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"Can I sit here?" König X Gender-neutral Reader

Word count: 3060

*Part one?

*Slow burn?

*Strangers to Friends (to Lovers?)

Not decidedany of those yet 😶

Edited on 23/8/2023 for some grammar tweaks.

*!!Fanfic inspired by @theeggrollslord's drawing on Twitter!! I really wanted to use their art as the cover for this fanfic, but due to me not having an Twitter (or X 🤮) account, and not knowing whether the original artist consents to people reposting their art, I held back. 😿 If anyone knows whether they are able to give me permission or are cool with it, please let me know!! ☺️

*Author has played MW1 + 2... but not the newest reimagines. 😭 all I remember from the campaign is that Shepherd shot Ghost in the face,but in NO way did he look as fine as he does now ☠️☠️

*Author does NOT speak German... but can use Google Translate !!😊

As is customary with all foreigners, English is not my first language!. Pls do not bully me if my grammar  is bad i will cry 😢

König sat by himself in the cafeteria.

Three sausages, a spoonful of beans, and two eggs alongside a 500ml water bottle were all that consisted of his daily breakfast. Hash browns would be served raw, and the bagels were solid enough to break teeth when bitten into. He didn't even want to consider the sandwiches, as their stale, stinking cheese and slick ham made him gag. A pity that they didn't serve Bratwurst or order authentic — hell, even half-decent — eggs, as the meat in his sausages tasted out of date and the yolks were a dull yellow. The beans weren't even Heinz.

Looking at the cheap slop on his tray made him lose his appetite. At least the water was drinkable, but its taste was peculiar at best.

König sighed.

Every day "eating" the same breakfast, sitting in the same spot, at the same time.

To say that he enjoyed the routine of the barracks would be an overstatement, as he felt oppressed by the monotony: rigorous and thorough briefings pre-missions; intense training three times a day; shooting drills and target practice right after the sun barely opened its eye or into late hours of the evening when it was hard to see. Yet he couldn't complain, and forced himself to appreciate the predictable structure of the barracks.

After all, routine meant safety.

Knowing the details of the misson and the intel required guaranteed a flawless operation. Knowing how exactly to eliminate an opponent in any given situation meant that it made the job even easier. Knowing when to dive for cover to avoid a rain of bullets and the rumbling thunder of machine guns in an active shootout equalled survival.

And knowing that you intimidated everyone on base at least made social interactions easier. All of these extended his life expectancy, yet by how much was anyone's guess.

Being a 6'10 wall of a pure muscle made him the perfect human bulldozer, and paired with his animalistic instincts taking over while on the battlefield, he struck fear in even his own teammates.

Most of the time, König didn't even need to use a gun, as he could snap an enemy's neck faster than they could blink; and, even if they could do that, they wouldn't be able to react fast enough as he manhandled their body like a rag doll and snapped their spine in half over his knee. Quick and easy kills. Other times, frantic stabs in the abdomen, chest or neck finished with a harsh cut of the throat sufficed when sneaking, and allowed him to release any pent of frustration he felt that he wouldn't have been able to relieve through strangulation alone.

Yet, all of the time, seeing König's brutality first-hand made his teammates lose their balance and struggle to collect themselves during the mission, fearing that he would turn to indiscriminately killing anyone that had the misfortune of entering his field of vision. Compared to König's animalistic instincts taking over in an active firefight and causing bloodshed, his allies putting down enemies with a bullet to the head seemed merciful, and even kind.

Unlike friendships, killing people was easy. Keeping good relations with people was difficult enough for König to begin with — with his first hurdle being his social anxiety, and the hurdle of others being getting used to his frightening exterior — and it grew more and more into a challenge as he moved up the ranks, until his position as Colonel made him feared, not respected. People avoided his eyes, and kept conversations to a minimum, bowing their heads in fear, not respect.

After witnessing him maul enemies like a feral animal, König walking down the barracks had people scuttling away like rats in opposite directions, a horde of people dissipating in an instant. Crowded rooms with rowdy laughter suddenly were brought to silence once he made the mistake of entering, with people speaking in hushed whispers or not even speaking at all, opting to escape before their colonel addressed them.

Truth of the matter was, König never wanted to be a colonel. He'd had rather been the one receiving orders than the one making them, as his social anxiety in front of innumerable pairs of expectant eyes put pressure on him in the moment and made it near impossible to let a single word out.

He was not a natural born leader: he knew it, everyone knew it; but he kept his position solely due to his ruthlessness in action and his cold efficiency, as there was no one like him that could come close to imitating his behaviour.

Then, to say that he enjoyed the daily routine of life in the barracks was a stretch to say the least. The thrill of killing on missions and the primal adrenaline that took over his veins and clouded his senses could not be more of a contrast to this boredom and overwhelming isolation on base: of every day sitting in the same damned spot; of every day pretending to eat the same damned food; and, of every damned day being avoided by the other operators to be at a peace he was forced to accept, whether he liked it or not. What a miserable life to live.

The beans on his plate looked menacing, and he had the urge to crush each one individually until they'd stop sneering at him so, as being judged by off-brand beans was running his patience thin. Yet, he wouldn't do that, as everyone else would view him as not only a brute but a mentally unstable lunatic who was now using food scraps as an outlet for his temper; so, he resorted to just picking at the rations instead. His head was in his palm, and his gaze went elsewhere, his pale blue eyes drooping.

So engrossed in absentmindly pushing the beans on his tray with his fork and contemplating what went wrong with him that he did not hear the footsteps walking towards him.

You cleared your throat. "E-excuse me, sir, but can I sit here?"

König looked up, and saw a young recruit hovering over him with a small brown paper bag in their hands. Your face was one he hadn't seen before around here, and you weren't in the standard military uniform, so he assumed that you were perhaps a groundsperson of sorts.

Your ignorance of him was probably the only reason you dared approach him, as any other person would have avoided his table at all costs and gotten whiplash from how quickly they'd turn their head the other way. However, he was glad that he didn't intimidate everyone that encountered him, and was internally thanking you for giving him a chance. Some hope.

Feeling uncomfortable under his scrutinising stare, you tugged the collar of your t-shirt and struggle for words.

"S-sorry," you begun, sheepishly looking down at the floor. A rub of the neck and a shuffling of feet. "It's just... all of the other tables are crowded, and I don't know anyone here well. And yours—" You looked at him, shooting him a lopsided grin, "—yours is empty."

"I understand," he stated, before looking back down at the mush on his tray. "Not a problem."

You gulped, feeling like he was dismissing you, and beginning to regret approaching him. "Are you sure, sir? I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable."

Look at you, he thought, so thoughtful over his feelings. When was the last time anyone bothered to ask him how he felt, or treated him like a human being?

"Ja. I am sure."

Still standing, unsure as to how to interpret the tone of his statement, you shot him a shy smile and sat down at a reasonable distance from the man, beginning to unpack the contents of your bag.

König kept stealing glances of you from under his eyebrows, trying to be discreet. Although he actually was uncomfortable — not used to company in the slightest, especially with someone so polite and courteous — he was oddly drawn to you.

He was thankful that you were oblivious to his status around these parts, and he wanted to leave a decent first impression on you before you finally overheard the true rumours about him, and paid attention to how quiet the cafeteria had gotten now that you two were sat together.

The thing was, he didn't know where to begin.

Communication was not his strong suit. He mused over potential ways of starting a conversation, yet not only had he never been faced with a situation like this, the language barrier was ever so present. Perhaps if he could speak to you in German he'd be able to formulate his thoughts better, yet at the moment it felt like all his knowledge of English seemingly evaporated in an instant.

"You prepared well your breakfast," he stated plainly, angling for any kind of small talk. He internally cringed at the order of those words and how wrong that sentence sounded in his voice, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

An awkward smile. "—W-wow. Thank you, sir!"

König felt his chest tighten, but he didn't know why. 

"My first day on base I had the misfortune of being served breakfast," you continued, "so, from then on I decided right then and there "never again". The food—" you laughed weakly, "—sure is something."

"Du hast recht," agreed König. "I mean... You are right. If I had a dog, I never would feed it this— these... scraps."

You could sense König hungrily devouring your food with his eyes. Although he tried to be subtle, he was not good at going unnoticed. Really, stealing glances of this behemonth in front of you, you kind of pitied the man, especially when the next edible meal would be in precisely 5 hours. With his breakfast beaten and bruised into an unrecognisable pulp, it was definitely too late for him to consume.

Mourning your sandwiches, you silently bid them farewell and took a deep breath:

"Well, sir. I would assume that you're hungry."  You took out the contents from your bag and slid them in front of him, smiling meekly. "You can have my breakfast."

He looked down at your two sandwiches and his eyes visibly widened under his hood; four thick slices of sourdough bread, a generous slather of butter, cheese, rocket lettuce, and thinly sliced pieces of meat, topped with tomatoes, and most likely seasoned with spring onion and pepper.

They looked so appetising, and he felt his mouth salivate, yet he shook his head vehemently. "Nein! Ich sollte das nicht tun, nicht, wenn du dich so sehr bemüht hast!"

You tilted your head in confusion. König mentally facepalmed.

"I-I mean... you tried very hard, and it isn't right of me. They are yours."

You waved a dismissive hand. "Honestly, you need them more than me. Have them."

"Einer wird ausreichen," He shook his head again, and picked up one slowly. "One will be enough."

He reached over to take one and you looked at him expectantly, patiently waiting for him to take a bite and give you his thoughts, yet it hit you. He was wearing his mask. He probably wouldn't eat in front of you.

A cough. "S-sorry. I'll look away while you eat it. Tell me what you think about it."

König practically shoved the entire thing in his mouth the moment your back faced him and and started choking. He saw you turning back to assist, but he raised a weak hand to stop you.

Getting over his coughing fit, he could finally appreciate the freshness and the flavour of the sandwich. It tasted of... nostalgia. Like the sandwiches his Mama would make for him after school to reassure him and to take his mind off the day's events. He felt like a young boy again. When he closed his eyes, for a split-second he imagined he was in the kitchen with his mother chatting energetically, taking his plate and ruffling his hair when he had finished and feeding him another, insisting that he "was a growing boy".

"So köstlich..." he said, and was disappointed to see that the sandwich was gone from his hands, already eaten. "Mein gott, that was perfekt. A sandwich of the Gods."

You turned around and you were beaming so brightly that König swore he would need to shield his eyes from the sight.

"Thank you so much! You don't know how happy that makes me."

You looked at him, your smile unwavering. "Do you know what would make me happier?"

He gave you a blank look. "...No?"

"If you ate the other one," you said, and König's eyes widened comically. "Though, please, be careful. Sandwiches can sure be a choking hazard," you dared tease him, and was actually surprised when he let out a quiet chuckle.

After savouring his second sandwich, the two of you were quiet. Although the tension had evaporated, the silence was deafening, and you felt suffocated by the lack of conversation.

"Uhm... Sir. What is your name?" A hesitant start, your hands folded neatly in your lap. "If it isn't too much of a personal question, of course."

He deliberated for a few moments, before responding with a quiet "König."

"König," you repeated, making sure to pronounce it properly. Your eyes widened in realisation, and you smiled broadly. "That's King, in German, right? That's so funny, because I go by King!"

König froze up like a statue.

"Holy fucking shit, what are the chances?" You rambled, not realising how quiet König had become. "Honestly, what are we doing here? Where are our castles, our riches? Our chariots led by silver horses and our toilets made of 24 carat gold?"

König shrugged stiffly. "Blown up by a grenade, I suppose."

You looked at him, dumbfounded, then burst into laughter. Like, fits of giggles, too many of them and too strong for his unbelievably dry response. Maybe that's why you were laughing so hard.

Either way, König couldn't believe it at first.

It was so... beautiful. Almost angelic in a way, despite you holding yourself up with a palm on the table and unable to contain your pig-like snorts. He could get used to hearing you laugh more often.

And, just like that, he dropped his guard. Slowly, all of his stiffness melted, and he became more of his confident self, this trait only ever coming out when he was actively shooting.

The two of you spent the entire length of breakfast chatting, joking, and telling each other things about each other. Although König insisted that his English wasn't good, you assured him that you understood him just fine — if anything, his confused looks and furrowed eyebrows at idioms you used were adorably endearing, each time earning a sympathetic giggle from you.

At some point — and though he would've been ashamed to admit it — he tuned out the babbling that came out of your mouth as he admired your face, noting all of your features: the colour of your eyes and how they'd crinkle in happiness whenever you smiled; the way your hair flowed and framed your face; taking the time to count all of the freckles on your nose and committing the number to memory.

He'd only catch himself staring when you'd suddenly finish talking. "But what do I know, I'm kind of stupid if you ask me. It's a wonder I passed the tests to qualify for this job in the first place."

You locked eyes with him, interested in hearing what he had to say. "What do you think, König? I bet you know the answer!"

To which he'd quickly clear his throat and respond with, "Ich weiß nicht. I don't know. To be... frank, though that is strange for me to say when I am not "Frank"—" 

You struggled to struggle to contain your laughter, and quickly apologized as soon as you stopped shaking, before attempting to explain to this clueless Austrian man why it was used. König didn't feel demeaned by your explanation, though, as he thought that his blunders would be worth it every time if it meant hearing you laugh so sweetly.

To König's dismay, half an hour flew by in minutes, and it was time to part ways as you began your daily duties.

As the two of you stood up, you initially had realised that König was taller than the average man based off how his knees could barely fit under the table.

You sure as fuck did not expect to see this.

He towered over you, casting a shadow down below. You had to strain your neck to make eye contact with him, and a painful cramp was already forming.

"Ha—ha.... you're pretty, uh... big."

That statement had more than one connotation. Gott sei Dank für diese Maske, he thought. Thank God for this mask, otherwise you would have seen the blush from his neck up to his ears after his mind went to a place he hadn't thought it'd go, especially not with a person he had formally met not even an hour ago.

"Oh well, I can finally put those 4-inch combat boots in the bottom of my closet to good use," you laughed, playfully nudging what meant to be his shoulder but your height difference meant that you instead touched his pec. Not that you minded though.

With your arms behind your back, you shyly averted your gaze. "Well... It was nice to meet you, König."

"You too... King."

Furrowing of brows as you tilted your head. "How do you say it in German? "Auf Wiedersehen"?"

"Ja, das ist es."

"Well then, Auf Wiedersehen, big guy. I'll see you around!"

Big guy... In more ways than one...

God. König had to get a grip.

Yet, with the way he was looking at your backside and fantasizing about your next meeting, he already knew that not even Gott could help him.

...

Note: I HATE this fucking fanfiction WITH MY SOUL 🤬🤬. This fucking thing was NEARLY FINISHED and I was in the process of tweaking yet my phone decided to erase half of my progress !!!! 😡😡😡😡😡😡😡😡

My phone 📵 and God 🤬 didn't want this fanfiction getting published yet guess what!!! 🖕🖕🖕🖕Fuck you!!!🖕🖕🖕 Ive gotten it out anyways🗣️ fucking shaved a decade off of my life trying to recovervthe opening part of this fic,,

,,,,literally why did I get punished for writing a very mild and unextreme fanfic 😭😭😭😭 like the first half was just in Königs perspective and Ur telling me that i can't do that?????

I mf get fucking crucified like Jesus  on the cross, only this time I sarcificed my sleep and sanity to not be ressurected again,, bitch I would have rather died if I had known tjis would happen ☠️☠️ I could have actually SLEPT?!! 🤬🛌

Never again writing fanfictiosn on my phone, I can't trust this evil technology!!  I'm gonna draft them with PEN and PAPER bitch!!!! Typewriter!!!!!!!! Chalk On Pavement™!!!!!!!!!!!! PERMANENT MARKER ON MY FOREHEAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

...

If you read this rant of mine, I hope you have a lovely day/night, beautiful person. <33 (please wash your eyes after reading that,,I needed to release my anger somrjow don't judge me hhhhhhhHHHH—)

𝙒𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ✍️

➔ 𝘐𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘪𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘺 𝘸𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘮𝘺 “𝙏𝙖𝙜 𝙇𝙞𝙨𝙩„!

➔ 𝘔𝘺 𝘋𝘪𝘴𝘤𝘰𝘳𝘥: 𝙪𝙣𝙛𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙡𝙮𝙨𝙞𝙢𝙥2_

➔ 𝘔𝘺 𝘟𝘣𝘰𝘹 𝘎𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘨: 𝙖𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙜105927113 (𝘐𝘯𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺 𝘔𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘧𝘵 𝘸/ 𝘮𝘦 <3)

⭒𝘙𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯*, 𝘴𝘰 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴/𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘵𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘺 “ɪɴʙᴏx„! ⭒

*𝘕𝘰𝘵𝘦, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘭𝘭 requests 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘥𝘶𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦; 𝘩𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘳'𝘴 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘤𝘬/𝘶𝘯𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯/𝘶𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘪𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘥𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘵𝘦𝘥.

𝘗𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶! ♡

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𝘾𝙤𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜

𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵 MAY 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘥𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘦𝘴, 𝘴𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥!‼️

𝘕𝘚𝘍𝘞 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵 (𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘭𝘺 𝘧𝘦𝘮𝘢𝘭𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳) 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘣𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘤𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘵:

@simping4konig

(I apologise to ‼️ anon... Deadass dropped the INCORRECT user and I couldn't edit the post. 😱😱)

*𝘖𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦/𝘢𝘭𝘵 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘴, 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘭𝘶𝘥𝘦 @simping4konig^^^ (𝘍𝘦𝘮-𝘤𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘕𝘚𝘍𝘞) 𝘢𝘯𝘥 @simp4art.

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𝘾𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙠𝙨

𝘞𝘰𝘳𝘬𝘴 𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘩𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳. 𝘓𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘨𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘰𝘸𝘯.

𝘛𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 👑 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘒𝘰̈𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘹𝘒𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪-𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴/𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴.

⌦ 𝙁𝙖𝙣𝙛𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨

𝘍𝘦𝘮! 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘈𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘕𝘪𝘬𝘵𝘰 𝘛𝘰 𝘊𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘱 𝘏𝘦𝘳 𝘉𝘳𝘢 5/10/2024

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘥𝘳𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 𝘤𝘳𝘢𝘻𝘺." — 𝘖𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥! 𝘕𝘪𝘬𝘵𝘰 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 23/8/2024

𝘕𝘪𝘬𝘵𝘰 𝘈𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵 𝘋𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦 30/6/2024

𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘉𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘔𝘺 𝘉𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬𝘧𝘢𝘴𝘵 (König) 1/4/2024

𝘡𝘰𝘮𝘣𝘪𝘦 𝘈𝘱𝘰𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘺𝘱𝘴𝘦 𝘈𝘜 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘎𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘵 2/1/2024

👑 𝘒𝘰̈𝘯𝘪𝘨 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 9/10/2023

👑 𝘙𝘘: "𝘊𝘢𝘯'𝘵 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱?" 𝘒𝘰̈𝘯𝘪𝘨 𝘹 𝘎𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘯𝘦𝘶𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 16/9/2023

👑 𝘒𝘰̈𝘯𝘪𝘨 𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘭𝘥 31/8/2023

👑 "𝘊𝘢𝘯 𝘐 𝘴𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦?" 𝘒𝘰̈𝘯𝘪𝘨 𝘟 𝘎𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘯𝘦𝘶𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 (𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵 2) 27/8/2023

𝘚𝘦𝘭𝘧-𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘒𝘰̈𝘯𝘪𝘨 𝘟 𝘎𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘯𝘦𝘶𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 25/8/2023

👑 "𝘊𝘢𝘯 𝘐 𝘴𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦?" 𝘒𝘰̈𝘯𝘪𝘨 𝘟 𝘎𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳-𝘯𝘦𝘶𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 20/8/2023

⌦ 𝙃𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙘𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙣𝙨

𝘏𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘕𝘪𝘬𝘵𝘰'𝘴 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱* 9/10/2024

𝘕𝘪𝘬𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴 2/8/2024

𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘕𝘪𝘬𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴 29/5/2024

𝘎𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘢𝘭 𝘕𝘪𝘬𝘵𝘰 𝘏𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴* 18/5/2024

𝘏𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘯𝘴 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘒𝘰̈𝘯𝘪𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴 🎃🍂 30/10/2023

𝘒𝘰̈𝘯𝘪𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘵 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴🥺🥺 + 𝘧𝘢𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘒𝘰̈𝘯𝘪𝘨 𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴🤭 2/10/2023

¹𝘔𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘢 ²𝘊𝘢𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘶𝘦 (𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴/𝘥𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘴🥴) both 25/9/2023

𝘐𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘒𝘰̈𝘯𝘪𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴 24/9/2023

𝘒𝘰̈𝘯𝘪𝘨 𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘰𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴 5/9/2023

𝘙𝘘: 𝘒𝘰̈𝘯𝘪𝘨 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘚/𝘖 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘴 ✨𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯✨ 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘰𝘯𝘴 1/9/2023

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𝘼𝙨 𝙤𝙛 19/9/2023:

Do not use, sample, or publish any of my fanfictions to any other sites. Plagiarism (the blatant copying of my writing) will NOT be tolerated.

