König has excellent vision, almost perfect. But he sees the world completely differently from most people. As a strongly pronounced kinesthetic, he instantly “translates” any visual image into sensations. The moment he sees his Liebling, his brain immediately starts feeling her — her scent, her taste, her weight, the softness and yielding of her skin.

For him, you are a perfect little delicacy. In touch, in scent, in taste.

When Liebling first started feeling shy about her “imperfections” in front of him — stretch marks, soft belly, uneven skin texture — König was genuinely confused. He truly doesn’t understand your complexes. For him, these are just the perfect relief of your body, made to be traced by his fingers. Your so-called flaws simply don’t exist for him. You are ideal. Soft, warm, pliant, and incredibly delicious in every sense.

The moment he sees his Liebling standing in the kitchen with her back to him, wearing her favorite “homeless chic” outfit and messy hair, calmly cooking while sometimes gently swaying to music in her headphones — his mind is instantly flooded with sensations. The smooth movements of her hips and waist instantly trigger him. He remembers how she feels under his hands, how she smells, and what she tastes like in every part of her body — from her neck and breasts to the softest, wettest place between her legs.

His tactility is its own language. The closer and safer he feels with you, the greedier and more clingy his hands become. He doesn’t just grope — he explores. His large, hot palms hungrily touch, stroke, squeeze, and grip. But touching isn’t enough for him. He loves burying his face in your skin, inhaling you, running his lips and tongue over you, feeling every texture — the softness, the tenderness, the way your body yields and trembles.

He can spend a long time just squeezing and stroking you — your thighs, waist, breasts, ass. The longer he touches you, the harder he gets. For him, this isn’t foreplay. This is one of the main parts of intimacy.

He is especially turned on by your wetness. When you become slick and slippery, he lets out a low growl and slowly moves his fingers, spreading your wetness, feeling it drip. He can bury his face between your legs for a long time, just breathing you in, licking, savoring — because for him, you are incredibly delicious.

The scent of your arousal, sweat, and wetness — these are all intoxicating aromas to him that drive him crazy. He can press his face into any part of your body and inhale for hours.

And sounds are his biggest weakness. Every quiet moan, whimper, shaky breath, or trembling “König…” hits him right in the gut. He adjusts to you, changes his rhythm and depth, just to make you sound even sweeter. The more natural and loud you get, the faster he loses control.

Liebling learned about this side of him by accident. One evening they were just having dinner. She was eating something tasty and quietly moaning with pleasure — completely innocently. König froze, blushed hard, looked away, and tried to discreetly adjust himself. It turned out he was hard. Just from her contented little moans while eating. Since then, she sometimes deliberately lets out soft moans when eating something delicious — just to watch him blush and get embarrassed again.

Because of old traumas and a long sensory hunger, his kinesthetic nature became compensatory. Now he can’t get enough. He physically needs to constantly feel you under his hands, lips, on his tongue, around him. That’s why even just being near you makes his body react — he blushes, tries to hide his erection, and quietly swears under his breath.

After intimacy, he almost always stays inside you, holding you tightly and continuing to slowly stroke and squeeze your flushed skin — as if he still can’t believe you allow him to feel you like this, and that his tactility isn’t a burden for you.

- rommy

this is adorable rommy i’m smooching you (may i?)

konig making macarons is honestly so damn cute like, have you ever seen a war criminal wearing a cute pink and frilly apron (you bought it as a joke but he always wore it when cooking/baking), big burly body with his bust bent down, having to make himself a bit smaller to reach the low countertop, big fingers and hands working to delicately prepare the dough, gently moving and using the tools and having to be so careful with the ingredients and materials

he has a little furrow between his brows, incredibly focused on his task, and no matter the amount of time, admittedly a lot for macarons, he just does it, no questions asked and so much patience and determination in him

he’s making you favorite flavor and color of macarons, even going as far as to make homemade filling, UGH this cathedral man just holding a plastic bag that looks like a toy in his hands is making me so soft omg

and when he’s done oh so carefully filling and matching tops with bottoms of macarons, a few broke in his fingers from being distracted and not controlling his strength, he’s putting them gently on a plate, creating a carefully pretty presentation, and walking back to you in the living room, where your eyes light up at the sight of him, so incredibly cute, holding a small plate with small carefully made macarons, and you pull him down on the couch with you, kissing him softly but with so much emotion that he feels your love in your lips

König x Reader | Full Chapter

Part 19- You can thread the needle, time and time again

König POV 

At this, König stills.  

