.
He swears his cock jumped the moment you knelt between his thighs, all soft and confident. Your voice sugary sweet, but firm. Your hands warm against his skin as you dragged your nails down his thighs.
He looked up at you from the chair, wrists bound, chest heaving—and for the first time, he felt small.
You stood over him, thick thighs soft and strong, your curves spilling out of the little number you’d picked just for tonight. And God, he can’t stop staring. Not at the ropes, not at the way your fingers tighten around his jaw—but at you. The way you take up space. The way your confidence wraps around him like a second set of binds. He’s massive, but right now, he feels like putty in your hands.
You’ve never looked more powerful.
“You gonna be good for me?” you’d asked, voice low.
“Ja…” His voice cracked. “Yes—yes, ma’am.”
That had made you tilt your head. Smile.
“No, baby,” you corrected gently, trailing your fingers up his chest, “Not ma’am.”
You leaned in, lips brushing his ear.
“Try again.”
And when he said it—whispered it like a confession, eyes fluttering shut with shame and need—you felt him twitch against the ropes.
