He was massive. Everyone knew that. But you? You never saw it as intimidating.

To you, König wasn’t a soldier, a sniper, or a shadow in the room. He was… well… the best damn weighted plushie money couldn’t buy.

And he lived for it.

The moment he walks through your door—gear shed, mask still on but hanging loose—you’re already curled up in the blankets like you’ve been waiting just for him. You lift your arms with that sleepy little grin and say it, sweet as ever:

“König.”

He stalls. Just hearing you say it like that—so effortlessly tender, like his name was made for the shape of your lips—makes his heart thud. He exhales hard through his nose, body twitching in quiet anticipation.

You pat the bed.

“C’mere. My giant plushie. You know the drill.”

He grumbles under his breath but he’s already walking over—boots off, padding toward you with that hunched hesitation he still hasn’t grown out of. “You always call me that,” he mutters, flopping down beside you with more grace than a man his size should have. “A plushie.”

You tug at his hoodie until he rolls toward you, letting his weight sink onto you like gravity itself shifted in your favor.

“Mhm. A big, heavy one. You’re like 200 pounds of weighted comfort,” you murmur into his chest. “Warm. Safe. Makes my brain shut up.”

He freezes. Then melts.

“…You feel better when I’m lying on top of you?” His voice is muffled in your hair, but you feel the awe in it.

“Obviously. Your body weight is like therapy. It’s perfect.”

He lets out a low, shaky laugh and tightens his arms around you.

“You’re the only person in the world who would say that,” he says, voice husky and unbelieving. “Everyone else calls me a monster. You—call me your… stuffed animal.”

You nuzzle into him and whisper against the side of his neck: “König.”

A sharp breath escapes him.

“Verdammt…” he murmurs, clutching you closer. “Every time you say it like that, it feels like I’m not… broken anymore.”

He rests his full weight onto you, careful but heavy, warm and grounding. His heartbeat is slow. You feel it thump against your ribs, synced with yours. He doesn’t speak again for a while, afraid if he moves, the moment will end.

And when you sigh, all soft and sleepy and smug—

“Perfect plushie…”

—he just hums, utterly whipped, and whispers:

“I belong to you.”