Just because this has been officially disclosed as of 19/9/2023 does NOT give you the right to use, sample, or publish any of my works prior to this date.

© @aking10592_ (Kinga, myself) for all of the fanfictions listed above.

Other people's AUs — as well as any inspiration from other works — are linked respectively in each post, alongside their username and tag, always working with permission explicity given to make use of their ideas. If by chance any creator changes their mind about my take on their original idea, I will rightfully take the fanfiction in question down.

"Call of Duty" Franchise © Infinity Ward, Treyarch, Sledgehammer Games, and Raven Software.

"Call of Duty Modern Warfare (2019/2022)" © Infinity Ward.

None of the characters (König/Ghost/Nikto) belong to me, and are rightfully owned by the respective studio(s).

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Masterlist Updated 5/10/2024

Self-aware König X Gender-neutral Reader

Word count: ~2800

König slowly comes to the realisation that he was in a game, that he was never real, and that he'll never be with reader.

His sense of self deteriorates as all he wishes for is to escape from the boundaries of his code and be real.

In this instance, ignorance really *was* bliss.

*Slow burn

*König has a mental breakdown at one point lmao

Edit on same day: HOLY SHIT thank u for so many notes!!!!!!!!!!! 🥹🥹💞💞💞💞💞 You guys are so nice 🫣🫣

*Self-aware AU belongs to @puff0o0 !!!🥳🥳 (The girl behind the disguise🥸... Was rthis loser all along!!!!! 😈😈imagine giving permission to 👍THIS 👍idiot to write Ur fic idea lol u made a mistake 💀💀💀ok but idid my best not to ruin their awesome au with this pathetic controbution and jope I honoured it well 😭😭 but fr i had been stalking their profile since the begigning of their self aware! au and ivloved their acc 🥺🥺I love their imagines and how they fulfill the request yet leave enoith for imaginstion !! (which, don't mind if I do🤠all of the König scenarios added tovmy incessant daydreamimg hhhhhhhhh oh no),, and when they followed me I was staring at my phone with the BIGGEST goofy grin on my face 🥹🥹Thank YOU sm!!!!! 🫂MUCH LOVE!!!!!!!!!!💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞

*To anyone waiting (I've gotten such lovely messages from people saying they liked my first fic (which made me so happy as it was the first ever fanfiction I published online🥹🥹)), Part TWO of my first fic is on its way !!!,, I didn't want to make u guys all fluffy 🥰🩷💘✨🤗 inside only to tear your hearts 💔🥀🗡️🗡️😭 in two witj this 😿 dw I promise to reward u guys with another fic and cute himbo (and absolute menace while on the battlefield 👹)König <33, with King X König having more wholesome interactions in the near future!!

If you had told König that he wasn't real, he would have looked at you blankly and said nothing, passing off your suggestion as a joke of sorts that he possibly couldn't understand.

Perhaps if he was ever faced with a situation like this he'd question you about it, but nothing more, and drop the subject at hand.

Honestly, the likelihood of him ever thinking over this twice would have been slim, as he would not pay your philosophy much thought shortly afterwards.

In fact, he believed that his life as a Kortac operator was indeed a real one, and he wore his embroided Austrian flag on his shoulder with something next to pride, always praised for his outstanding efforts by his superiors in the same tone of voice. To König, however, it meant nothing, and he'd only nod his head in an attempt at gratitude, turning his back to the commemoration in indifference.

Despite not remembering anything of his childhood, his upbringing — hell, even any of his past prior to becoming a soldier — König didn't ever think over it too deeply. The overwhelming pressure to make sure missions went without a hitch and constant deployments to foreign countries left no time to reminisce, especially not when his work was so demanding, and it only made sense to him that they were the reason for his forgotten memories.

Besides, even if he had time to spare and be inactive, he had to stay focused, as being an operator meant that he couldn't let any nostalgia or softness distract him from his tasks.

On the battlefield, König worked on autopilot, performing finishing kills with efficiency and with machine-like precision. Reacting quickly to enemies ambushing him from behind or an enemy that was laying on the floor behind the corner waiting to shoot him in the head, he'd eliminate the targets with bullets to spare. Really, he was unstoppable, and he was on a killing streak.

Until he was shot in the head one day.

The moment it happened, the shot was like an explosion that almost obliterated his eardrums, outside noise deafened like his head was underwater. All he could hear was the high-pitched ringing, and it held an uncanny resemblance to the beeping of a heart rate monitor machine that he would never lay next to, dying instead on a bed of cold rubble and broken shrapnel.

Somehow conscious enough to look around, his mind was completely empty, eyes attempting to adjust. What he'd assumed would happen in a time like this was his mind flashing with memories like a movie reel in his last moments, his entire life playing out in his final dying seconds.

Yet he remembered nothing. No Mama, no Papa, no childhood or any his life trials, nothing that had changed him and moulded his character, not even his motive for enlisting into the military in the first place.

The part that was most unnerving about all this was his complete apathy to it all.

Did he even care that he was dying? Shouldn't he at least feel regret at having essentially been the one to pull the trigger, cutting his own life short with the lifestyle he had committed himself to? Why wasn't he scared, sad, even bewildered at the very least, shocked that his life would soon end so unceremoniously? Fuck, not even mild disappointment at least at not even had travelled the world, and failing to ever explore any place besides abandoned buildings housing hostages and terrorist bases swarming with foes? Nothing at all?

Unable to process his situation, König just... laid there, unmoving, while his surroundings moved in double speed. Nondescript figures holding rifles wearing camo and balaclavas blurred in his vision, and he couldn't differentiate the enemy from his own.

Slowly losing consciousness, he felt his world darken around him, dulling his senses to the mayhem unfolding in real time. He'd accepted his fate, and could do nothing about it. That was that. And this was it.

It was a shock to his system when a silhouetted hand pulled him up by the arm limp by his side and shouted in his face, "Get up, soldier! This is no place to die!"

König didn't need to be told twice. He nodded his head robotically, his eyes looking ahead of him with a thousand-yard stare, and not even sparing a glance to the anonymous ally that saved him, he picked up the his gun off the floor and loaded another magazine into it with a satisfying click.

In his delirium, he worked on autopilot after that, shooting at anything that shot at him first. Too much in a daze, he was past the point of realising that the gaping bullet wound had suddenly sealed itself, vanishing entirely and leaving no mark that it was ever there.

After that, König didn't realise that he wasn't real when any injuries still didn't affect him. He assumed that his insensitivity to wounds was a result of a high pain tolerance, and his body healing miraculously was his ability to regenerate fast.

Although he would lay on the ground, his arm outstretched while through gritted teeth shouting: "Scheisse! Ich brauche hier Hilfe! I need some help over here!"; truth be told, he'd only do so when he after getting used to seeing so many bodies writhe in pain like so, and something for some reason told him that it was the right thing to do.

Waking up moments after not far from the spot he supposedly died in a daze, all bullet wounds gone, he didn't have time in the moment to think over the specifics of his death. Maybe he was hallucinating, or remembering things incorrectly.

König began to suspect that something was wrong when he'd hear his operators say the same sentence word for word. He rationalised that the constant shooting that never ceased even late into the night and dangerous missions that left him with far too many close calls put pressure on his mind. This mania amongst soldiers in the military was a common phenomenon after all, so it shouldn't have been as much of a surprise for König when he felt waves of déjà vu at hearing statements he could have sworn were related to him before at one point, and going to infiltrate areas that were vaguely familiar.

At some point, he thought something was REALLY wrong when he was storming a military base with... a sniper rifle.

Time stood still as he inspected the weapon in his hands, eyes wide.

That... was impossible. He had never been a sniper. True, he had wanted to be one from the beginning, yet he had adapted to his role as the main means of assault, always on the offensive rather on the defensive. So then... Why?

Adding to that, his appearance would differ. They were subtle changes at first, yet still noticeable: a red helmet instead of his black; an ochre hood instead of his black veil with its signature red streaks; a sniper camoflauge when that disguise had never been in his possession before; and even a gas mask with a hazmat suit when he had been wearing something else altogether on the helicopter heading towards its destination.

Although König hadn't know it yet, his reality was slowly shattering along the cracks, but he stubbornly fought the gnawing feeling that ate him up from the inside. He had to stay focused, he repeated to himself. No time to ponder when a task was at hand.

"All units ready your weapons, and in position immediately." Through his walkie-talkie, a voice began counting down the time left before the mission would begin. "60 seconds."

König checked all of his gear, making sure that everything was in place and he was fully equipped. A rifle, a side-arm, ammo, grenades, a med kit for an emergency and a knife. "40 seconds."

Looking up into the sky and straight into the sun, he didn't need to cover his sight as his eyes weren't affected by it at all. Yet, his eyes squinted in confusion, sensing that he was seeing something that he wasn't meant to see behind the glowing eye. "20 seconds."

He saw more than an eye. An ear, a nose, then a mouth. A face.

He saw you.

You were looking at him through a screen, holding a controller and waiting to start playing your game.

His reality shattered all at once, and he stumbled on his feet, unable to regain his balance, feeling himself go weak in the knees. He tuned out the all-important seconds through the communication device, unable to compose himself as for the first time ever he struggled to breathe.

Suddenly, all of it made sense.

People telling him the same things and never deviating from the topic of the mission, the reawakenings, the pain insensitivity — all of it was because none of it was never real.

People never branched off into other topics of conversation because their sole existence was limited to a few hand-selected voiceliness and idle animations. With each upgrade and level up, König had gotten praise from from him superiors, which explained how emotionless their announcements always sounded and why they were so constant.

The frequent brushes with death weren't a matter of luck, and instead it was just his entity respawning until a certain condition was met, until either Kortac or Specgru came out victorious — otherwise, he could "die" as many times as it took until the time ran out.

He was unfazed by bullets that grazed him and knives that tore though his flesh as he could physically feel no pain, his very existence artificial, his skin composed of pixels with no human matter hidden beneath them.

And, his inability to trace back to before he was transferred to Kortac was all because it was all he was programmed to know. There was no childhood. There was no Mama or Papa. It was just him in this world, and he had been manufactured, his thoughts and behaviours fabricated.

For a moment, he considered you the creator of his word, his God, and felt forsaken. He wanted to curse you, to snap your neck in his hands and watch your head drop lifelessly in his hold.

Yet it became apparent that you weren't the one behind this realm. Seeing the headphones strapped to your head and the controller held in anticipation in your hands, you were simply indulging in a past time, and weren't to blame for his state in any way. It wasn't your fault that you were unknowingly playing as a König trapped in the game.

You let out a groan of frustration, mashing buttons on your controller in an attempt to get König to move.

"What the fuck is going on?!" You hissed, trying in any way you could to start playing. Checking your router and the game's ping, you saw that your connection was secure, and that there was no reason for König to be frozen in place. "Fucking piece of shit console."

König shook his head, still disbelieving and unable to accept his fictional reality, yet hearing the sound of your voice made everything an even tougher pill to swallow. He had to stay in character. For you; it was the least that he could do.

After the initial lag at the beginning of the match, the game went smoothly and you couldn't find any faults. However, you suddenly noticed that your movements over König improved, moving with more fluidity and suddenly taking less damage than what you would normally use to. Headshot after headshot and kills all of the time poured onto on your screen until you'd find yourself being ganged up by bitter players wanting to ruin your streak as revenge.

Still, you topped the leaderboards with a new personal record that night. 97 kills to 0 deaths flashed on your screen, and you jumped up from your gaming chair, ecstatic, almost knocking it over in the process.

König felt butterflies in his stomach seeing you smile and jump around excitedly, and that's when he had found his purpose.

From that moment on, you became his lifeline. You gave the unfeeling König something to live for, a motive to keep fighting that he hadn't been given when being created in the game — for you and your greater good.

Really, you made him feel things: made him feel alive; made him fight with more passion and determination when your happiness was on the line.

He fell... In love.

The feelings and emotions he felt in his chest chest were genuine, and weren't pre-written in a script or manipulated by a third-party. Even the bullets that would pierce through his gear and leave him on the ground withering in agony was worth it, and he'd exchange his invincibility any day to feel what he felt when he saw your face, and the smile that tugged at your lips when you were revived or got a difficult kill.

His love for you was immortal, and it would persist through generations and could last for a lifetime, and König was almost certain that you could feel all of his energy channelling through your TV.

He found himself lovingly staring at you through the screen, admiring you as if you were an ephemeral being, a beautiful angel, even when your hair was greasy, your old tee had armpit stains and your eyes were bloodshot from how long you had been playing. Really, none of that put König off — if anything, all of those made you so distinctly you, so human.

Yet, König was in love with someone that was practically in another dimension and he would never speak to them, never touch them, never share thoughts and pass the time doing everything and nothing with them. None of that, because he wasn't real.

Had his life improved now they he had grown self-awareness? Had his ignorance really been bliss before his revelation? Perhaps if he had been another NPC that only gained manipulated consciousness whenever the player spawned in the map he wouldn't be so stricken with grief and crouched over in agony, the knuckles on his hands turning white from how fervently he was gripping his mask. He'd hyperventilate off-screen, sometimes the torment being too much.

Being so close to you yet being restricted to his three-dimensional world was bittersweet at the least, and internal suffering at most. His insatiable craving to be with you, and you with him only, fuelled his desperation, and he tried to keep you with him for as long as possible through any means necessary.

When you selected an operator that wasn't König, your game glitched heavily and would even crash whenever you made the mistake of even complimenting their design, and God forbid whenever you tried to play as someone other than him, as your console would near explode.

When you'd boot up a different game on your PlayStation, your loading screen would suddenly transport you back to the one of MW2, König greeting you with a voiceline that he reserved and perfected just for you:

"Welcome back, schatz. I have been waiting for you." Because he treasured you, and you were the only person that he could ever have feelings for.

Perhaps a recent update was fucking up your console, or it was just malfunctiong due to age. Either way, playing on an eight year old PS4 meant it could only run for so long and glitches like this were inevitable, yet you persisted in keeping the console running, not in your budget to afford to upgrade.

You'd search frantically on the internet for any information about the new König voicelines and whether there was any resolution for your problem when playing CoD, something telling you that your game was not functioning in the way that it should.

A thought crossed your mind that König had gone rogue, and you tried to laugh it off. Swallowing thickly, that still didn't relieve the deep pit in your stomach. If anything, the mere idea made it worse for you, and you'd get an intense gut feeling that would make you feel dizzy whenever König would make eyes contact with you and stand there, making you question whether he was acting out of character or not.

His attempts to keep you with him were commendable, yet none of it could change the fact that it would never be anything more than one-sided pining, a deep longing for a person whose world kept spinning while his stopped once you logged off the game, his day ending abruptly and being consumed by darkness.

For now, König had to content himself with being stuck behind a screen. He wished so desperately to be able to touch you, to escape this human generated world that trapped him in these bounds, and to find who he really is when with you. Shrouded in this deep black void, all he could do was wait patiently until you'd boot up the game again.

A hand was placed on his side of the screen longingly, resting it gently on the face on the other side.

Note: this wasn't meant to be so sad ,how did an idea of König popping out from the screen turnvto this 😭😭

"Can I sit here?" König x Gender-neutral Reader (Part 2)

Word count: ~2700

König finally asks you out on a date!

*Slow burn

*Friends (to Lovers?)

*FINALLT a Part 2 to 👉👉this fic rught here!! Tysm to those for being so patient in regards to part 2 kf this fic!!!😽 i hope u guys think this js good enoigh to be the sequel 😢😢😢 😢 Lots of fluff!!! 🥺🥺SOME suggestive themes but only if u squint 🧐

*Author STILL doesn't speak German!! 🇩🇪🙅🏼(im so sorru to any German-speakers thst xan see thru my Google Translate and whince in pain 😬Not mucj i can do abt it 🤷🏼‍♀️otber than spend 3 yrs learning the language and i do NOT ❌have time for thst‼️sorry😿)

...

Life on the barracks was still as mundane as ever for König.

With no new information on any recent targets or any gang syndicates appearing on their radar, he had to ease in to this rather boring lifestyle, his only source of entertainment being at target practice. Never really paying much thought to what he could get up to when he had free time — the truth was, he had never had any — he essentially was left twiddling his thumbs, this being the worst part about his job.

With no hobbies, König chose to kill time by going to the gym more often, working out with high intensity. On particularly slow days he'd enter the gym for a second time, going in when he knew no one else would be around so he would have the equipment all to himself.

He still wasn't a fan of the monotony, yet he grew more appreciative as a new factor entered his schedule, the recent recruit that had made his life more interesting: you.

Ever since that day when you chose to sit at his table, you always walked to the corner of the cafeteria where he was sitting with something new to tell, and König would listen attentively, not looking away from you once. Having you chat in front of him every morning and afternoon gave him something to look forward to during the otherwise uneventful mornings and afternoons, and he over time became more pleasant to be with and less and less awkward.

He'd wait eagerly at his usual table, looking forward to seeing your face. You made it your due diligence to prepare him something the day before, which would usually be the same that you would have, and the two of you would eat in a comfortable silence, König always being complimentary about the food no matter how simple it was to prepare.

"Mein Gott! Delicious, this is, maus! You really are talented," he'd proclaim, the sound muffled by a mouthful of food.

Maus. You had noticed König begin dropping in words like that when addressing you instead of your call-sign, yet you, being an ignorant Westerner, couldn't even Google their meanings as you had no clue how attempt to spell them. Maus, on the other hand, was self-explanatory; your height difference made you look like a "mouse" to him. You weren't sure whether to take it as a compliment or not, but you didn't question it further.

Shaking your head with a smile, you'd wave a dismissive hand at his remarks. "Eh, those are just simple pancakes. It would be hard for someone to not make them delicious, in all honesty."

"Nein, I mean it!" He'd reply in earnest, not breaking eye contact. "No one could replicate the... the flavour! The—" König struggled for words, his vocabulary limited enough as it was, yet with you in front of him he'd be unable to recall nothing that he had been taught in his English lessons.

Still, he'd persevere. "Das köstliche aroma! It's— so good. Very good."

A bashful laugh. "Okay, okay, König! I get it." You placed a hand on your chest, trying to downplay the rising blush on your cheeks. "Really, I'm flattered. Thank you."

To which König's eyes would crinkle, a sure sign of a thick smile under that hood of his. He was glad you couldn't see it, though, as he was sure he looked like an idiot.

When you'd be late by a few minutes, König could feel himself start to panic, his mind racing with possibilities at what could have happened to you. His anxiety was irrational yet his alarm was nothing short from genuine, only having good intentions; to keep you from harm's way.

He wanted to protect you, but he didn't know your schedule yet, thus hated not knowing where you were at all times. Tense shoulders visibly relaxed seeing you hurry through the double doors, and he'd let out a sigh of relief, trying to remember what he had planned to say, last minute rehearsals gone over in his head.

All of that careful planning went of out of the window, though, as the two of you would talk about everything and nothing, sometimes about something deep and philosophical; other times, your favourite type of cheese, and each rave about them respectively for five minutes flat.

You were a breath of fresh air for König, which was why he was now training with such vigour.

When working out, König made minimal noise, his movements quick and controlled. This time, however, he was grunting with effort, working until maximum exhaustion and completely drenched in sweat.

Before, he had never bothered with his appearance, only carrying the basic neccesities and wearing tactical gear that was comfortable enough and wasn't too tight. With his height, it was difficult enough to find form-fitting clothes to begin with, and damn near impossible when his bulk was considered, so any clothing that somewhat fit was good enough to König to wear on a day-to-day basis.

Yet, on numerous occasions, he found himself staring at his barren closet, contemplating over what outfit would look best with the few options he had.

Thinking of you made him want to look better for you, to make him worth your time, and he busied himself with searching on the internet and comparing reviews for the best cologne, for the best aftershave, even finding the best shirts from a niche private retailer that nearly catered to his needs to a tee, and he'd specifically select t-shirts that revealed his bulging biceps whenever he crossed his arms and would show off his body to you. A physique he maintained and would improve with you in mind, not necessarily for the sake of being the ideal soldier.