Shock. Then fury—frigid and sharp. His fists clench as he fights to hold it in, his body going rigid. A statue. Waiting, unbreathing, for you to continue.

For a long while, you say nothing. Still picking at the damned sheets, eyes unfocused. He clears his throat. You jump.

"Explain." His voice is stiff, strained with barely concealed rage.

"I... I don't know where to start," you admit, chewing your lip beneath the mask.

König forces himself to be patient. "Start from the beginning, yes?"

You inhale deeply, exhaling slow. Shoulders straightening, still looking at the floor. Still refusing to meet his eyes.

"I joined the Army when I was eighteen years old." 

Not quite the beginning he meant, but he does not interrupt. He will not miss a chance to hear about the thing you so rarely speak of—yourself.

"I didn't... I didn't necessarily want to. But I didn't really have any other options. My home life, it wasn't... the best."

Your face twists with something dark. He doesn’t press— knows better, though a pit forms in his stomach.

"Anyway, I figured I'd join, maybe be assigned a desk job or work in the mess hall doing food prep," a bitter laugh slips out.

"I did get a desk job; communications. And I loved it. For a while." 

Of course!!!!

Thank you so much, it truly means so much that people actually enjoy what I write lol.

And I agree no hate to blogs that write darker content! But yes it stresses me out too, which is one of the main reasons why my content is very much the opposite. So I am very happy that people are appreciating it!!

First Contact

The passenger seat in his service truck is adjusted for you, which is why it always feels so comfortable. He does it every single time he drives you into town for base errands and back. You only found out because you arrived earlier than usual once. (Yeah, you were rushing like fuck because you wanted to see him sooner. A couple days ago he brought you an entire bucket of lily of the valley flowers... that counts as courting, right? If a man, while out on an operation in the forest, sees something beautiful and immediately thinks of you and wants to bring you joy because of it?..)

His broad massive back was bent damn near in half while he stood on the passenger side, adjusting the seat for your height. And let’s be honest, you were staring at more than just his back. But besides that, you’d already noticed that this enormous quiet miracle of a man was absurdly attentive when it came to you. And it was a completely different kind of attention. He noticed everything connected to you and remembered it. Every little detail. What kind of coffee you usually drink (and he brings exactly that one), what book you’re reading (and suddenly he’s reading the same one), which table you like sitting at in the cafeteria (and somehow it’s always free for you now), which route you usually take to work or to the mess hall (apparently even the tenth “hey” of the day isn’t excessive when he’s also on base), and countless other things...

Outside, rain drizzles softly against the windows while the inside of the truck stays warm. Your favorite song plays quietly in the background and the whole cabin smells like coffee. Now it’s become a habit: every time you drive back from town together, you grab coffee and stop somewhere along the road to stare at some pretty view.

This time it’s a lake.

Even though he isn’t exactly talkative, you like dumping your entire lore onto him and listening to his short, dry little comments. And right now he’s listening with complete seriousness to your absolutely devastating story about how you managed to get a paper cut between your fingers while nearly falling off a ladder with a box of documents from the top shelf. And how fucking annoying the cut is now.

“Lemme see…”

You feel the warmth of his huge calloused hand when he takes yours and bends down from the height of his massive body to examine your microscopic injury with ridiculous seriousness.

“Did you disinfect it at least?”

He asks like you’re dealing with an actual battlefield wound.

You notice his eyelashes when he leans over your hand, studying the tiny cut while his thumb slowly strokes over your wrist. You keep trying to talk normally, like nothing unusual is happening. Like he’s held your hand a hundred times before. He just watches. And listens to you.

“Guess I’ll have to put a bandaid on it later… it just stings when I move my fingers…”

You stare out the window, pretending to look at the lake, but you can’t actually see anything because every single one of your senses is focused entirely on the carefulness of his hands and the warmth of his breath against your fingers beneath the mask.

For one brief second, he presses his lips against your injured fingers.

Just instinct. An automatic urge to soothe pain.

Judging by the way he suddenly freezes with your hand still trapped carefully inside his huge paws, he looks completely fucking stunned by what he just did.

König didn’t even have time to think. His control around you had already started glitching the fuck out.

Your heartbeat pounds so hard it feels impossible that he can’t hear it too. The rain against the roof of the truck suddenly sounds louder.

Or maybe that’s just the blood rushing in your ears.