König would never admit it to your face that he loved how small you are. Got off on it even. Seeing you wear his clothes, practically drowning in them, did something to his heart, his very soul. He’s sitting at his desk in his room, filling out reports on his computer when you walk in from the connected bathroom. Your hair is still damp from the shower, skin rosy from the boiling hot temperature you for some reason deemed ‘relaxing’. You’re wearing one of his sweatshirts, the hem falling almost to your knees. He can’t seem to get it off his mind as he listens to you finish getting ready for bed. He sighs, muttering a few German obscenities before shutting down the computer. He turns in his chair, spinning to face you where you’re sat in bed.

“You’re distracting when you wear my clothes like that, Maus.”