He would practice conversation in the mirror, thinking up of the funniest jokes to say, the most interesting topics to bring up. Suddenly, the English textbooks that were long forgotten about under his bed and the dust-covered German-English dictionary became of use, and he'd study the words, the idioms, the grammar, committing it all to memory. A pencil in hand and a lamp shining down on the notebook in front of him, he'd write late into the night, improving his sentence structure and mastering the expressions he had highlighted earlier, not knowing their definitions.

You were worth the effort, and he vowed to do this right. He wanted to impress you, and didn't want you to ditch him or think of him as less for the way he presented himself.

He'd shower and comb the hair back that you wouldn't see (yet he felt it a necessary thing to do, just in case), and generously sprayed himself with scented deodorant, before going to his usual spot at the cafeteria with his chest puffed out, hoping he looked immaculate.

And he did. His colleagues and lower-downs noticed this shift in his charisma and his growing confidence, actively taking advantage of his status rather than watching passively in the back of the room. They could sense his presence as he was walking down the corridors, yet rather than immediately looking down at the ground, instead saluted him with a respectful: "Good afternoon, Colonel Sir."

Really, he was elated. He had never felt this happy in years, and he was loving this feeling, walking around base now with a self-assured swagger to his step.

Waiting, though, was the worst part about your encounters. Minutes felt like hours as König held a hand over his bouncing knee to keep it in place, his stomach fluttering with butterflies as he waited in anticipation.

Truth was, you'd always be worn out after training after your instructor pushed you to your limits, and sometimes took longer in getting ready and making yourself look presentable than other times because your joints were aching and your clothes stuck to you from how sweaty you were.

Now, quickly combing your hair and rolling some deodorant under your armpits, you had a goofy grin on your face, excited to see König again.

König, the 6'10 giant who was really just a sweet Austrian man to you.

His dead enemies, however, would be rolling in their graves and yelling in protest at the thought of you calling the brutal murderer that snapped their necks like they were twigs "sweet".

Really, you were ignorant to people's stances on him, and would defend his honour on his behalf with innocent stubbornness, with naive certainty that you were right. After all, he was a gentle giant!

Even if his total 180 shift was true, you doubted the full extent of his brutality. So what if he got a little aggressive? Adrenaline could do a lot to a man!

Still yet to see the side of him that König was trying desperately to keep hidden from you, he intended to keep it that way for as long as he could.

Counting down the seconds on his watch, König was sure you'd come in any moment now. A minute passing and he imagined that you'd come rushing in though the doors, frantically apologising for taking so long before sitting down and giving all of your attention to him, giving him the attention that he had never received from anyone so attractive before.

This meeting, however, was going to be different. He had revised all that he had wanted to say and exactly how he wanted to say it, until the words were permanently engraved in his brain.

At last, the double doors opened and there you were, a lopsided smile on your face as you speed-walked towards his table, already apologising sincerely and explaining why you were late by a few minutes before you had even sat down yet.

Honestly, your kindness towards König was too much for him to bear, and his heart was near the point of exploding from joy from having you so concerned over punctuality, when he considered it a blessing that the engel in front of him would even spare him any time of their day.

Eyes crinkling in a smile, König shook his head. "Nein, schatz. There is not a thing to be sorry for."

"But there is! I always keep you waiting and It's my bad," you said, rubbing your arm. "Sorry."

He shook his head again, this time reassuringly. "Don't be."

Then, added. "You're worth the wait."

Not knowing what to make of this, you sat down, trying to hide the fact that his remark flustered you.

Coughing as you deliberately tried to change topics. "How was your day, König? Beat up any bad guys at all?"

A chuckle. "Das ist lustig," he admitted. "Funny, but I wish. Only been at the gym today. But I also have been devoting some of my time to studying English."

Raised eyebrows in admiration as you nodded your head. "Your English has certainly improved, König," you observed, noticing how König would commit fewer and fewer grammar mistakes when speaking, until he was confident enough to even use some colloquial idioms of his own. Of course, some of the German ones didn't translate so well, yet you couldn't deny that there was improvement.

Not having told König anything about it, you yourself had actually begun learning some German on your own to surprise him with it one day, yet with how you were progressing at the moment you thought that this would be better left unsaid for the time being. Your knowledge of the language only went as far as "Guten morgen" and "Mein Name ist King". So, nothing extraordinary.

You smiled, your eyes reflecting the cafeteria lights. "I'm sure by the end of this year you'll be the most well-spoken on base! You'll probably become more fluent than me soon."

König was lost in your sparkling eyes, his sight taking in all of your features. You were so beautiful, so perfect.

"Danke, schön, but I still have a long way to go." Momentarily glancing at your lips for a split of a second, before he quickly cleared his throat. "I had... I had actually something to ask you, maus."

You tilted your head, eyebrows furrowed. "Really? What is it?"

The expectant expression on your face made König's voice hitch in his throat, suddenly forgetting all that he had carefully rehearsed and had revised for consecutive afternoons. "Y-you see—"

A thoughtful pause as he considered his next words, weighing the pros and cons of risking it all. "—From the day you sat down at my table, I— I've never felt this happiness in all my years on this world," he began steadily.

"My childhood... was... not the best—" He winced, and did not elaborate further. You didn't push him to, and waited patiently for him to finish. "—But... you make all those times I was unhappy forgettable when I make new memories with you. I couldn't be happier when you're with me. And—"

König took in a deep breath. "...Will you— will you do me the honour... of going on a date with me?"

Shock. This was not what you had expected. At all.

Your eyes were wide and throat dry as you licked your lips. No one had ever asked you on a date before. You hadn't dated a single person in all your years of living, or even went as far as having your first kiss, which was embarassing to admit. Too afraid to put yourself out there and keeping reserved in fear that you wouldn't be good enough, those same doubts entered your mind as you imagined König with someone better, someone more intelligent and more attractive, someone that always knew what to say in moments like these.

Not you, this moron that couldn't even learn some basic German for him, and the family's disappointing child which enlisted in the military as a last resort, with no qualifications good enough to secure you another job.

As you looked at the floor, König regretted ever bringing this up.

Oh Gods, did he cross a boundary? What if you didn't like him the way he liked you? What if— what if you were already in a relationship?! What if you were too nice to turn him down and tell him the truth?

It suddenly occured to you that you had not replied to König's proposal for a whole minute, and you pulled yourself together, reaching despairingly for his hand with a trembling one of your own, fearing that you blew everything.

"Oh my God, König— yes. Yes! I'd love to go on a date with you!"

König let out a breath that he didn't know he had been holding. "—Really? You— want to go on a date... with me?"

You nodded emphatically, compensating for your lack of response. "Yes! Fuck, I'm so sorry for not saying anything, I just—"

Quiet laughter. "I know, you're late to things," he teased, your face red. "Schatz, I think... I think we can make this work. Is— is it okay if I pick you up at 6 on Friday?"

"It's more than okay! It's perfect, König!" A goofy grin as you couldn't contain your child-like excitement. Then, a sheepish rub of the neck. "And... I pinky promise that I will be ready on time. I wouldn't miss our date for the world."

Later on, as he was rounding the corner and knew no one could see him, he punched at the air enthusiastically, feeling like he had just won the lottery; only, the grand prize was you.

Locking his bedroom door and immediately crossing off the date on his calendar, his body dropped on a chair.

With his head on his palm, he smiled.

He couldn't wait to see you again.

...

Note: I fed u guys with a fluffy fic in preparation for my upcoming one as imGONNA BREAK UR HEARTS INTO A MILLION PIECES WITH THE NEXT ONE U READ👺👺my next fic is angst Angst ANGST and u habe to be mentslly prepared for it... 💔

If u are sad throighout it and feel empty inside dont say that i djdnt warn you beacuse its gonna be some REAL shit rjbht there and abojt to get HELLA Depressing🗿🗿

Thankfully it is going to have SOME sort of happy conclusion to rub less salt in ur wounds🥲 and on top of that I posted this first so u dont get a doible whammy of angst<33

König mistakenly shoots you on the battlefield

König x Gender-neutral Reader

Word count: ~4500

*SLOW burn but when my writing finally has that spark this fic catches FIRE and FAST so be prepared!! 🔥🔥

*⚠️Angst Angst! ANGST!⚠️

*THABK YOU SO SO SO MUCH TO AZZY MY NO.1 FAN FOR THIS AMAZING IDEA!!!! 🥰🥰🥰I LOVE *YOU* VERY MUCH!! 🥹🫶🫶💞💞💞💞 💞💞💞💞💞THANK UVFOR ALWAUS LIKING MYNPOSTS AND BEING SO KIND TO ME YOU MAKE EBERY HOIR SPENT WRITING WORTH IT AS I AM ALWAYS EAGER FOR YOUR MESSAGES😭😭💓💓💓💓💓💓I AM *YOUR* NO.1 APPRECIATOR IN ALL RHE GALAXIES🌌🚀✨🌠QNDVWISH U ALL THE BEST ALWAYS!!!!!!🫂🫂💗💗 THIS ENTJRE POST IS DEDICATED TO YOU !!! 🥹(,,havinf said that, i hope u arent TOO taken aback bu tje level of angst here 💀💀REALLT went overboard and I completely apologize 💔)

TWs: König is in love with you. König's sanity slowly deteriorates as the fanfiction progresses. Mentions of attempted suicide, graphic depictions of gore, potentially triggering depictions of depression. König has suicidal thoughts after shooting you. König experiences intense trauma after shooting you and has survivor's guilt.

*Reader's callsign is "King". Implied age gap. One-sided pining from König... but the ending is purposefully kept ambigous (as you, the reader, can interpret the final interaction however you like)! Can be read as a standalone if you have never read any of my works before. <3

*To clarify to those that have already read my works before, this is *NOT* a direct continuation to 1.my fluffy 2.series! This is a separate imagine, but DOES take place in the same KönigxKing microchosm. Whether the following events take place in an alternate timeline or happen at some point in the future/past is for you to decide. Idk man i just write the fics I don't do the world buidling 🗿I write sotires without thingign about the greater picture u honestly think my one shots will tie to a greater plot?☹️No 💔

...

Right from the beginning, König had a gut feeling that this mission was going to go wrong.

It was a deep sense of foreboding in the pit of his stomach, making him feel queasy on the helicopter ride as the both of you with an additional three others were scheduled for contact in a few minutes' time.

You were just a recruit, and this mission was far too intense for someone with next to no experience in an active warzone for it to be their first. He knew the dangers of missions like this, knew how things could go horribly wrong in an instant.

It wasn't that he doubted your ability. Not at all. From the corner of the room he would silently supervise as you sparred another person, monitoring your movements incase your opponent had the upperhand and you needed guidance.

However, he had never needed to intervene, as he was impressed with your quick reactions and your controlled steps as you'd move on the balls of your feet, arms held up in front of your face. Ambition was in your eyes, your face scrunched up in concentration as you calculated your next move.

You'd defend yourself up until the moment you'd pounce and in a blink of an eye be on top of your opponent, your entire weight pressed on their theirs on the ground. Whether it was another woman, another man, or even a person with bigger bulk you were clearly disadvantaged by, you'd never give up, and took on any challenge with an impressionable passion of a young recruit.

Once they'd be the one to tap out, you'd immediately push yourself off them and offer them a hand, asking them "Are you alright?" in a concerned tone as you were pulling them up. "Sorry for getting aggressive there, sir/miss! I hope I didn't hurt you!"

To which they'd respond with boisterous laughter and a strong clap on your back, you doubled over as they were congratulating you for knocking them off their two feet and telling you to keep up the good work. König couldn't wipe the triumphant smile from his face, filled with pride at your personal victory.

Once you'd be the one to tap out, you'd part ways honourably, never disrespecting the person that came out on top. If anything, your loss only added fuel to the fire burning in your eyes, driven to work harder. He still admired you, and would be the one to pull you up as he dusted you off, telling you that you did a great job regardless.

"Thank you, sir!" You'd reply bashfully, face red from effort and embarassment. "Though, I'm sure I made a fool of myself with how I was flailing my arms just then..."

"Nein. Not at all," he'd say, eyes glinting with something that you couldn't quite recognize. "You did very well."

Target practice displayed your accurate aim, wool seeping out from the heads of dummies and the targets regularly replaced as the wood would cling in pieces, the center blasted into smithereens by repeated bullseyes from you.

Always lingering nearby to assist, you would gratefully accept König's help and allow him to demonstrate how to operate another gun with an appreciative smile on your face, your genuine eagerness to learn making König's chest tighten. You seemingly never knew the effect you had on him.

You were a naturally skilled soldier, he had observed, and he knew that you'd make an incredible addition to the team, he couldn't deny that.

Yet, he couldn't shake off this feeling as something more grave.

All personel debriefed and the plan disclosed a week prior, the superior went over the plan once more back at base. A large blueprint spilling over the table with weak spots and areas to beware were annotated, his forefinger pointing at different areas of interest. Sketches, photographs, and jottings were displayed from a projector for all to see as you listened closely.

König's jaws were grinding against each other in agitation, having doubts about you being deployed on this mission.

Despite this operation being portayed as an in and out extraction, König knew better. He knew what the stakes were. Intuition urged him to warn you, to confide in you about his doubts and even considered crossing your name off the list and assigning you elsewhere last minute without anyone knowing.

But the thought that he could be controlling you — a young, innocent recruit — and even considered doing something so foul didn't sit right with him.

You were your own person, and he couldn't be your shadow, couldn't act as a human shield against all that was cruel and gruesome in life. You had chosen this job, and therefore must have had at least some idea of what your responsibilities would entail, some knowledge of what soldiers go through in pursuit of glory.

Instead of being so pertubed, he should keep it together, he thought, should maintain a stoic façade. He was your superior — your colonel, for God's sake — he was someone you aspired to be, someone that should be an inspiration, a role model, someone that could have your back and be a reliable body to fall back on.

Not someone that couldn't keep it together when you around.

Especially when he shouldn't have been having feelings for you.

You, a young person vulnerable and easily influenced by people older than you, by the likes of him.

It wasn't right. He wasn't right for what he was feeling, for what he had been thinking. It wasn't right for his feelings to cloud his judgement, wasn't right that abusing his power had even crossed his mind, let alone been tempted to act upon it.

Your voice pulled him from his thoughts. "König? Are you alright, sir?"

Turning his head to face you, he nodded with false certainty, containing his worry in an attempt to appear confident for you.

"Ja, King, it's okay. Just thinking, that's all."

You quirked a brow, not convinced. "Hey."

Placing a firm hand on his shoulder, a serious expression was on your face, which caught König off guard and made his eyes widen. "If you're thinking that I'm going to get myself killed then you've got another thing coming, because I will NOT get shot by the enemy."

His back slumped over a little, averting his gaze for a moment. "Nein, sie haben recht."

"Ich sollte nicht zulassen, dass meine Gefühle mein Urteilsvermögen trüben." König mumbled something else under his breath in German, then quickly shook his head and laughed, looking into your eyes again.

Tension in his body was eased a little. "No, you're right."

A little. Because he wasn't going to dismiss the thoughts gnawing at the back of his head as mere paranoia.

You perked up. "Good, glad we've got that cleared up, sir! I want you to know that I won't disappoint!"

His heart skipped a beat at your smile, so eager to please and make him proud, that he shuffled uncomfortably, trying to get the butterflies in his stomach to calm down. Now wasn't the time.

Idly fidgeting with his combat knife as the helicopter blades hummed above, he went back to thinking over all the possibilities and different ways this mission could go awry:

...What if these were the wrong coordinates, or the helicopter would be attacked the minute they landed? The thought of an ambush wasn't an irrational one — it had happened before, he reminded himself — so he had brought a few more weapon crates than necessary for safekeeping.

...What if the helicopter's signal was intercepted and everyone including the pilot were destined for a fatal crash? Counting the number of parachutes and noting the fire exit, he could rest a little easier if an emergency like that was to arise, yet it still did little to soothe his nerves.

...What if you really did get shot? In case that happened, he had alerted some operators beforehand to serve as re-enforcements, one of those on board including a skilled army medic, under the guise of needing more manpower in case things went south. After all, this extraction could not have go wrong. It shouldn't have gone wrong.

But... what if you died? König wouldn't know how to deal with the feelings associated with your death, knowing that he had loved you from afar yet never acted on it. At least he'd be able to keep his shameful secret a secret, and you'd pass away never knowing what he truly saw you as, truly thought of you.

He had little time to figure out what was causing the trepidation to stiffen his muscles as the helicopter suddenly swerved and lowered, landing kilometres away from the designated building yet on unstable ground nonetheless. Any moment soldiers could attack it if they had known the group's location, so the blades kept spinning and the engine kept running for an immediate getaway.

König assumed authority. "Everyone remember the plan?"

Four heads nodded in sync.

"Gut. Then you all know what to do. I will enter from the side with my Lieutenant—" he said, gesturing with his head at a masked operator beside you, "—while you three—" referring to you and two others you were only vaguely aquainted with, "—storm from the back. Ja?"

König's eyes stalled on you for a moment longer than necessary. You were going to be alright, he told himself. He'd keep you in his field of vision and could provide you with cover once you regrouped when you'd really need it.

"A quick extraction," he reminded, eyes stern yet heart disbelieving. "Simply go in, get the data, and go out."

A final nod of the head from König as he and his associate separated from your group. You headed towards the back of the building, fully alert, aiming behind corner incase there had been someone waiting to assassinate you.

Doors creaking as one of the men pushed, the three of you filtered in noiselessly, attempting to be as discreet as possible and wincing when the door slammed not so quietly. Guns cocked and silencers attached, you advanced in a line, blending in to the shadows.

As you walked, there were no signs of life, and the storehouse seemed abandoned. No machinery was being operate. No voices could be heard.

All was still and quiet.

Eerily quiet.

Feeling the hairs on your arms and neck stand on end, you shuddered. You made eye contact with one of the men in front of you who had more expertise, and he looked on edge, eyebrows creased in focus under his balaclava. None of this felt right.

Suddenly, something small rolled over towards you all. Blinking once, twice, you let out a panicked scream and dived for cover.

"Grenade!"

All hell broke loose.

Bullets ricocheted over your head, guns blasting from so many directions you couldn't pinpoint their source.

Slowly recovering from your momentary shock, you gripped your rifle tight and started shooting back, hidden behind a load of wooden crates. When you saw your hooded colonel crouching in a corner, you relaxed. With an encouraging nod from him, that was all you needed to go change positions, and you lunged forward. All was going smoothly at that point.

So engrossed in eliminating the threats in front of him, however, König only came to the realisation that you weren't there when he didn't see your figure in his peripheral vision.

Panic consumed his senses and circulated through his veins. All at once, he was frantically scanning the immediate area, searching for any trace of you.

You were thrashing and kicking as you were being pulled by rough hands, your fingers reaching for your holster through gritted teeth, yet it was just out of grasp. You were thrown harshly against the wall, and the enemy towered over you, feeling high from his power trip and excited to exert authority he had never had up to now.

Just as a knife made its way to your throat, your hand finally found your side arm and shot a bullet between his eyes, body falling on top of you like a sack of potatoes.

You convulsed involuntarily, hyperventilating under his weight and the sudden situation. Noting your surroundings, your heart sank.

You were in no man's land, full view of soldiers shooting at your team. The extraction point was just in sight, exactly how and where it was illustrated on the blueprint.

So far, no one had noticed you, too preoccupied aiming down their sights to see you shuffling under a corpse. You could enter those headquarters right now, could be proclaimed a hero of this story, and make your colonel proud and finish before schedule.

The risk was too big. You were bound to get shot.

Yet, against all better judgement, you dashed for the entrance, taking advantage of the element of surprise as three men turned towards you with wide eyes, not expecting to see you enter. Two were haphazardly shoving papers into a half-open folder thrown on the table.

Three shots fired before they could scramble for a gun, you rushed towards the desk. Scanning the material, your eyes widened in shock. This was it.

Now, your only choice was to crawl back into the line of fire. Soldiers still kept shooting with their backs turned, endless ammunition right at their disposal.

You were totally helpless on your own. Just one pair of wandering eyes from the enemy and just one shot in the back of the head would be all that would take to end your life at that moment and make all of your efforts go to waste.

Although an atheist, you mouthed a silent prayer, before taking a deep breath, and sprinted.

Seeing sudden movement headed towards him, König acted on instinct, and pulled the trigger on you.

His heart stopped.

Time slowed as your body fell in slow motion, more bullets piercing through your gear.

Realising his mistake immediately, he almost vomited his own stomach out at seeing you fall lifelessly on the ground, eyes wide and body dropping on impact.

"Scheisse, cover me, verdammt!" He yelled over his shoulder, all rational thought ceasing.

Breathing rapid and strained, he rushed towards you, gently wrapping his arms around your body — growing weaker by the minute — and headed straight for the first sign of cover he could see. Behind unstable and temporary refuge that could be blown to pieces, König was at a loss at what to do.

He had expected everything, evaluated every possible scenario, every possible outcome, even prepared a lifeline for you on the off-chance that you'd be injured in action.

Yet he hadn't anticipated that he would be the one to shoot you. Never.

Shaking violently, König could barely get any words out. "—S-schatz, please please please—"

Hesistant hands hovered over your wounds, conflicted, as blood was staining your uniform, wrenching König's heart. His mind kept repeating you did this. You did this. You did this.

You needed urgent aid, and you needed it right now, yet he didn't deserve to touch you, his hands clenched into fists as he didn't want to break you further, treating you like fragile glass that could shatter into pieces under his touch if he so held you.

He was the one that did this to you. You, the young recruit he was so hopelessly infatuated with, a person who he had cherished and loved from afar, the person who made him feel good things for the first time ever in his life.

He did this to you.

He was the monster in your closet, the threat that König had desperately attempted protect you from all this time, the threat that you were told to eliminate on this mission. The enemy.

The enemy that had mistakenly shot you.

"Es tut mir so leid, I'm so sorry—" König's mind couldn't function properly, speaking in broken mix of English and German. He couldn't gather his thoughts, couldn't think.

"—I'm so so so sorry. Please don't die, bitte vergib mir, forgive me, forgive me, schatz. Forgive me. Ich liebe dich, schatz, do you hear me? I love you."

Bullets whizzed past you both relentlessly, both of you still caught in crossfire. König's lips were moving yet you couldn't hear what he was saying to you, couldn't feel anything as you slowly lost consciousness, slowly closed your eyes.

A calloused hand tapped your face in desperation, your vision blurred.

"—Nein, nein, King! Stay awake! I'm calling for the re-enforcements now! Please, don't die on me— I'm so sorry..."

Shaky yelling through the walkie-talkie, voice cracking. "This is your colonel, König! We're retreating right now! One of ours is wounded! Send the re-enforcements right now to this location! I repeat, we are retreating! I am calling this mission off!"

"What? Are you crazy, König?!" A break in character from the commander, before immediately assuming professionalism once more. "Proceed with the mission! You are on the verge of breaking their defenses! You will enter their headquarters and be able to—"

"Nein. That was an order, commander," he hissed through gritted teeth, nearly crushing the device in his death-grip. "We are retreating. I am calling this mission off."

A pause. Then: "Copy that, colonel. We are sending your re-enforcements to cover you as you exit. Your helicopter is waiting. Hold out for thirty seconds longer."

Sighing with relief, he suddenly thought his heart stopped beating when he saw you laying there motionlessly, eyes closed. Desperately tapping at your cheek did nothing to awaken you. He prayed that you'd survive, willing time to go faster.

At last, loud whirring from above gave him the only comfort. Not waiting a second longer, König picked up your limp body and dashed outside, the helicopter lifting off as the rest of the crew threw themselves inside.

Opening your vest to inspect your wounds, he saw a blood-soakes folder secured tightly to your chest.

It was the data. You risked your life for the mission. You risked everything to accomplish the task and he had shot you anyways.

"—This is your colonel, König. We have the data. Mission accomplished, I repeat, mission accomplished. King has the data."

The radio crackled with an indistinguishable response, yet König heard nothing, blood rushing to his head and ringing persisting. Medics wasted no time to wheel you into an operating room, tearing your limp body away from his arms. He avoided the celebrations and cheers for their colonel, leaving everyone dumbfounded at his reaction. Shouldn't have he been proud? The mission was a success!

Yet the mission wasn't a success, and if anything, he felt shame. No one knew why their colonel holed himself up in his room aside from himself.

The news of you in critical condition in the hospital broke König.

As much as he wanted to see you, to check on your health and be the one to see your first signs of recovery, he couldn't. He couldn't bear to witness the colour drained from your face as you laid unmoving on the bed, the slow beeping from the heart rate monitor machine the only indication that you were alive.

He just couldn't. Not when he caused this. Not when he fucked up this much.

Using the gym as a coping mechanism for a while, he trained harder and more often than ever before, only wishing to make the pain go away. When he wasn't at the gym all throughout the day or at odd hours of the night, he'd toss and turn in his bed, having nightmares about your body bleeding out below him as the shot relentlessly echoed in his head. Or worse, he'd imagine himself shooting you again, only this time he'd find the barrel of his gun was aimed at your forehead execution-style, your unassuming face suddenly exploding into bloody pieces and what was left of your bewildered expression still remained even after he had pulled the trigger.

At those, König would spring upright, screaming "No!" in anguish.

He'd be panting heavily, bedsheets drenched in his own sweat and feeling like he was suffocating with each rise and fall of his chest. When the situation sunk in, he'd clench his fists so tightly his knuckles went white, shaken to his very core. On those nights, König wanted nothing more than to hurt himself, to compensate for the injury he inflicted upon you and how he had completely disgraced you.

At one point, when he had finally had enough, in his blind craze snatched the pistol laying by his bed, flicked the safety off and aimed it at the same place he had shot you, just to break down in despair when no bullet came out, the clip hidden in his bedside drawer.

Hand tightly squeezing his heart through his soaked t-shirt, he was repulsed by the fact that he was completely healthy and could walk freely while you lay injured and dying.

Under his watch, you had been injured. Under him, your body had crumpled. And it was his fault.

In emotional turmoil, he soon lost all ability to function. He couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and could hardly find the motivation to get out of bed most of the time, convinced that he had killed you, convinced that he was a monster. Responsibilities were kept on hold, the next best person taking his place. No one questioned the new arrangement, despite the shared confusion from everyone on base.

He couldn't take this. He couldn't take this any longer. He would have rather died, sacrificed himself in any way possible if it meant that you could live another day, as you could make a greater impact on the world than he ever could. Could be a better person than he ever could.

It was his fault. He shot you. He had shot you. He had shot the recruit that he had hopelessly fallen in love with, yet only he himself was to blame for it for his lack of control, for his inability to be unaffected by his feelings.

One day, a knock on his door pulled him out from his trance.

Prior to the interruption, König was staring at the cement wall, his eyes unfocused, completely still and barely breathing. He wasn't himself.

Immediately straightening his legs and nearly tearing a tendon from how fast he got up despite having been so inactive for the last few days, he stomped quickly towards the door, his face glum yet eyes glinting with the merest hint of hope.

Hand reaching for the handle, he had readied himself, expecting bad news coming from a surgeon wearing a medical mask and a blue uniform, a solemn expression as they devasted him with your passing.

All but the latter was true.

"Colonel König, sir. The patient is awake. You may now visit them if you so wish."

Blinking a couple of times, König thought he had heard incorrectly.

"...P...Pardon?"

Repeated were the words that König was shocked to hear.

"King is awake, sir. Their condition is a stable one. Our team thought to notify you first since you were on the mission with them."

Gasping, König could barely breathe. He felt like he was drowning, drowning despite his head breaking out from the water. "What... I... where?"

"Ground floor, room twelve. They're on medication as of this moment yet are fully awake."

König nearly fell to his knees. You were alive!

You were alive! He hadn't killed you! He thanked the Gods, and could barely keep composed, barely able to stop himself from dashing to the center of base and yelling into the sky in pure joy.

"I— thank you... so much."

Running faster than he had ever ran in his whole life, he was at your door in minutes.

Yet, as his fingers reached for the door knob, he suddenly stopped in his tracks, hand poised mid-air.

What if you didn't want to see him after the whole ordeal?

What if you resented him, and would spit in his face the moment he walked in?

What if you hated him, and wanted nothing to do with him ever again?

Hesistantly knocking twice, he nearly had a heart attack when your voice broke through the door:

"Come in," you called simply; your voice was hoarse, but it was clearly still you.

Taking a deep breath, König pushed the door open.

There you were. He was having heart palpitations at seeing you awake and looking at him.

The light coming through the open curtains made your skin glow despite how pale you were, eyes sparkling and crinkling in happiness despite the dark circles and heavy bags under your eyes, hair splayed out behind on your pillow, resembling a halo, despite how greasy it was.

He had missed you. So much.

Then his heart sunk as he reminded himself that he was the reason for why you were here, why you were in in this state to begin with.

Seeing König, You shot him a daring smirk despite how numb your face felt. "Hey, König, sir. Did you visit me at all? I'm sure you missed me."

Waiting in anticipation, you kept looking at him excitedly. At the lack of response and his refusal to meet your gaze, it faded completely. "—Wh—what? You—"

"Not— not even once? Not—"

Tears were welling up in your eyes. "—you didn't come see me even one time?"

Maybe you shouldn't have gotten your hopes up. Maybe you should have thought that König would not have time to spare in his busy schedule.

Yet you couldn't not get your hopes up when as soon as you woke, your first thought was of König. Although the grim reality hit you hard like a bucket of cold water dumped over your head, you still wished to see him.

And yet, he hadn't wished to see you at all. He had avoided you like the plague.

"Scheisse—"

König started pacing the room, head hung low as he weighed the pros and cons. Indecision.

"—Do you really... do you really want to know why I didn't visit you, King?"

You nodded meekly, lip quivering.

He finally made up his mind.

If you rejected him, at least he'd rest easier knowing that you'd live, and continue to be happy for you from afar. He'd still support you, still be your colonel, still love you even when you found someone else.

"I... I put you in this position, King... It was all my fault," he begun, his voice barely above a whisper.

Tone softed as he finally stopped, as still as a statue, a metre away. From this angle, you saw how bloodshot his eyes were, how they sagged in sadness, how dark circles had formed from lack of sleep. His pale blue eyes were dull, glued to the ground.

"Not only did I lose sight of you on the battlefield, I also shot you. Shot my own—" Pausing, not knowing how to refer to you.

He carried on. "I couldn't live with myself. I still can't live with myself. I'm walking, uninjured, as you are laying in bed, recovering from an injury that I am the reason for. From bullet wounds that were the result of me."

Voice hitching slightly, he tried to keep his breathing under control. But he couldn't.

"How could the monster that shot you enter your room and dare to look at you? How could I watch you cling to life, while I walk freely despite causing you this— this agony? What right do I have looking at you after putting you here?"

You allowed the tears to spill down your cheeks.

He stopped, eyelids drooping, finally meeting your eyes.

"I have feelings for you, King, I—" Trembling "—I do. But... I shouldn't be feeling this way. You have your whole life ahead of you and I—"

"—I've... aged... I'm not the same man I was before. I've witnessed things far too disturbing to ever share with you. I... I know that you should be with someone better and I—"

Although still in a daze and sedated by the drugs, your thought process was still clear enough where you could be sure about this.

Reaching with a tentative hand for König's larger and rougher one, you squeezed it weakly, looking up at him with a heartfelt expression.

König smiled for the first time in ages.

Through that gesture alone, König knew that you forgave him.

He allowed his breathing to stabilise, wanting nothing more than to start over with you.

...

Note: MY FAT FUCIIJF FINGERS SLIPPED AND I POSTED THIS EARLIER THANI WAS SUPPOSED TO OJ MY GOD I AM AN IDIOT 🤡🤡

Edit next day: how tmdid this fet 100+ notes im sobbing 😭😭. thabk you everyone for readijg this angst fest!!!!!!! ❤️❤️❤️

König jealous of your dog headcannons

Gender-neutral Reader

Word count: Definitely more than 2😎 🗿Honest to God i have no idea whay the word count is 🤦🏼‍♀️These were mewnt to be short headcannons yet as PER USUAL i got carried away 🤡🤡not abt to copynpaste every single paragraph individually into a word counter

*Slow burn

*Established relationship with König

*⚠️Google Translate German!!⚠️ (sorry guys ...💔)

*Not requested 😋😋 just something that's been on my mind.

*Pls dont worru about rqs guys!!😨 Writing two of tjem atm but I jus wanted to post this first (so my profile isnt as barren as the Sahara desert🏜️while i work at a pace that is slower than that of a turtle 🐢)! :)

*Also how tf do people make their bullet points look so good??? is it a formatting thing or sum cuz im ACTUALLT crippled 😰😰

...

König really didn't want to be jealous of your dog. He didn't.

He hadn't anticipated he would ever feel that way, especially towards a dog, of all things.

Despite not being the type to be jealous — at least, not from his perspective; he was only looking out for his darling! — his eyes would narrow whenever a soldier would approach you, being far too handsy with a stranger. His partner. It made his blood boil.

Sure, König would always stare down whoever made the mistake of flirting with you or introducing themselves with playful banter while behind you. Clearing his throat, a tense hand was placed gently yet firmly on your shoulder.

"Hör auf, mit meinem Schatz zu reden, sonst breche ich dir das Genick."

Not understanding a word of what he said, they would cower in fear nonetheless, getting the message with how he'd had spat that sentence and the venom in his voice. Glancing at their wrist despite wearing no watch, they'd insist that they were running out of time and literally run away.

When you'd look up at him in confusion, König looked back down at you innocently, paraphrasing that he had simply said you were taken.

A facepalm from you. "God, König..." you'd groan, unable to stop the silly smirk from stretching itself on your face. "You nearly made that guy shit himself. Please don't do that again."

König would likewise always straighten himself to his full height and cast a menacing shadow at the dummkopf who dared speak poorly of you.

Once they'd mumble rushed apologies and speed-walk away, you'd see him glowing with an adoring expression in his eyes, a complete 180° to the death stare he shot at the recruit and the hand gesture he made at his throat seconds before.

König would always rest a large hand on your lower back to guide you in crowds, keeping you close beside him to further drive in the point that you were strictly off limits.

Really though, he wasn't jealous. Not in the slightest!

He rationalised his behaviour as looking out for you. In no way was he being overbearing or overly territorial; if anything, people were pushing your already established boundaries and he was reminding people of them! He wasn't jealous at all, no.

Behind closed doors, however, he'd be quieter than usual and have a vulnerable look in his eyes, desperate for your reassurance and to hear you say that you loved him.

Deep down, he was insecure.

That good-looking man didn't make you swoon, did he? Why were you laughing so hard at his joke? He wanted to have made you laugh like that. You still loved him, though, didn't you? You wouldn't want to be with anyone else, right? Right?

It wasn't that König didn't trust you. Although this Colonel looked fierce in front of his collegues and used his booming voice to command others with a harsh tone he found it difficult to project at a large crowd, he had always been sensitive in secret. Being bullied in childhood could certainly do that to a person.

You were the only one he trusted to see his insecurities, and would always shower him with love and affection in private, reassuring him that yes, he was still your sweet and handsome König, and yes, of course you still loved him — that guy that got a laugh out of you was only one out of pity, as he gave you the ick anyways.

One afternoon while you two were eating dinner, König had out of the blue been the one to suggest the idea of a pet; a strong, big, intimidating dog that would protect you while he himself couldn't.

In all actuality, he had been thinking this over since the day you two started dating.

After all, as much as he'd had liked to clone himself and have one part of him fighting when duty called while the other part stayed with you to protect you at home, obviously that wasn't achievable. That afternoon seemed most appropriate to bring it up, as he was assigned for a mission in two weeks' time and was already worried sick over you despite still yet to be around you at all times for twelve more days.

You laughed, surprised by his sudden suggestion. In a way, you had already had a guard dog all along, you told him, yet König shook his head vehemently, insistent. "Nein! Was ist, wenn du verletzt bist? What if you get hurt while I am away? I won't allow it!"

Shaking your head in defeat as an amused smile was tugging at your lips, you couldn't really blame your boyfriend for being so paranoid. In a sense, he was justified in thinking so, and you couldn't fault him, him being a soldier — a Colonel — and all.

König himself came to the conclusion that you should have a German-Shepherd — "A big, strong, and intelligent dog" — smiling proudly as he said so. Laughing at his need to prove himself to you and his evident enthusiasm that proved he was deadly serious, you shook your head again with a sincere smile on your face and gave his forehead a kiss. Really, his concern over you was endearing, and you loved him so much.

On the day before the mission of his, he surprised you by leading in a fully-grown German Shepherd into your shared home as he carried a large dufflebag over his shoulder. Although you had wanted to have a puppy, König insisted a trained canine used in the police force and military operations would keep you safe, and he was firm, not budging even when you mustered the best puppy-dog eyes you could. He knew best, and he needed to relieve the anxiety that plagued him when you weren't around immediately. Finally having use for the connections he had made in his position, he was able to bring home on of Kortac's own German-Shepherds.

Standing with a self-assured manner, the dog didn't hesistate in showering you with love once the lead came off, lapping and licking at your face in excitement at seeing his new owner's face.

You laughed out loud when you saw a tactical dog collar around his neck, the same khaki colour that matched König's cargo pants. Another piece of König to remind you of him.

Still standing, König watched with his arms crossed and a huge smile across his face as he saw how happy you were. He was beginning to breathe easy with the knowledge that nothing would come to harm you while he was away.

Tongue out while panting, the dog waited expectantly under you for an order.

You looked up at König, eyes sparkling in child-like excitement. "Can he do tricks?"

Smiling, König's eyes crinkled in his love for you. "Schatz, it can do more than just tricks. It can protect you. And it will."

You looked down at the giant yet sweet dog, and raised your voice slightly.

"Sit." He did so without hesitation.

"Handshake," you prompted, and he offered his paw to you obediently.

"Stay..." you began, a finger in front of his snout, "stay..."

"Good boy!" you squealed, and fed him a dog treat from the one of the XXL bags König had bought for the occasion, along with a mountain of dog toys, and even a bed.

"What are clever boy you are, aren't you? Yes you are! You are!"

König crouched, and pet the top of the dog's head a couple of times, his eyes on you. "What do you want to call it, meine Liebe?"

Pausing, all at once it occured to you. With joyful satisfaction, you exclaimed: "Prince!" You giggled, barely able to contain your happiness. "Our Prince to my sweet, handsome King," you cooed, not failing to notice the way König looked away, his cheeks under the eye holes of his hood reddening at your comment.

While away from you for weeks, even months at a time, he could rest easier knowing that you weren't all alone at home. Although he still worried for you excessively, biting his nails when in his room as he thought over how you could be doing and what you were doing at any given time, at least he wouldn't toss and turn at night thinking over what could happen to you. He'd smile in satisfaction, pleased that his presence would still linger even when he wasn't physically there, finding comfort in the fact that a part of him still remained with you when he was hundreds of miles away.

You, on the other hand, were so happy! Obviously you were overwhelmed with the responsibility — quite frankly, you had never had a dog before, much less one this big — so you struggled to take care of it in the beginning. Knowing what food to feed it, how to keep it entertained, going so often outside you'd flop on a chair in exhaustion was physically and mentally demanding, as you wanted your canine companion to love you unconditionally and not be a bad owner to it at all.

However, it all quickly became routine to you: walking your guard dog as his ears were perked up in alertness, head darting around from side to side; playing with it in the park, and spoiling it with treats when you'd get home; and grooming his soft, dark fur and taking him to vet checkups almost made you wonder how you had managed to live this long without ever owning a pet.

Whenever you'd make yourself some food, you filled his bowl with dog food too. Whenever you had just stepped out of the shower, it would be your dog's turn to be cleaned in the bathtub. Whenever you would lazily lay on the sofa or sprawl yourself on the bed, your dog was cuddled up to you.

It was all fun and games, though, until he'd damn near suffocate you with his sheer mass and make you sneeze from the fur that tickled your nostrils, but you slowly grew used to it, using your German Shepherd as a weighted blanket and hugging it like it was your own child.

Somehow, this furry friend filled a void that König would leave behind, and you practically were both attached by the hip — well, by the ankle and hind leg, actually, but that's beside the point. You two were inseparable, and if König knew that then he'd be surely overjoyed.

When König finally had some precious minutes to himself, the first thing he'd do was call you, wanting to hear your voice and make sure you were alright. He'd nearly trip over his own two feet as he scrambled for his phone to dial your number, nearly knocking over a lamp and falling over some furniture in the process.

You'd pick up on the second ring and would nearly go deaf upon hearing the loud accented voice on the receiver. "Liebling! How are you, my sweet? I have been missing you!"

You two would exchange these sorts of questions and proclamations of love back and forth, so lovey-dovey that some of the more daring operators in König's faction made gagging noises on the other side of the door, while the more serious operators scolded them and reminded them that they were yet to feel the touch of another man/woman.

As König would listen to your ramblings about how happy you were and your lovely German Shepard, however, his ears perked up and he listened more closely.

"Prince is so lovely! He's my sweet baby and I love him so so so much! He's definitely my best friend right now, 100%. Everyone back home is getting pissy with me when I don't answer their calls because I spend more time with him than I do with them but can you really blame me when I have this beautiful prince? I mean, he's so sweet! Whenever I don't wake up at the same time in the morning he's jumping into bed and licking my face and oh my God I cannot cope with this cuteness! He's such a good boy! The very best boy! The best boy of all the boys!"

Meanwhile, König stood there, his mouth agape.

...What did you mean he was your sweet baby? Your beautiful prince? Your good boy?

Why would you call him the — not the best, but the very best — boy, the best of all boys? You couldn't have been serious.

It was just a dog. Why were you so attached to it?

It wasn't like König didn't grasp the concept of strong bonds between humans and animals — in fact, he had always been a strong believer of the "dogs being a man's best friend" common knowledge — but... this? You were coddling the thing, for God's sake! It was supposed to be fierce and threatening, not cute and cuddly. How was it supposed to protect you when all you'd do was hug it and give it compliments?

He felt his jaws tighten when you panned the camera down to show the dog peacefully laying beside you on the bed, you stroking his ears. On. The. Bed. On his and your bed. The bed the two of you would sleep on.

König couldn't believe this; he, a grown man, a disciplined soldier that moved up the ranks to be a Colonel, a 6'10 brutal killing machine who l... wanted you to be calling him those things, wanted you to run your fingers through his hair like that. Not some mutt. You were giving it star treatment and pampering it way too much than you should have.

He laughed at himself for thinking so irrationally and for being so immature. I mean, it was a dog. There was no competition to be won, nothing to prove — his rational thought repeated to him that you still loved him regardless — yet the ultimate prize would be you and your attention.

He chuckled disingenuously as you rambled on about something, and the smile under his hood didn't quite reach his eyes.

When he finally returned after grueling months away from you, those pale blue eyes still crinkled up in happiness whenever they saw you, still picked you up and spun you in the air as you'd shriek like a banshee while your legs kicked freely, still gave you a loving kiss on your lips before showering your face with wet kisses. He'd pull away, a boyish grin on his face, his face flushed, your eyes locked with his in an intimate moment...

...And then his mood would sour as your dog leaped up towards you, not wanting to be left out in the reunion.

You'd fail to notice his hands clenched into fists as your dog took the oh so comfortable spot on your lap, where he should have been laying, how below his mask a scowl was aimed at the dog you'd shower with kisses that should have been for him, how the dog would slobber your face and leave it dripping in drool, almost as if it was proving some point to him and being totally smug about it.

Of course, he didn't seem the least bit bothered to you — he wouldn't let his behaviour show. This was utter childishness, completely ridiculous, and absolutely absurd, yet somehow König couldn't control the jealousy that would stew inside of him hours after you'd fall asleep, glaring at the dog laying in between you when all he had wanted all day was to cuddle up to you and hold you close.

Somehow, his plan to keep you safe backfired, because the dog took his job as your body guard too seriously and would not let him be affectionate with you. He was beginning to despise the creature.

When you'd be walking the dog together and shower it with praise, König's hands clenched into tight fists. When you'd stroke the dog's head gently, running your fingers through his thick fur as his front paws were tucked neatly underneath him, König's nails dug into his biceps as he kept his arms firmly crossed, hating what he was seeing through his peripheral vision. When you'd glance at him as your dog was nestled between your legs, he'd turn his head, hiding the furrowed eyebrows and the clear pout on his face of an annoyed child, behaving like an annoyed child.

• In conclusion: give your König a hug. :( A kiss right on the lips and tell him that he's your sweet baby! Your beautiful prince! Your good boy! Your favourite person in the entire world and the best of the best!

• Reserve that precious spot on your lap *just* for him, and allow him to be putty in your hands!

• Run your fingers through his hair just like you would with your dog, and scratch that sensitive spot on his scalp with your fingernails!

• Don't make him regret ever getting the dog for you :'( As time goes on, it will eventually become the "father that didn't want the pet is now best friends with it and the pet is most affectionate with him" kind of dynamic.

• Just because muscular men and army-hardened soldiers like König were disciplined to be stoic and strong, sometimes they want nothing more than affection and words of affirmation from their lover from time to time. <3

So, you'd now lounge on the couch, content with your two guard dogs on either side of you; your Prince laying to your right, and your King in between your thighs, stroking the top of his head as his chest rose and fell at a steady rhythm.

...

Note: Gonna kms 🤡🔫 i have ro to go back to school tmr fucjing WHY i hate everyoje there 😭So yeah less frequent updates sorry guys 💔💔still going to be writing my long-ass fanfictions but itll take more time and ill probs have like 10 mentsl breakfowns daily 🤪 literallt cannot wait 🥰

My writing process is so incomprehensible tho 😭i jump from the first fic im writing to the second one im writing WAYY too often 🗿but ig its good because in a way im not TECHNICALLY procrastinating and beinf productive with 2 projects at once,, tho idk i guess tbats just a major cope if im beinf honest🤷🏼‍♀️

THANKS FOR 1000+ LIKES AND NEARLY 80 FOLLOWERS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 🥳🥳🥳🥳🎉🎉🎉🎉🎊🎊💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💕💕💕💕 LOVE EVERY SINGLE ONE OF U AND WISH YOU NOTHING BUT HAPPINESS IN LIFE 🥹🥹🥹❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️

"Can't sleep?" König x Gender-neutral Reader

Word count: 3704

Having flashbacks about the battlefield and unable to fall asleep after an exceptionally draining mission, you go seek the comfort of your Colonel in the middle of the night.

*Slow burn

*ANGST!!💔... dw it gets wholesome at the end i promise ❤️

*Thanj you to Azzy!! (My No.1 Fan...🥹🫂💘) for this request !!!🙋🏼‍♀️💫💞💞✨Love u too🫶💕,, I kind of 🥺slightly🥺 maube a littke bit🥺🥺🥺went off prompt and König isnt affected by the mission per se BUT i have fulfilled the CUDDLING part!!! ☺️☺️pls dont show up to my fhome with pitchforks and torches im sry it just sorta happened ok😱

Also i rhink i have dementia bc I thought someone else rqsted König comfortinf rreader in a storm???😰😰Turns out nobody did so maybe i hallucinated it or smtj idk🤷🏼‍♀️Anyways I thought to merge these two ideas together so lmk what u think abt this lil (by "lil" i mean WAY too long🤪) drabble🙏💕

*Reader is pining for König

*Events loosely take place in the KönigxKing (as in, reader's call-sign is "King" storyline) mini-series. This serves as a slight backstory for King (reader). Again, this is by no means in any chronological order in relation to the series, so this can also be read as stand-alone! :)

*THANK YOU FOR 100+ FOLLOWERS!!!!!! 🥳🎉🎊✨🎇💖I SWEAR ONE IT LITERALLT FEELS LIKE MID-AUGUST WHEN I HAD LIKE 7 WHERE DID U ALL COME FEOM??????😰😰💘 IT MEANS SO MUCH FOR ME LIKE I CANR STRESS THIS ENOIGH BC IM SO HAPPG U GUYS THINK MEWORTHY ENOIGH OF YOUR PRECIOUS FOLLOW AND WANT TO READ MY WACK WORKS!!!!!!🤧🤧💖💖 LIKE??????? 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹THANK U THABK YOU RHABK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 🫶🥰🥰💖💖💖❤️💞💞💕💖💕💕💞

                                        ...

You couldn't sleep.

It was raining relentlessly outside, the pitter-patter of water droplets hitting your window. Storm clouds boomed loudly outside, and despite the blinds being pulled tightly shut, lightning occasionally flashed through the cracks, elongated shadows of buildings forming on the walls.

Counting down the seconds until you'd hear the rumbling thunder, it would only be a few kilometres away, and you'd shudder at the sound, shivering.

While tossing and turning in bed, you had kicked off your covers and were staring at the ceiling, still wide awake. Normally, a storm like this would be like a lullaby to your ears, yet now it did nothing in helping lull you to sleep.

Even if you wanted to sleep, how could you when those corpses haunted your nightmares?

Laying in bed, your mind replayed the same scenes like a movie reel, the same screams like a broken record:

Lifeless, unblinking eyes with mouths agape and an expression of fear permanently engraved on their pale faces; flies swarming in hordes to harvest the soft tissues of the irises and tongue, eating the human mush; limbs contorted in unnatural positions, arms and legs crushed by the force of detonated mines, bones broken under the weight.

Rumbling roaring of machine guns and the deafening explosions from hand grenades meant that the high-pitched ringing would drown out everybody's yelling, muffle all noise from your surroundings, and you'd only be pulled out of your daze when you'd find yourself stumbling on unstable ground, on bricks and cheap concrete that had all crumbled.

Bodies would drop so fast it'd take at least seconds for you to register whether it had been an enemy or an ally.

You'd pull the trigger, but seeing a bullet go through someone's forehead and the exaggerated shock stamped on their face — a permanent expression in their final seconds remaining forever in death — left you wondering why you would ever sign up willingly to do this.

Disorientated, you'd struggle to pull yourself together, would enter far too many close calls for a soldier to count, and would only get a grip once you saw a familiar face, a reminder that you weren't alone in the warzone.

Even now, the sonorous sound kept echoing in your head, and, if you listened closely, it resembled hundreds of hoarse shouts, so many people screaming at once in collective agony.

You flinched as a bolt of lightning suddenly struck the sky.

Sparing an absentminded glance at your digital alarm clock, your eyes widened slightly at the time: 1:56am.

Damn... you thought. ...it's that late already?

Drills would begin at 7 o'clock, and you had to have woken up at 6 to brush your teeth, get dressed, eat, and mentally prepare yourself for the day, so you kissed a good night's sleep goodbye, and accepted the telling off from your superiors the following morning for under-performing.

...Still, how could you sleep after what you had experienced? What you experienced and would continue experiencing?

Accepting high-pressure missions and a demanding workload once you had enlisted, you thought that your ability to keep calm under pressure and stay composed would mean that you would have been unaffected by the shooting by now, and be taking everything in your stride. Calm, composed, and unaffected, is what you had thought you'd be. Surely you'd be able capable enough to cope with it all?

Yet, you weren't any of those things. Never getting used to the stress that would persist even while on supposedly "low-intensity" extractions. You'd always be on edge, always recoiling at hands that would reach over to tap your back as encouragement or hold your shoulder in reassurance on base.

You believed you could never familiarise yourself with the panic and unpredictability of missions and being hyper-aware of something, anything, everything going wrong, with the adrenaline that would course through your body and take over your senses in times of fight or flight, with the nerves that would keep you on edge hours after landing safely on base.

But, most of all, with the nights you'd lay in bed, unable to fall asleep: nights like these, when every time you closed your eyes, you saw the eyes of dying comrades; when every time you walked along the corridors, imagined yourself diving across the floor and felt shattered shrapnel breaking under your feet; when every time you sat in an empty room, heard ear-piercing blasts and the ricochet of discarded shells just missing your head.

Whereas the other operators seemed to be completed unmoved by any of their deployments and would shrug their shoulders off of the events, the anxiety for you lingered, trauma deep within your soul consuming you whole.

How could you ever get over the fact that you were shooting real people? Losing real soldiers?

...Losing yourself along the way?

All this work took a toll on your psyche, but comparing yourself to the other soldiers made you feel like such a coward, and second-guess ever enlisting in the first place.

...Well, you did so because it had been your only option all things considered, but looking back on it, you thought that maybe it would have been better if you hadn't chosen anything at all.

Accepted the grave nature of your failures in life, the same life that would have had inevitably ended with you pre-maturely in a grave.

After all, you had no job prospects to look forward to, no dreams to strive for, no aspirations to achieve.

Failing your school exams time and time again until you had finally achieved a result that was good enough didn't earn you any security, as you weren't exactly employable with grades you had just barely managed to claw to even pass.

Really, it was hopeless. You were hopeless.

To say your family was disappointed in you would have been an understatement. Out of three children, you were labelled the disappointment child, the underachiever and failure.

Your two siblings worked as a lawyer and an engineer respectively, while you had never even been able to grasp the basics in education, never spoke with your teachers of anything other than the worrying results of your exams, never came home to share a thing with your parents you had accomplished with a smile of pride stretched on your young face like your siblings did.

Never. Because you weren't ever good enough.

At the dinner table, your siblings boasted of promotions and of revolutionary research, of trials and of successes, of their brilliant breakthroughs, as you sat on the side of the table, listening from the sidelines, excluded from all of the grandeur that you couldn't relate to.

Still, it was always better to keep your mouth shut than to make a dent in the conversation, further embarass yourself and prove how lowly you were, than to have so many pairs of pitying eyes talking down on you in patronising tones, of the subtle condolences from your parents and their regret with triumphant smirks and condescending attitude from your siblings.

In a last ditch effort to make your parents proud, you made the decision of joining the military. You were young and impressionable, under the impression that your parents would finally be impressed.

...Of course, they weren't. In fact, your decision made them even more disappointed, shaking their heads sympathetically with strained smiles stretched on their lips.

Maybe that was the reason you couldn't handle the pressure of the military, you thought. You were weak, incompetent. Pathetic.

Although no one told you explicitly or made you feel that way directly, somehow, you always had felt inferior. Somehow, you felt that no matter what you did, how much you did, how well you thought you did, you wouldn't ever come close to the others's level.

That, despite your effort and dedication, you would never be good enough. Would always be inferior no matter what, because you always had been and would always be so.

...Your Colonel never made you feel that way, though, and you never quite understood why.

After all, your interactions were few-far-and-inbetween. It made you wonder what made you feel this way, and what spark ignited the warmth you'd feel when he was around.

Although a man of few words, the words that he did say to you would matter, though. His praise, his acknowledgement, his always being there made you want to keep going and prove your worth to him.

It started off as sporadic encouragement:

Your skin glistening with sweat, an accented voice would say "Gute Arbeit," over your crumpled body on the gym mat.

Offering you a gloved hand, you grasped it gratefully, and he pulled your tired body with ease. "Good job, King."

A lopsided smile from you as you'd wipe the sweat from your forehead and brows after sparring with someone else, limp limbs barely keeping you standing. His eyes were betrayed no emotion under his veil, yet a thin-lipped grin was behind it.

"Thank— you— sir!" You'd manage to breathe out, still panting for breath. "I did— my best, but— I didn't win."

"That does not matter," he'd say, speaking in a tone you couldn't quite recognize. "Very good job. Keep it going. Soon, you'll be able to pin even me down."

You'd laugh weakly at his words, yet would immediately feel a surge of motivation to keep working hard, and would train up to the point of exhaustion behind closed doors. Thinking you'd be alone, you'd punch a dufflebag with grunts of effort, missing the tall silhouette observing you with crossed arms in the corner, satisfied.

Then, those became casual greetings;

"Guten Morgen, soldier. Nice day, ja?"

Turning around, you'd see your Colonel walking towards you, frame visible even from a distance.

You smile broadly, eyes crinkling up in genuine joy, before you caught yourself and coughed. "Y-yeah!"

"Always a nice day whenever you're around, sir," you'd tease, playfully winking at him as he approached you, yet you were yet to master it without blinking both eyes.

He'd chuckle heartily, flattered, then shook his head to hide how his face flushed under his veil, and held up a hand.

"Thank Gott I have you here. My day would have been ruined."

"Have a good day, sir!" You'd call after him brightly, and he'd turn around for a final time with a two-fingered salute. Strange, since he was your superior, not the other way around, but you shrugged this off as a friendly gesture.

Until it developed into a sort of mutual connection.

In your eyes, at least.

You didn't want to assume that you two were friends, as the man was way out of your league. Strong, muscular, and a disciplined soldier — a Colonel, no less — a man of influence.

Besides, he, conversing with the only-recently-recruit-turned-soldier that was the slowest to understand a joke, did not comprehend complicated terms, and was the least bright out of the entire faction was not something you wanted him to be associated as, didn't want to tarnish his reputation.

You reasoned that you didn't want to bring down the Colonel down to your low level, so you kept your relationship as just that; associates. Aquaintances. Nothing more, out of respect for your Colonel.

Little did you know, the Colonel had developed a soft spot for you.

It seemed as though the storm had gotten worse, as the rain was unrelenting, and the tapping on the glass increased with force. Booming thunderclouds made your room shake.

A sigh as you turned to your side again. 2:07am.

Your thoughts moved back to your Colonel, and you started missing him, longing for him. The warmth that radiated off him made you wish he'd take you in his arms, hold you close to his chest, and you suddenly felt so cold. So lonely and cold.

Maybe it was childish of you to be feeling this way — he was your superior, after all, and you had no reason to be so attached — yet your daily encounters made you gain feelings for the man. Made you feel things when he was around.

Somehow, he brought you security. Made you feel protected. Safe. Like you could always count on him for having your back.

Made you forget that you were so useless, and was the reason for the fuzzyness within your chest, the buzzing feeling you'd feel as you'd be grinning from ear to ear after speaking to him.

Made you feel like you weren't pathetic. Weren't a wasted wishing star. Instead, you were appreciated, seen, even.

You wanted to see him. You wanted to be with him.

...Would he want you, though?

No. Of course he wouldn't. You weren't good enough.

A deep sigh. 2:15, the digital alarm clock displayed.

...What if he actually did want you? Not even as a partner, but just to be around him? Breathe the same air as him? You thought you weren't worthy of his time, but maybe, just maybe he wouldn't see it as such a waste.

Another crash of lightning brought you to your senses.

Finally making up your mind, you huffed in exertion as you pushed yourself off your stiff mattress, not bothering to organize the mess of blankets on the floor.

Walking with certainty, before you realised it, you were at König's bedroom door. Standing behind the door, hand hesitatingly reaching for the handle, you bit your lip, confidence wavering.

Should you really go through with this right now? What if he was asleep at that moment and all you'd do is disrupt his slumber? It wouldn't be fair of you to disturb him so late in the night, especially when he had so many responsibilities.

Still, you inhaled deeply, and, as quietly as you could, knocked twice.

You almost jumped out of your skin at the familiar accented voice of your Colonel.

"Come in," he said hoarsely. His tone was almost warm, inviting, yet you shook your head at the idea, and pulled the handle.

Entering inside, you slowly closed the door behind you. When you turned around, König was sitting on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, seemingly deep in thought. Wearing a tank top and cargo pants, his head was hung low, his veil hanging loosely over his head.

The blinds were drawn open to reveal the sky dominated by darkness, the grey curtain of monochrome on the nearest buildings cast down by the clouds, the raindrops that remained on the windows and the rhythmic echoes against the pavement as they dropped in syncopation.

The sight, his presence, were both so... relaxing. In a way, your anxiety was relieved by the tranquility of the scene, and it made you forget the internal turnoil you had been going through for the past few hours, made the tension in your body fade.

"Ah, King," his arms dropped to his sides and he raised his head to meet your eyes in the dark. "I had a feeling that it would be you."

You fidgeted nervously, not knowing what to do.

"Bitte, schön," he said, patting the empty space beside him on the mattress. "Please, sit down. I insist."

Slowly lowering yourself to his side, you sat at a reasonable distance away from him. With the both of you sat down, the size difference was still very noticable. His height made him hunch over you, and one of his thighs was like the two of yours combined.

So nervous, you didn't even notice how his back slumped so you'd be both at a similar level.

He cleared his throat. "What brings you here so late in the night?"

An awkward tug of your t-shirt collar.

"Can't sleep," you stated simply.

"I see." He was quiet for a few moments. Then: "And you decided that my room was the place to go?"

Your face heated up, and you averted your gaze. "Well, sir, it's j-ju—"

"—Nein," he cut you off, holding up a hand to stop you. "I have told you so many times not to call me that. Call me König."

"But— but you're my superior," you gasped, mouth agape. "You deserve to be addressed with respect! I couldn't possibly—"

The protest died on your lips again as the man shook his head, the loose material of his veil following his movements. "Nein. None of that matters. I want you to call me by my first name."

A heavy silence lingered over the two of you, words left unsaid by you both.

"So," König prompted, "what brings you here, King?"

Pausing to think over a pretence, the best you could come up with was: "The storm scared me."

"Ja?" Even with the fabric covering his face, you could almost see the skeptical smirk on his lips.

"A soldier like you afraid of loud clouds? Some rain?" He chuckled.

"Really, I'd have thought you better than that, King." If you didn't know him well enough, you'd have thought he was mocking you, yet despite the sarcasm his eyes held a genuine concern for you.

An bashful laugh escaped you as you rubbed your arm, nails slightly digging into your skin.

"Okay, tell me the truth, King," Leaning forward, his tone became serious. "I know for certain you aren't scared."

He searched for your eyes, yet you avoided his gaze.

"Something is troubling you. Is that it?" He cocked his head to the side, fabric falling loosely over his shoulder. "You can tell me, King. I am your superior, you know. You should tell me these things."

"Well... it's j-just—"

You bit your lip, willing the tears to stay in your eyes.

Don't cry. Don't you dare cry.

König watched you, patiently waiting for you to continue.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, vulnerability showing in your eyes. "—This recent mission, it was— it was really, really difficult. And I just..."

König shuffled towards you until your knees were almost touching, watching you intently. As your body trembled, a hand hovered in uncertainty by your shoulder.

Sniffling, you wiped the wetness on your face with your arm, voice breaking.

"I-I just think that I'm not strong. That I'm... weak. Not— not good enough to be working with people that are so much better. So much stronger—"

Your breath hitched in your throat, voice coming out in a broken sob. "—I-I mean— I'm so pathetic. I shouldn't be so... weak. I should — I should be better. Wh-why—"

Tears flowed freely down your face. "—Why can't I be better, König? Why am I so— so useless?"

Without saying anything, König wrapped his strong arms around your body and pulled you against his chest, pulled you close so you could let it all out. For a few moments, he let you cry, ever-so-gently stroking the back of your head, fingers running through your hair. Weeping into his chest, his steady breathing soothed you.

Once you recovered enough from your emotions, you pulled away, downcast. Face red and blotchy with tears, eyes puffy and pink from crying, lips quivering and voice hoarse, you felt so pathetic. So, so pathetic.

"F-fuck, s-si— König—" Trembling. "I'm so so sorry. I'm too emotional, please, I'm sor—"

"Nein." His tone was soft, yet firm. Definitive. "You have nothing to apologise for, King."

Both hands cupped the sides of your face, tentatively tilting your face upwards. His expression was forlorn, and you felt tears brimming in your eyelids again.

"...You're not weak. You're not pathetic. You're not useless. I see you always trying so hard, King, always giving it your all..."

He paused for a few moments, deliberating over how best to put his thoughts into words. "...Maybe... maybe your best isn't the best out of anyone's bests, but it's the effort that counts." He rubbed the back of his neck, then let out a mono-syllabic laugh. "Scheiße, did that make sense? Sorry— I'm not good with words—"

You glanced away. "—Hey," his hand reached to hold to side of your face. "Look at me, King."

"You're not weak, not pathetic, not useless," he repeated, voice wavering.

"You're none of those. You're better than you think you are. Your inner strength," a finger pointed at your chest, "your heart, it's so full of goodness. So full of so many good things that don't define you, but instead changed you for the better."

"Maybe... maybe you aren't the aren't the best, haven't been the best, or never will be the best, but it's not your fault. You try so hard, and the odds... the odds are stacked against you. And, sometimes... sometimes it's okay to not be the best. You don't have to be fearless, the strongest, perfect. You can just be... you."

His eyes were pleading in the dark. "Please don't doubt yourself. You're so— so much better than you imagine."

A shaky breath. "So much stronger than you tell yourself. I can promise you, you are your own person. Other people's successes don't define you."

König turned around to glance at his alarm. 2:36.

When he turned back, your face had slowly regained the colour on your cheeks, eyes sparkled, chest rose and fall at a steady pace. You said nothing, yet König knew you listened to every one of his words.

"Looks like it's too late for you to fall asleep in your own room," he whispered, gently caressing your face. "Stay here with me, King."

Eyes immediately widening in surprise, you were about to protest. "B-but— I couldn't possibly, König—"

That protest died on your lips as König's arms engulfed you again, and brought you down against his mattress so you were laying on his chest. Cocooned like a protective blanket over you, you didn't need him to say anything more. You felt so... safe. Loved.

The storm outside seemed to calm down, and lightning no longer crashed against the window. Rain faltered, and some clouds were separating in the darkness of the sky.

Before you knew it, your eyelids became heavy with drowsiness, feeling a wave of calm wash over you, cleansing away your sorrows.

Just before you fell asleep, you heard König say something in German, barely above a whisper, but you did not understand:

"Schlaf gut Schatz. Ich liebe dich."

...

I don't know who needed to hear that, or if anyone even did, but I stand by the words I wrote. Although you are reading this, and are likely a stranger, and I'll never face you in real life, I want you to know that you *are* good enough. And if it takes a person on the internet using a fictional character to tell you so, then so be it. You are still valid. 🫂

...

Note: i rhink some of the ppl that read my previous fics will be able to tell that i went tryhard mode on this one 💀💀

Its mostly bc im back in school and were going over all the stupid fancy shmancy literative devices and figurstive language (god why cant u call it literallt anything else i swear why does it have ro be so unnecessarily overcomplicated just call it sentence structures or writing techniques istg.man😭)so i unconsciously chanelled all of thise boring technicalities into this 😬

With me writing as a hobby you'd think I'd have the highest grades in English? No💔I wish LMAO

I NOW HAVE 130+ FOLLOWERS!!! Which is unbelievable if u wsk me bc etf why wre eo mwnt people following me i don't deserve this qt ALL 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭 THANK YOU ALL 🥹🥹🥹🫶🫶🫶💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓

I still remember when @puff0o0⭐ began their self-aware au with König and Ghost qnd ive qlways veen cheerint for her from the sidelines ☺️☺️come to find out shes been mentioning ME in THEIR podts and writing on their blofs thwt my CoD blog is good and i.????😭😭😭cant????????😭😭😭😭😭 Literally -99999 damage and an ARROW 🏹 STRAIGHT thru the HEART 💘🥹 I LOVE U B (platonically ofc dw)😽💕💓💓❤️💞💞💕💞💕💞💞💞💕

Intimate König headcannons

Gender-neutral Reader

Word Count: 1246

*FLUFFFFFF!!!!! YES FINALLY WE (I) LOVE THAT ☁️☺️💫

MANY THANKS TO @puff0o0💫🩵🫂💙🩵✨⭐ FOR GIVING ME TJE IMMEDIATE INSPIRATION TO WRITE THIS 🥰🥰💖 LOVE U SM POOKS I AM SO THANKFUL TO HAVE SOMEONE LIKW YOU AS MY MUTIAL 🥹🥹🥹 YOU ARE SO SWEET AND DESERVE THE WORLD (and to be with your crush😤 fuckingGOD im in AGONT when the FUCK is the wedding gonna be 😭😭💔)

Was down in the dumps and feeling really guiltt for not delivering fanficgions on time but you really reassure me and make ot seem like its alright for me to take my time 😇 Honestly am forevr used to the stress of deadlines and alwahs achieving expectations always expected of me thay i always feel intense guilt whenever i delay 😿😿 Thank you so mucj for your love and support uour messages are whay have kept me going 🙏🙏💖🫂(and motivated me immediately to write this in <5 hours LOL🤭)

also pls do NOT track my ip address puff PLEASE this is some next-levdl fbi investigation type shit and im honestly SHOOK are u secretly an fbi agent ?????😰😰never poetinf screenshots ever AGAIN ❌🚫‼️

*Physical intimacy (not sex guys🗿) headcannons for before your relationship and during your relationship

Tag List ♡ @simpforkonig ♡ @abysslovesyou ♡ @puff0o0 ☆ @rustic-guitar-notes ☆ @happy-mushrooms ♡ @reyner-lee

...

König's crush on you was not subtle. At ALL.

My personal headcannon is that he has never had a girlfriend/boyfriend/lover before. :(

I mean, bullied at school, enlisting into the military aged 17, climbing up the ranks to become a Colonel... yeah, to me it doesn't sound like the man would ever have time to find a significant other.

Oh, don't get me wrong, he would devote so much time to a partner (if he had one), would coddle them and cuddle them more than humanly possible and spend every, making the most out of every moment together. Precious hours never taken for granted that he dreamed of while on deployment.

...Yet, having no experience with receiving affection and being affectionate since being a very young boy, when his mother was still around to take care of him before he attended secondary school, up to this point he had ZERO (0) experience.

Still, König ALWAYS had a hand over your body in some way, under the guise of protecting you and keeping you out of harm's way. It was endearing that he cared so much about your well-being. 🥹

Resting a large hand on the small of your back as he guided you down crowded rooms (though that was almost always a pretence, as there would actually be very few people around, and it was only his excuse for touching you).

Leading you out, his hand would be quickly replaced by his arm wrapping around your side and pulling you close, closer even than you had been moments prior.

Truth be told, the way he touched you was the way he longed, craved for someone else to touch him. To long for him and crave him as much as he craved you.

It wasn't like you were oblivious. In fact, you were hyper-aware of the skin-to-skin touch, of every instance his fingers grazed your knuckles when handing you something, of every "accidental" bump of your head into his chest in corridors, of each time he rested a hand on your shoulder. Or on your back for reassurance — though, whether it was for your reassurance or his own, you couldn't tell.

All his touches, his gazes at your from afar and up close, the way his pale blue eyes crinkled in happiness under that long hood of his: all of it; you noticed it all. Every single time.

Obviously, you didn't object. You relished in this attention, so touch-starved that each touch made you melt. Besides, how could you even? You became putty in his hands, and you revelled the feeling of being so loved.

...However, your own intrusive thoughts insisted that you wouldn't be good enough for König, did not deserve such a man like him.

As much as it pained you to do so, you shied away from his advances, always the first to pull away.

And, of course, König noticed it. Every single time.

His immediate thought was that you didn't feel the same way. That you felt disgusted, disgusted by him and his touch.

Did you not like the way he touched you? Did you not like him?

Therefore, for a while, he toned down the touching. A simple pat on the back or a tap on the shoulder would have to suffice, despite his desperate need to feel more of you, touch you more.

Judging your reactions, scrutinising your cues... you weren't disgusted. Not in the slightest, it appeared.

You just looked... flustered. Shy. A hand would go up to hide the blush on your cheeks — nothing discreet about that — stubbornly avoiding his gaze, yet a small smile was on your face, and it made him wonder: what if you really did like the way he touched you? Liked him?

His touches became more daring. Confident.

One day, all of his anxiety ceased to exist when you reciprocated his touch with some of your own.

The hand kept in place of your hip flinched slightly at yours timidly moving to touch the top of his, interlocking fingers over his palm. Momentarily causing König to short-circuit, he became stiff, audibly gulping.

Adam's apple swallowing the dryness of his throat, he looked at you, frantically attempting to read the expression on your face.

You said nothing, didn't look at him at all, yet through that gesture alone König understood it better than had you could have ever said it in words.

For a moment, you regretted it. Even made a move to sheepishly pull your hand away. König, finally pulled out of his daze, held your hand in place, squeezing it three times. You squeezed it three times, too.

Suddenly, it all made sense to him, and, somehow, made sense to you too. You two were meant to be together, regardless of your insecurities.

Now, your dynamics shifted slightly.

Hands held together as you two sat by each other in a room, neither acknowleding the situation in case the other pulled away in embarassment. Never parting ways without a good-bye hug from you, your arms lingering by his own for a moment longer than they should have.

When you two are finally in a relationship?

☠️ Say goodbye to privacy and personal space ig

König is unbelievably clingy, and literally clings on to whatever of you he can reach. He does not let you go. There can be no compromise, and he keeps you in place, despite your protests and squirming, face flushed as you tried to playfully push him off you, obviously to no avail.

At the same time, König's touch is so, so gentle.

Tentative touches on your skin as if your body was precious porcelain, a fragile fine china.

Callous hands that had killed so many in cold blood running across your back, your arms, your waist, your legs, anywhere that König could reach, with a mildness that could have made people question whether it was even the same man and if so, how he could ever be capable of being so soft.

It doesn't matter whether you go to the gym regularly and have put on muscle or whether you are someone on the more petite side, you're so delicate to König. Like you could be broken at any moment.

For that reason, he holds back. Or, at least, tries to, for the most part. Bless his soul, he tries his best, but it's impossible not to cradle your body in his arms. <3

Unable to restrain himself, his resolve breaks after five minutes of going without you under him or on top of him or beside him or entangled with him, and his hands go back to touching you all over again, caressing you with such care and love that tears often brim in your eyes.

No one has ever been so gentle, so attentive, so loving. No one has ever touched you like this before.

And, seeing how you allow yourself to be vulnerable with him, to see you so sensitive, he would wordlessly wipe the tears away with his thumb, your eyes glassy like a doll's.

He'd run his fingers through your hair, whisper sweet nothings in a mix of English and German, often forgetting to speak in English and unconsciously reverting to German, calling you the loveliest things in a tone that expressed his complete devotion to you.

And, as you'd sleep peacefully beside him in bed, he'd admire you, and wonder how on Earth he possibly could have gotten so lucky.

...

Note: can i please have my own König irl please and thank you🙏🥰 want nothing more than a big beefy man to hold me 🥹❤️❤️(😭 man i need some mentsl help 🗿thays for another day tho am not wbout to get into the catastrophic state of my brain😊✨gonna keep deluding mtself instead !!<3)

König finding out that you are hard of hearing

Gender-neutral Reader

*Slow burn

Word count: ~4265

Always ignoring your Colonel, König takes it into his own hands to finally turn your attention on to him.

What he doesn't anticipate... is that you have actually been hard of hearing all along.

*‼️Mature themes**‼️ (mostly in the form of König's overly sexual[ised] fantasies and downright delusional thoughts of you). König is a MAJORRR pervert, and you're oblivious. 😋💅✨

I AM BACK!!!! 😳😳FROM THE *DEAD*!!!!! ☠️💀🧟‍♂️And ive fot a lil smth planned for you Ghost lovers ;)

*Many thanks to -—>@trepaika&lt;;—-🤭💖✨💓💞🩷💕 for proofreading this !!😇😇 I had no energy whatsoever to read it afger typikg this out so i am so honoired that you took time out of your day/night to help mw out and it rlly means alot 🥹🥹💙💙🩵🫂💙🩵 you better do yoir fucking biologu work afterthis 😡😡

*Thabk you so much to @reyner-lee for this request!! 🥰💖💖💕 Initiallt, i was aiming for a "idiots in love" plot where König and reader are both oblivious😩😩😩 . .... made König veey mentally unstable and psosessive instead ☠️☠️💀, mb broski😇💁🏼‍♀️🧚✨🌟💫💕💞💞💕✨

no but seriouslh i didnt mean to mwke this so mature it was meant to be a FLUFFY(mayb a little bit angsty 😳) fic as ALWAYS😡😡 so im SO sorry for dekivering something COMPLETELY different to what u probs had in mindbc lets face it this is completely diffetent to whay i initially hwd in mind too LMAO😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

*Part of the KönigxKing series (drabbles with loose plot, no world-building just a collection of one-shots)

*Edited 14/10/2023 for typos

Tag List ♡ @simpforkonig ♡ @abysslovesyou ♡ @puff0o0 ☆ @rustic-guitar-notes ☆ @happy-mushrooms ♡ @reyner-lee ☆ @lotionlamp ♡ @trepaika

...

You couldn't pinpoint the exact moment when your hearing worsened.

As a soldier, heightened senses were something of a blessing, especially in high-pressure situations: a 20/20 vision, a gut feeling, or even just the ability to distinguish the most indistinguishable of sounds that others would miss was something of a life-saver.

Literally.

Hairs standing on end and goosebumps running down arms could alert a soldier — you — to an assassin sneaking behind them, hand with a knife glistening under reflected light in the dark, poised ready to slit their neck.

Instead, you could save yourself in the nick of time by executing them before they had the chance to do so.

Stealth on missions was a lifeline. To sneak in and out, to extract intel, evading all detection all the while, and to disappear when you hadn't even appeared on the enemy's radar in the first place made you breathe easier on the journey home.

The ability to hear footsteps in enclosed spaces and pinpoint the exact location of someone through a mis-step on a creaky floorboard or a squeaky door hinge was vital. Crucial. An important distinction between life or death, between success and failure.

Obviously, you were no super-soldier. In fact, your eyesight was below average — having to wear contact lenses specifically designed to be as discreet as possible so you weren't a walking lighthouse sending a signal to your postion always — and you could never separate the feelings of foreboding from the foreshadowing of what was to come, the fine line between imagination and intuition blurred.

However, hearing shuffling that others wouldn't, muffled footsteps upstairs that others couldn't, hushed voices around the corner that others would miss, gave you and your team the upper hand.

You weren't the best, but you proved damn useful, more useful than someone that could see in the dark or a person that had some omniscient sixth-sense.

At least your hearing used to be put to good use. Could have been put to good use.

Up to the point when a grenade blew off right beside you on a mission.

No time to realise, no time to react, and no time to recover from the shock, let alone alone to dive for cover, a blast flung you to the side, arms and legs flailing mid-air like a lifeless ragdoll. Time seemed to slow down, and for what felt like an eternity — mere seconds in reality — you were suspended in the air.

Body suddenly thudding on solid ground with a deep thump, you hit your head so hard against the pavement that you had thought you cracked your skull. Debris toppled over your stomach, dust making your eyes tear up and cough painfully, collapsed brick all around you.

You groaned in agony as an ear-splitting ringing inside your head nearly broke your forehead in two.

You couldn't raise your limbs, body limp and weighed down by what felt like a tonne, but could feel the thick waterfall of blood through the open wound on the side of your head; staining your uniform, streaming into your mouth, the metallic taste and smell on your tongue and in your nostrils.

Confusion, disorientation. Bewilderment.

Seeing double, figures running to and fro looked like a dozen, and panic stiffened you.

Desperate blinking eyes squinting to try and make sense of the scene before you, head spinning and unable to think clearly, struggling to lift the limbs that each weighed a tonne, all you did — all you could do — was lay there. Limp.

No one was nearby to help you, and your anxiety intensified: it was just you, and broken debris to keep you company, all noise muted aside from the high-pitched screeching.

Not much is clear from that incident after that. Memories are hazy and unclear.

All you remember are hands tapping your face, tugging your arm and willing your eyes to focus. Then, those same hands suddenly lugging you up by the scruff of your collar and slinging you over their shoulder. Finding yourself being lifted off by a helicopter, and ultimately passing out in the end.

Medics told you your ear drums were inverted, turned inside out from the force, and ear canal blocked by dust. Thankfully, all you required for the head injury were a few stitches, and you wouldn't suffer any brain damage.

Still, the news of becoming hearingly impaired made your world come crashing down.

Yes, you'd still be able to process sounds, they assured, but not as well as you used to.

An official diagnosis was made, and condolences were given to you, for there was nothing that could be done to fix your hearing. You were practically inoperable as the risk was too high, and you could go permanently deaf if the procedure was to go wrong.

You didn't reveal you having a hearing impairment to anyone — why should you, anyways? Things like this happened, and there were people in your faction that have had it worse.

Besides, it wasn't like you would be permanently deaf or anything, you reasoned, so the only thing to do was keep working.

Like you used to. All things considered you were a good shot, with good aim, with good spatial awareness and reaction times.

You could keep working, keep serving your country.

Yet you didn't work like you used to.

How intensely you stared at people, their face, eyes darting from theirs and their lips, was passed off as you being attentive.

No one would have considered that you were desperately trying to keep up with everyone else, and feeling like you were left behind. To fend for yourself as the world moved in triple speed, while you were still processing your new circumstances.

Of course, no one noticed the change.

And König, for one, sure didn't.

Completely enamored by you, he thought it foolish, really, to be so taken by a soldier, one below him in ranks and younger than him.

Yet, he admired you, was your secret admirer, and let his feelings blind him to what could have been so easy to see.

Well, to onlookers, his admiration for you was far from secret. In fact, it was obvious. Very obvious.

Initially, people joked that you were going to be reprimanded by the Colonel, taught a valuable lesson for some mishap you had committed, when you'd be pulled aside. Not a single one could have forseen König's behaviour towards you.

Stares, only strategically turning his head when you looked in his vague direction. An aura of threat, had it not been for the way his eyes sparkled. Held a particular glint that no one could pinpoint his intentions, and his needing to excuse himself to go to the restroom and not return for half an hour.

Walking behind you, guarding you at all times. Making sure he figuratively — and literally — had your back. A hand that would roam, explore, and push its limits, figuring out how low he would have to go before you broke, before you'd beg for more.

Demonstrating combat moves to you under the pretence that it would help fix your reaction times, all an excuse to be near you, to touch your mid-section and rest his hands on your body for seconds longer than necessary.

Touches that he would commit to memory, that would help him reach his climax behind closed doors at the thought of feeling your bare skin, and the feeling of your clothed body having to suffice.

No, none of it showed intent to humiliate you like they thought he would; rather, it was evident that their Colonel had taken a liking to you. Favoured you among the rest.

Obviously, no one saw the perverted nature behind your interactions, the side that König revelled in.

You always seemed to appreciate the gestures, albeit hesistantly, and would blush up to your ears and would flash him an uncertain yet award-winning smile, one that made blood rush up to his face and lower half as he wondered what other sorts of facial expressions you could be making, and whether that smile would stay if you saw his most intimate self.

However, you rarely paid him any attention afterwards. Would go on about your day, as if he wasn't even there.

Ignored him, as if he wasn't worth your time, or even your acknowledgment.

He'd attempt small-talk with you when you were on your own, trying all he could to find common ground, to keep you interested —or, butt in the conversation when someone else diverted your attention from what should have been on him — but, throughout it all, your facial expression was blank. Like you didn't even recognize him.

Eyebrows furrowed, wondering why your colleague stopped talking, you'd only come to realise that König existed when they'd nudge your side with their elbow, whispered frantically in your ear, and when you turned back around you'd jump up with seemingly exaggerated fright, blushing.

Stuttering and sputtering apologies to your superior with a bowed head, eyes avoiding his, König thought that there was a triumphant smirk that you were hiding, a strut as you walked, back turned as you flaunted your way out of the room in a mischievous manner.

Teasing, testing the waters to see how long you could go on without admitting that he was there next to you, to see how long König would last before he broke.

Oh, the things that you were doing to him.

Fury brewed in König, and he'd stew over your (his) one-sided interactions, your blatant ignorance of him, your complete disregard of him. Regarding him as not worth your time, and seemingly ignoring him with an air of superiority.

So imprudent, so rude, and such a daring little thing. So fucking naughty.

Contradicting urges of wanting to yank you by the collar into a passionate kiss in front of anyone and everyone and marking you as his in his private quarters became near impossible to contain. To put you in your place, and prove that you weren't all that that you made yourself out to be.

After all, brats like you had to be tamed, and König would not stand you demeaning his ego like that.

Reprimands from unsuspecting soldiers got harsher. Spitting at others in a rasping voice, barking commands loudly from the background. Drills became a living nightmare — everyone a target for König's relentless bullying. Sparring became relentless, and damn-near a deadly duel as he was unrelenting, remorseless.

König needed to release his pent-up frustration somehow.

König hated that his love was unreciprocated, and would be in a bad temper, stomping around the grounds looking for an inferior to abuse.

He loathed how you made him feel, yet loved what you made him feel, his feelings intensifying when you were in eyesight, and the knuckles of his fists turning white, shaking with rage as you frolicked off with some dummkopf, some piece of shit saukerl that didn't pay attention to you like he did, not considering the higher-ranking alternative.

Figuratively speaking: as, let's face it, König was the full package; and literally speaking, as he had a full package of his own to satisfy your every need, and would convert you to his lover in an instant.

You were an enigma. König couldn't read you at all, and was in internal turmoil.

Why couldn't he win you over? Were you really that high-maintenance, or playing hard to get?

You had to like him back. There was no way you weren't doing this on purpose.

Were you really that unbothered? Unbothered by his advances, not caring at all?

Or, were you really just proud, too full of yourself to pay respect to your superiors?

Really, König should have taught you a personal lesson if that had been the case, one so personal you'd learn to never disrespect him ever again, and be as respectful as a little darling as ever.

...Yet you? You couldn't have been more oblivious.

Sensing a presence in the background as you scrolled mindlessly on your phone, you only became vaguely aware of something off about König when you realised the intensity of a stranger's stare, bearing down on your neck.

Glare. König's glaring at you from afar, camouflaged in the corner by the shadow of the dimly-lit room, the few flickering light bulbs all the more unnerving.

Only in close proximity did you become aware of your Colonel, imposing even while sitting down, tall even with his being hunched over.

Accidentally meeting the eyes behind the veil draped over his face, he unapologetically took up as much space in the room as he could, back straightened to his full height and long legs wide spread apart in an act of dominance.

Those eyes pierced yours, and made you shiver, all intentions of small-talk drying in your throat and, in fear of becoming tongue-tied and losing your cool, you said nothing.

Why was he just... staring at you like that? Did you do something wrong?

It made you shudder, and you shivered, trying to shake off the ominous feeling.

Never in a million years would you have thought that König had any sexual romantic interest in you — if anything, with that grim expression you'd have thought he'd had a bone to pick with you.

He looked absolutely terrifying. A beast of a man, with penetrating eyes.

Unbeknownst to you, König was undressing you with those same eyes. Penetrating, yes, but imagining scenarios where he himself would he penetrating you.

He made himself so inviting, with the spot on his lap reserved as a seat especially for you, reclining on a chair with a head in his palm as he gazed at you in interest.

He even considered making a gesture with his hand, a beckoning finger signalling for you to "Come here", just to make it loud and clear that he was welcoming you, and wanted you exactly where he had positioned himself.

Until some soldier entered the room, saw you and hit you up, starting casual banter and exchanging sarcastic remarks, which made you laugh. The tension melting in your body, you allowed yourself to relax, and forgot about what was looming in the very same room.

To König, the man was flirting with you, and with the way you had a hand clasped over your mouth, practically swooning over the guy, it was solidified.

Grinding his teeth in frustration, he jolted upright, and the chair he was sat on was nearly flung backwards from his sudden action, a deafening screech echoing in the room.

Two pairs of eyes on him, he beckoned the man over to him:

"Come here. I have a duty for you, sergeant."

Only this time, he wasn't at all inviting, and even the man beside you knew he was in for it big time with how König's fury was seething.

"Toilettendienst, weil du ein Stück Scheiße bist."

Cackling, and a sly, venomous smile under his veil. "I'm sure you'll love it, seeing as you can't mind your own business."

Your encounters with König were terrifying, but you tried with all your might to keep them out of your mind. After all, you were still struggling to get by, so to be so on edge would only make matters for you worse.

Having people repeat what they said to you over and over again was passed off as bad signal or static over walkie-talkies, yet without being able to read their lips you were practically deaf and couldn't interpret the gargling, speech drowned by the feeling of your head being underwater.

However, you managed. Managed to keep afloat, somehow. Clung on to your life raft, despite the crashing waves of the tide that flung you from side to side.

And, lulled into a false sense of security, you were contracted for another mission.

Just like before, and on all the other missions before all the ones before your injury, all seemed to be going smoothly.

No sudden movements, no noises out of the ordinary. Nothing amiss.

Except, suffocating silence had shifted and pushed its weight down against you, swirling and following your movements as it had slowly tied a noose around you and your crew's necks, making it difficult to breathe.

But you shrugged it off. You rationalised your nerves as post-morbid jitters. No way was it a gut feeling.

It was unusual how well things were going, and was second-guessing yourself after not having had been deployed in ages.

Your guessing proved to be true, and it was a shame that you realised this too late.

Ambushed out of nowhere, bullets and blood were all that you saw; blasts and bangs were all that you heard.

No one escaped unscathed. Every single one of the operators had sustained some sort of injury, yours minor scratches compared to gaping bullet wounds, stabs in the abdomen, and broken bones.

Intense guilt plagued you for hours, days afterwards, and you were unable to look those colleagues in the eyes for days, weeks afterwards.

How could you let that happen?

Clawing up the ranks until you were finally trusted, finally deemed worthy, it shook you to your very core that you failed to forsee any of this. Failed your colleagues. Failed.

No one blamed you, because they didn't connect the dots that you were the common denominator behind both incidents, the one that catastrophically failed your allies.

König, seeing you in your most vulnerable state, pounced at the opportunity to finally confront you once and for all. To settle the doubts in his mind and come to a solid conclusion.

He wasted no time in hunting you down as you were walking, alone, a predatory look in his eyes.

At last, cornering you in a remote area where no one would interrupt, nor allow you weasle your little way out of it again:

"King."

You dropped your head, avoiding his gaze. Readying yourself for the severe scolding, being berated by König, you dropped your head, cowering below him.

"Before you say anything—" mumbling under your breath, "—I will admit this myself first."

"I... I messed up. Messed up completely on this mission. I'm— I'm so sorry for endangering your men, for nearly getting the entire crew killed. It was my fault."

König's eyes widened a little. This was the most you had ever said to him in one conversation. And you sounded so... sincere.

...Could he have had the wrong perception of you all along? Were you just... Timid? Shy? Maybe a little bit introverted even, and not one for socialising?

No, that couldn't have been right.

He needed to interrogate you, press you for information, put you under pressure. You'd break then, and he'd finally figure out the truth for himself.

"Ja," he spat shortly, voice unwavering and eyes betraying no emotions. "You did mess up. My men are all injured."

You were mortified when all you could interpret was harsh gibberish. None of the words made sense to you, and you couldn't differentiate any consonants from the syllables.

You breathed in deeply, feeling so foolish for thinking of asking this, and prepared yourself for the worst:

"Sorry, sir? Can you repeat that?"

König was the one to be bewildered this time. For a few agonisingly long moments, he needed to process what you had just said. Your request.

Finally, it sank in.

Oh, you were in for it now.

What did you mean "Sorry, sir?"?

You ignored him, have been ignoring him for all this time, and you had the gall to give him attitude?

Worst of all, to fail to pay attention when he is was scolding you?

No. König wasn't having it.

Both hands slammed against the wall above you, with such a force that even you could hear a deep crack of splintering brick.

With you trapped, he wasn't about to let you go until you learned your place.

"You're not going to say anything anything more, maus?" He leans in closer, steel-blue eyes betraying no emotion baring into yours. "Pip-squeak has lost its voice, has it? You really should learn manners."

Understanding "...going to say anything more, maus?... Pip-squeak... should learn manners" it was enough for you to understand what he was implying, and you were confused. In disbelief. Bewildered.

"S-sir, I—! "

Eyes wide, you shook your head vehemently, hands held up in protest. "—It's not like that at all! I swear!"

König quirked a brow, leaning in closer. Licked his lips inquisitively, curious to hear your defence.

"I've not... been ignoring you, sir. Never. I wouldn't ever do that..."

You trailed off, averting your gaze. "...Or, at least, consciously..."

You bit your lip. Shifting uncomfortably, your fingers fidgeted, fingernails digging into the palm of your hand. How were you going to explain this?

"Y-you see, I'm—"

Bracing yourself, you breathed in deeply.

"—I-I'm— I'm actually hard of hearing."

König blinked twice. It was his turn to be confused, and he pulled away a few inches, concentrating hard.

Seeing the blank look in his eyes, you immediately clarified:

"N-not deaf, obviously! — I suppose I can still hear, in a way — but my hearing is not good. I struggle to understand people."

A defeated sigh. "Communication is tough enough because I'm not good at reading lips yet, and..."

"...with you, it is — would — have been impossible, because of the—"

A weak gesture towards his face covering "—mask..."

An awkward pause.

"L-look sir, I'm sorry for ignoring you. Honestly, I never meant to. It's just I—"

"Never heard," König said, nodding faintly. "I understand."

He understood, alright. Understood what a moron he had been all this time.

God, what a fool he was.

All this time, concocting scenarios of finding a way to prove himself to you, of asserting his authority, of sexually frustrated evenings considering all the possibilities, all personality traits... was all one-sided pining.

Poor thing, you were just oblivious.

He couldn't blame you, and was kicking himself for viewing you as anything other than a pure soul.

If he had known this, known of your condition earlier, perhaps he wouldn't have been so frustrated, so confrontational.

Now, he had ruined all his chances with you by intimidating you out of nowhere.

God, he was such an idiot.

Embarrassed, and not knowing what to say, he sheepishly slid his hands off the wall.

Coughing twice, he cleared his voice, and projected his voice so it was clearer and louder:

"King."

You looked up, face showing shame and genuine guilt.

"Gut. Keep looking at me."

To your surprise, König's hand was reaching up to his veil, fingers hooking under the the hem.

In a prolongued but fluid movement, the fabric was pulled up, and, slowly, slowly, he revealed his face.

His white chin and stubbled jawline came into view first. Only slightly defined, not modelled after some Greek God, yet not lacking definition, either.

Then, thin lips, pale pink and pressed into a tight line.

A hooked nose, crooked likely from it being broken more than once before, neither long nor large nor flat. Perhaps slightly off-center.

Keeping the fabric in place, he would not raise it higher.

After a few seconds of silence, you saw how his Adam's apple moved when he gulped, his lips quivering as he breathed in deeply.

Even seeing the half of his face, he looked handsome to you.

"Well... is this better?"

Mouth moving to reveal white teeth, some misshappen and others crowded, it looked as if he had never worn braces before.

He swallowed thickly, then his hot breath fanned your face, mouth partly-open as he panted in increasing agitation.

Blue-gray eyes looked into yours, no longer domineering. Instead, pleading.

Wanting your affirmation, to be reassured that you would appreciate him partly presenting his identity to you, the most vulnerable part of him.

To be told that you truly did appreciate this gesture after all.

A smile tugged at your lips. "Yes. Much better, sir."

You were touched.

To think, that your commander, your Colonel, the big, beefy, burly man, the masked soldier of towering stature, would go out of his way to be sensitive. To be at the mercy of you.

It made you tear up a little. No one had ever gone out of their way to accommodate you like this, and it left you at a loss for words.

"Sir, I—"

"Nein. Call me König."

Cleared throat. "König, sir—"

A devillish smirk formed on his face, and he shook his head.

"Gott, such a sweet little thing," he cooed, purposefully slowing down his speech so you could interpret it on your own. "Will need to have you getting used to you saying my name, ja?"

Those steel blue eyes had melted. Were warm. Held a fondness in them that he hadn't had before — or, maybe they had, but you had never noticed it until now — either way, you felt at ease with him. With König.

One of your biggest mistakes.

"Thank you, König. Really. For being so patient."

Rubbing the back of your neck sheepishly, you shot him a bashful, lopsided grin.

"I'm sorry that you had to be patient in the first place! I wish I could make it up to you, König. I really do."

König's mind flashed with blasphemous images of you.

Images that he had visualised in vivid detail, when he had been longing for you, longing to have you around him.

He was almost regretting what he had on his mind, yet, he reasoned, it was only fair you gave him a reward.

For his patience.

The smirk on his face became broader. Serpentine.

"Don't you worry, meine liebe. I know of a way."

A cackle, sounding forced and a little too loud to be genuine.

"I'll make sure that you'll be loud enough so that even you can hear it for yourself."

...

Note: i promised yesterdag id get thus oit today ... 🥹Bit late cuz at the time im typimg this ntoe its 22:33 (gonna be later once i proofread this for the final time😫😫) Edit: its 23:25 and i have a test tmr hahaHHhahahahAHAHAHAHHAHAHAA 😍😍😍😍

Hope yoi guys like perverted König 🗿 i for one do 😇😇 (fyi, it was NOT MT INTENTION to write him in this wau I PROMISW😭😭😭😭😭it just sorta happened and i rolled witj it ☠️💀)

Halloweens with König headcannons 🎃🍂

Gender-neutral Reader

*Slow burn

Word Count: ~3246

*FLUFFFFFFF😿😿💖✨🩷🩷💘

*Soft König☺️ (but also König is a smug bastard + asshole 🙄), Established relationship, Single mention of (ambiguous) age gap 😮‍💨

🧡Happy Halloween guys!!🧡 I don't celebrate Halloween myself , but im feeling 😈in the mood😈 so i hopw this can suffice for this ooky kooky spooky season 😰😰

Gos i wanna kms ive veen so uninspirws AAAHAHAHAHDHDHDDH this is literslly. Me rn--->💥💥💥💥💥🙂🔫 fuckijg FINALLT GOT sometjing OUT 🥳🥳 rest asusred iwont kms i need to finish my rqs first ☺️💖💖✨ i will feel SO euphoric when all the WIPS will become Completed Works !! 😍😍Im just gonna not post until i gdt smth donw bci hate giving false promises its the same as lyijg,🗿🗿

Tag List ♡ @simpforkonig ♡ @abysslovesyou ♡ @puff0o0 ☆ @rustic-guitar-notes ☆ @happy-mushrooms ♡ @reyner-lee ☆ @lotionlamp ♡ @trepaika ☆ @luci4theminorannoyance

...

König wasn't really one for Halloween.

Hadn't ever been, really, as he hadn't been raised to celebrate it.

In his household, he hadn't had much exposure to the Western "Hallow's Eve".

Besides, even if he was familiar with the tradition, his parents didn't bother celebrating those kinds of trivialities; after all, they certainly weren't going to bother wasting hard-earned money on trifles like pumpkins, just so they'd rot on the front porch, or candy that would rot your teeth, or on vulgar masks that depicted serial killers and monsters, too blasphemous to bear.

Plus, his neighbourhood didn't partake in "Trick-or-treat'ing" at all, and wouldn't leave any candy for any children — wouldn't do anything, really.

Nobody decorated their house with ghouls and ghosts, nobody dressed up as vampires or murderers, nobody jumped from behind corners to shout "Boo!".

None of that, as these ideas were childish. Infantile. Juvenile, even.

Thus, October 31st, König's Austrian villiage was quiet. So eerily quiet you'd had thought it was a ghost town had it not been for hundreds of cloaked figures in the cemetary — as, for König, "Halloween" tended to be a more sombre occasion in comparison to the American/English versions.

Instead of running around and knocking on people's doors with a broad, lopsided smile like other children ought, he was brought along to visit the graves of his family members: graves of his ancestors, which he'd be told about in detail, details of the person buried six feet under the stone slab; information and stories passed down from generations.

He would be taught to honour those deceased in his family and respect their memory, to remember those in the afterlife and what they sacrificed to get there.

Carrying a lamp, he'd light candles on those decrepit gravestones, text faded and illegible, while his parents left boquets of flowers, and pulled up their long black cloaks. Silently paying their respects.

While it wasn't necessarily a day of mourning — König never needed tissues to wipe any tears or blow his nose, and neither did anyone else in the family — it was far graver when compared to the Halloween holidays elsewhere.

However, König's memories of Halloween were few, far, and in-between.

Whenever he'd hear of other people's experiences, he was never nostalgic, as, the times that he did attend those familial ceremonies he was either too young to understand what was happening, or knew too little of the deceased[s] in question to be moved by the heavy atmosphere.

Not only that, but the time period was overwhelmingly solemn, with people flooding the burial grounds, some murmuring prayers, others with tears in their eyes.

There was no laughter, no treats, no fun costumes. Not even tricks. Just suffocating depression all around.

So, he didn't really associate the celebration with something to celebrate: what, celebrating the deaths of your family? That was quite morbid, when he thought about it, and he wasn't going to dedicate an entire month every year to remind himself of death with so many other operators around him falling on the battlefield, and having had faced the grim reaper himself several times already.

Hence, every 31st of October, he did nothing. Didn't acknowledge it at all.

But all that changed one fateful day in September. When he finally acknowledged it, all right (with a little of your help of course)!

You had asked König in passing if he had considered dressing up as something for Halloween. Maybe what he had considered doing on the evening. Or if he had plans to attend the autumn fair sometime soon.

His response? A blank look. Distant recognition.

For a quiet moment, you thought he was scowling at you, silently ridiculing your childish suggestion.

Then: "Halloween? Ah!" An amused chuckle, endeared by the child-like curiosity in your eyes, and a silent sigh of relief from you.

"I don't celebrate it, myself, meine liebe. But you're welcome to tell me what your costume is. I'd love to hear all about it, maus."

Mortified by this revelation, you couldn't let this go.

"What do you mean you "don't celebrate it"? You have got to be joking!"

Wide eyes, and jaw agape, you were in disbelief.

He simply shook his head with a strained smile. "I've just never seen it as something to celebrate, you know? No reason to."

Taking it upon yourself to prove him wrong, you wasted no time converting this skeptic into a believer. "Oh no, there is. I mean, it's Halloween! Everyone is crazy for it!"

Suddenly, your eyes lit up. A wave of adrenaline crashing into you, you tugged König's arm in direction of the couch.

"That's where we'll start! We're gonna watch Halloween! That'll surely get you in the spirit."

You winked at him, satisfied. Then, a sudden snort and a suppressed chortle, hand cupped over your mouth as you laughed at your pathetic attempt at a joke.

König cocked his head to the side in confusion, but let you hastily scramble for blankets, pillows, and to microwave bowls of popcorn, as he made himself comfortable on the couch cushions that sank in protest under his weight.

Initially, he was reluctant. Not necessarily looking forward to being forced to watch movies from the 80s–00s, over-the-top movies with subpar acting, to say that he was looking forward to it would have been a stretch.

However, seeing how passionate you were about the holiday, your interests, König didn't want your sweetness sour.

Yes, he was a little older than you, and perhaps didn't grasp what there was to fuss over, but he wasn't about to spoil your good mood, or dampen that excitement just because he didn't personally understand or was interested personally. He wanted to make an effort, for you.

Vowing to take part in your silly shenanigans, he swore to become involved in the festivities in order to see you smile. To keep seeing you smiling.

After that, every October evening you'd watch a movie — a (usually) corny horror classic, though spending most nights binging all the Screams, Halloweens, Chuckys, The Shinings, Saws, and Evil Deads, — huddled under moutains of blankets and stuffing your faces with toffee-flavoured popcorn.

Watching horror films with him was like being lectured on common-sense and taught self-defence lessons in real time, though. Not like you minded, but it really got rid of the edge and the tension in its entirety.

Instead of paying attention to the storyline, it's more likely König would catch on to the stupid decisions the characters and the shitty attempts to fight back, and he wouldn't be able to help commenting:

"Why did she leave the knife in him? In his abdomen, of all places? Now the murderer has a weapon! Should have taken it out and left him to bleed out. But noooo, nein, leave the knife there."

"Going into the forest on his own? In the night? With a killer on the loose? Mein Gott, he is such a dummkopf! Bring a friend, why don't you?"

"Liebling, why is there so much gore? Isn't this rated "15"? Wait, and why is there a lady with no shirt? This is supposed to be scary, ja? I'm very scared. Scared you'll slap me, actually, if I don't keep looking at my lap."

Angrily ranting at the television, you'd gently reassure him, that, "Sweetie, this is fiction. Sometimes, the scenes are unrealistic." "But it said "based on real events"! I swear, liebling, if I watch another ten minutes of this I'll have a headache. I can't comprehend the stupidness."

Tough crowd, that couldn't really immerse himself in the plot, but you took a note or two for the sorts of horror movies König wouldn't dislike.

Although he insulted all the characters for being stupid and ridiculed all the characters for being so brainless, he would begrudgingly admit that he enjoyed the movie, pointing out some of his favourite scenes.

Self-aware comedic slashers meant he could suspend disbelief and laugh out loud a little, while, movies with an omnipotent monster meant he couldn't criticise any inaccuracies. He didn't winge at those as much in comparison to major blockbuster films. In fact, he even preferred low budget movies, ones that were pure comedic relief and so self-aware that he wouldn't be able to help but laugh along, unable to hide his amusement.

Afterwards, at exactly midnight, you'd be huddled together in the dark under a thick blanket, gorging your mouth with sugary sweets and bite-size chocolates (also indulging in chocolates that were far from bite-size), giggling like lunatics (well, that was mostly you, but König joined in to keep you company).

Later, face serious, with a torch under your chin, you'd be whispering hushedly with a tone of foreboding, voice low, and words ominous:

"Drip. Drip. Dripping water. She had checked the bathroom taps, the kitchen taps, and they were twisted tightly closed. A leakage, perhaps? Or, perhaps, something else. As she roamed the corridor, the drip-drip-drip of liquid grew louder. And louder—"

"Ah, she should call her plumber, then, shouldn't she?" A sure shit-eating smirk that was obscured by his mask, but the way his eyes were squinting you knew he was taking the piss.

Of course, storytelling was not as haunting as you would have had liked it to be: König would interject, interrupting the aura of mystery and the medatitive atmosphere, with sarcastic remarks. It made the narrations really melodramatic in the end, and frustrated you to no end.

Still, you would groan, and, undaunted by his immature antics — as, mind you, this was a grown-ass man, a 6'10 wall of muscle messing around like this, teasing you not like the cocky Colonel he was but a snarky teenage boy — continue:

"—she walked on — despite having been rudely interrupted moments prior — and her heart sank. Blood. A puddle of it, on the floor, looking like gallons upon gallons of it had—"

"Maybe she was — ah, what's the word?" A thoughtful pause, hand where his chin was under the fabric "— menustrating? Was she wearing white pants, maybe?"

"—Menstruating, König — and stop ruining my horror narration! Now I've lost the plot! Okay — against her will, her eyes moved up the wall, following the dripping blood. To her horror, it was coming from the attic. Swallowing the heavy lump in her throat, she pulled open the hatch with jittering fingers, grip slackened by the warm sweat on her palms, knees threatening to buckle. And, when the trap door released, she gasped. Blood draining her face, she saw—"

An exaggerated gasp from König, as he clasped his hands over his mouth in mock shock. "She— she saw— your mother! Mein Gott, the horror!"

"Shut up, König!" An annoyed huff, and shuffling away. "Honestly, you're such a killjoy..."

König, scooping you into his arms when you turned around with crossed arms, pouting lips, and furrowed brows, nuzzed his masked face into your neck, chuckling heartily. You squirmed under his hold, fabric tickling your sensitive neck, and you'd desperately hold back your giggles, trying hard to keep a straight face.

"Ja, ja, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Es tut mir leid, meine Liebe. Please keep going. What did she find in the attic?"

"No! You made me forget the grand reveal, now! I forgot what was up there, anyways..."

Walking around the house, you'd have the fright of your life when a huge shadow would jump in front of you at odd hours of the day.

"Boo!" König's voice resounded, loud and reverberating.

And you screamed, damn near verging on a heart attack.

"Shoving" him in frustration — you became actually even more frustrated when the man was like a solid wall and did not even budge a millimetre — König was quick to console you.

Doting over you, a wide smile on his face that the mask couldn't hide, he would be so overly lovey-dovey with you in an attempt to win back your affection that you'd roll yours eyes so far they'd end up in the back of your head.

"Meine liebe, I'm sorry for scaring you. I couldn't resist. You'll forgive me, won't you? You will, right? Please say yes."

You insisted you would, seemingly unassuming, then schemed to startle him at odd hours of the night as payback for losing your dignity in that moment.

At one point, you had even waited half an hour in the wardrobe while he was showering, only to jump out and see König in only a towel.

Yeah, you were the one that got jumpscared instead, face erupting in red despite you two being together for months at that point. You gave up trying to spook him then, bitterly accepting defeat.

Though, going along with your silly little activities, like going shopping for Halloween decorations, made König's heart swell seeing you bounce around excitedly and point out all the ornaments.

He didn't quite consent to you buying a life-size skeleton to call him Greg and place him in your shared bedroom. That was one step too far.

Still, seeing the wonder on your face, in awe of all the masks, costumes, decorations, and animated mannequins that'd cackle after triggering their mechanisms made his steel-blue eyes soften, melting into pure love and devotion for you.

So, to humour you one day, and to lift your mood after scaring you that one morning, König made two eye-holes in a white blanket, running after you around the house, almost tripping over it in his haste.

"Ooooo-ooo!" he moaned in over-dramatised agony, voice low yet playful. "This is not König, but his ghooost! Run, liebling, or you'll be neeext!"

Hearing him say that in his Austrian accent was so hilarious that were tears running down your cheeks from how hard you'd be laughing, and your sides splitting with the laughter, struggling scramble away, giggling.

Those moans of agony would become genuine cries in pain when he'd accidently hit his head on the doorframe when he forgot to duck in his excitement. The one time that bulky helmet of his could have come to use.

Despite all that, you'd be cornered against the wall, with nowhere to run, and König would pounce, tickling your sides viciously.

That broad smile on your face and the expression was worth fooling around and making a fool of himself.

He even didn't mind having you coo over his "injury" just like how he had when he was doting over you, because he loved you so much.

And, he loved you so much, that he even allowed you to "decorate" his gear. "To make it appropriate for the spooky season!" you had insisted, and he'd comply, not wanting to dull that sparkle in your eyes.

So contented with painting an intricate monster on his mask with fluorescent orange paint, you didn't notice König watching you hunched over the desk from behind, leaning against the doorframe with a loving smile on his face.

You hadn't expected that he'd wear that gear on base — veil, knee pads, helmet, and all — strutting his stuff. Just to remind everyone that their Colonel had a lovely spouse back home.

What you hadn't anticipated was how quickly König would start enjoying the season. Unexpectedly, he became obsessed with Halloween — his favourite tradition, second only to Christmas.

Carveling hollowed-out pumpkins of all shapes and sizes was one of his favourite past-times.

You'd think that with his size he'd struggle to cut through the orange crust without crushing it into pumpkin-coloured mush in his fists, but you'd be forgetting that he was skilled with a knife.

That said, König wasn't artistic. At all. The best he could produce would be a lopsided smiling caricature of... something. A nondescript creature, which you had complimented him on being so cute, only for him to angrily insist that it was an evil monster, and not cute at all.

Still, you would snap a picture before he could object, and give this pumpkin the spotlight on your front porch, soon many more following suit. Jack'o'lanterns illuminating your front step, glowing gold.

The sweet scent of cinnamon, ginger, and vanilla extract filled your house, new freshly-baked treats from the oven laid out on the kitchen island daily.

Delicious aroma of sugary pastry, homemade banana bread with small hints of vanilla and sprinkled with icing sugar, candied oranges and sour, sherbet lemon cakes, crunchy cinnamon sugar pumpkin seeds ("Made from the pumpkin guts!" you exclaimed with a smile of pride, König's eyes smiling in delight of your enthusiasm).

Crumbly shortbread in the shape skulls and bats, round cookies with orange and black icing resembling pumpkins, sponge cakes that oozed thick raspberry and strawberry jam when you bit into them ("Because they were bleeding blood," you proclaimed, a devilish smirk on your face — or, something like it, as to König you were the cutest angel he'd had ever been blessed to be around), and so, so, so much more.

So much that your weekly trips to the supermarket became biweekly, until you two found yourselves stocking up on sugar, flour, eggs, and butter far too often to keep track of.

The house was so inviting, especially to little ones from the neighbourd, that their mouths were agape and their eyes sparkled as they passed your "haunted house", holding the hands of their parent(s).

Mentioned in an earlier post that König has a soft spot for children, he'd stock up on Halloween candy and treats, and lug bucketfuls of sweets on the doorstep for any little ones that'd knock on your door to cheerfully cry out in unison, full of glee: "Trick or treat!"

He'd welcome them with open arms, but, with most of them being so little, they'd point with bulging eyes the giant on the doorstep, to be harshly reprimanded by their mothers and fathers for their ignorance and rudeness.

Few would say much after seeing König the giant, and after daring to scoop a handful of confectionary, bowing their heads and avoiding his eyes would mumble a shaky "...Th-thank you, s-sir—!"

One of them, however — a little girl with rosy cheeks donning white stockings and a gold tinsel halo — beamed brightly, albeit shyly, at König, thanking him for the treat and his generosity. An innocent, toothy smile that made her squint from how high it reached her eyes, her front baby teeth missing.

When she had her back turned to you two, she ran as fast as her chubby little legs could take her, and exclaimed, "Mommy! Mommy! That giant is a big and friendly one! A big, friendly giant. Can we go again, please? Please?"

It was only when you nudged König with your elbow, grinning, when she had skipped happily away, that he had realised he had tears in his eyes.

Moreover, maybe the memories König had of Halloween weren't so cheerful, or ones even worth remembering in the first place; after all, his childhood wasn't so cheerful. Joyless, and with little life.

But, with the way that Halloween was shaping up to be, he was already looking forward to the special celebration.

So full of life the you two were, you would laugh at the irony — animated and living the dream, while celebrating the day of the day. It brought you two to more laughter.

And, with you, König could make new ones, ones that you'd look back on fondly years from now, and those grueling months on deployment.

...

Note: Went off experience here for the beginning, guys🫡🫡 for the mowt part i have never celebrated Halloween😰 only a couple times in Poland, and once in England when i drank tomato juice and prwtended it was blood and i was a vampire🤪,

, but I Googled "Halloween in Austria" /Germany" to clarify whether I wasn't just speaking outta my ass and König here would have celebrated it differently to how I had in Poland 💀cuz, yknow, im not egocentric ajd the world doesnt celebrate things the same way Poles do 😘...

...And, no, I wasn't !☺️✨✨(... sort of😅... As far as I know, Germany has adopted the West's Halloween, ans theres pumpkin carving competitiomsn stuff, while Austria does indeed celebrate it slightly differently) .

Because I have no fuckijg idea of König's nationaloty anymore as it KEEOS CHANGING, I got the vest of both worlds 🥲🥲

Also been really busy guys😰😰😰by busy i mean stressing out ovee not writing then proceeding to NOT write bc im stressed❤️❤️🥰 you know jow it is!! 🤗(🔫) its ok tjo❤️(no it isnt) ill work tjis oit somejow🥹(no i wont im gonna kms) 🥰🥰

Have a very spooky halloween guys<3Feel bad foe those that are buying candy bc not onky is it smallwe than last uear but its more expensive 💔😟

“𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐞.„

𝕲𝖍𝖔𝖘𝖙 𝖝 𝕲𝖊𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗-𝖓𝖊𝖚𝖙𝖗𝖆𝖑 𝕽𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗

𝔚𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱: 𝟏𝟒,𝟖𝟎𝟕

𝔖𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶

𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐙𝐨𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐞 𝐀𝐩𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐬𝐞. 𝐘𝐨𝐮, 𝐚 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐢𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐞𝐮𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐭, “𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭”, 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐨𝐫𝐬.

𝐈𝐧 𝐚 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐚 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭. 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝?

...

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*𝐒𝐋𝐎𝐖! 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧!!! 🔥

*⚠️ 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭! 𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭! 𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐓!!! ⚠️

*𝐂𝐖s: 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐔𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 (?). 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐢𝐜 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐠𝐨𝐫𝐞. 𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭'𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐌𝐚𝐣𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 “𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡„. 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥-𝐬𝐢𝐠𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲/𝐧.**

**Let me know if there's anything major that I've missed! ☺️

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“𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭„ ♡ @simpforkonig ♡ @rustic-guitar-notes ☆ @happy-mushrooms ♡ @best-soup ☆ @lotionlamp ♡ @trepaika ☆ @luci4theminorannoyance ♡ @nightlyvoids ♡ @skeletalgoats ♡ @aethelwyneleigh27 ☆ @arrozyfrijoles23

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Simon "Ghost" Riley always had been a puzzle you couldn't solve. Always had been, and always was.

Stoic and stone-cold, it seemed, who did not respond with any warmth whatsoever, as a fire was put out in his adolescence, never to be rekindled again.

All that remained of his softness quickly became a hardened shell, ashes and dust from the extinguished flame left behind, not a spark to be reignited ever again.

The mask he wore became who he was, and he became the "Ghost" persona. Simon Riley was no more, and he hadn't been for years; he was Ghost, ghosts of his past forever haunting him, until he himself became a ghost of who he used to be.

So, Ghost was a distant man; which, was also always a contradiction — physically in close proximity to you on the few missions you had been paired with him, shoulder to shoulder with the both of you looking into the scopes of your sniper rifles, yet practically on another continent in terms of relations and closeness.

You were a rookie, and it seemed to you that Ghost viewed you in disdain for that.

With each attempt you made to become closer, he'd retreat back further into his shell. You'd think you'd be able to thaw his icy exterior, at least by mere degrees, yet his melting point grew higher with each interaction, the distance between you growing despite you trying to close it. Him recoiling at each attempt you made to come closer, as if your warmth burned him.

Every attempt at casual conversation was shot down. Stepping a couple of steps away from you, not looking at you at all, he would physically make the distance between you two further apart.

"Keep it tactical," he'd mutter. "If it's not about anything of importance, don't bother wasting my time. You got that?"

"Was only asking how your day was, you know," you grumbled, arms crossed defensively as you looked off to the side, hurt. "What's not tactical about that?"

"I hate small talk. Nothing tactical about it."

With that, he'd storm off unceremoniously, not sparing you even a single glance.

You'd jog after him, the treatment he was giving you making you feel like an unwanted dog. "Sir, hold on—!"

Ghost halted, and you would have crashed into the human wall had you not slipped in the combat boots a size too big for you.

"Not 'sir'." Dark brown eyes narrowed into yours.

"It's Lieutenant to you, rookie. Get that through your thick skull." Turning away from you with his arms crossed firmly across his chest.

"On second thoughts, you could be of use for somethin'."

Side-eyeing you, his words dripped with sarcasm. "That thick skull of yours could be a sniper's worst nightmare."

"Look, si— I-I mean, Lieutenant— I was just wondering—"

"Look, don't waste my time, yeah? Not here to bloody babysit a blooming toddler that can't keep itself busy."

Work with him was kept strictly professional before the outbreak — well, more so "stand-offish" as opposed to professional.

There was no point becoming acquainted. You two were vague associates, had occasionally been deployed together, and Ghost rarely associated with you when if wasn't on a mission, always acting aloof.

"Gotta stay focused, soldier. Especially in these circumstances."

"I'm not a soldier, you know," you remarked, daring to roll your eyes as he had his back turned. "I don't have the training that you have had, or the experience. I'm just a rookie."

"All the more reason for you to stay focused," he repeated matter-of-factly. "So, get a grip, soldier, because that's what you are now. If you don't have what it takes to survive, might as well lay down on the ground and wait to die."

And those working dynamics hadn't changed whatsoever after the outbreak.

The outbreak of a virus.

Almost the whole human population was wiped out by a world-wide epidemic, a plague that could not be cured.

The virus gave those infected the ravishing urge to purge anything living, a diseased mind wanting to spread its disease.

Like a parasite, it sucked out all of your life essence, your conscience fading as your body deteriorated, until had degenerated beyond repair.

Rabid like a stray dog, you would no longer be human. True, you were still you, yet you weren't you, only a monster in human form.

A corpse, violent and violently out of control, driven by animalistic instincts; instincts to kill, and to ravage fresh, human flesh like a savage, ripping apart meat off bone with sharpened canines.

Out of 8 billion people, 2 billion had been killed by the military's efforts to reduce the spread of the disease, while 5 billion roamed infected.

Out of the billion that survived, millions were driven to suicide, and those that remained fought and killed each other like primitives for basic necessities such as food, water, and territory. It was survival of the fittest, though few were fit mentally and many had gone mad. It would make one wonder whether there were any sane people left.

Of course, you and Ghost found out the hard way, when you two were deployed on a mission.

A mission quite unlike the few you had been deployed on before, as you two were retracing the steps of the police, trying to gather information on their whereabouts.

Shortly after police cars had arrived on scene of an emergency, communications with them were lost almost immediately.

And what's worse, was that Shepherd's forces had been supposedly involved in the incident.

You two had been dispatched by helicopter almost immediately, and upon landing, you realised that this would be the perfect opportunity to prove yourself to Ghost.

The place was strange.

Wide streets, dotted with brick buildings. Ominously flickering street lamps. The gentle drip-drip-drip of rain, collecting in shallow puddles.

Something about the streets being so deserted, no lights lit in apartment windows and nothing stirring in the alleyways, put you on edge.

Ghost, on the other hand, was completely calm, laser-focused.

A voice came through his earpiece. One of a female. "Ghost, what's your status?"

"Approximately 500m away from the target area," Ghost said robotically, scanning the surroundings like a machine. "No contact at all, and nothing out of place."

The voice hummed with satisfaction. "Good. Make sure you've got each other's backs. You never know what lurks in the unknown."

"Roger that."

"What lurks?" You asked, turning to Ghost in slight fright. "What does she mean by that?"

"Well," he shrugged. "An ambush, for one. Could be anyone hiding out in these streets. May not be as deserted as they seem."

A shrug. "But then again, you'd know that if y'had some common sense."

You two walked soundlessly ahead, footsteps in sync.

Rain dripped onto your gun, collecting into small droplets of water.

Once, you stepped into a puddle, and as your boot made ripples in the water, you swore you saw something. Something distorted in the water's reflection.

A wrinkled face, with glowing orange eyes, with sunken eye sockets and sullen cheeks, baring it's yellow teeth at you.

About to lunge at you from behind.

Whipping your head around in fright, you saw nothing there, and Ghost shot you a questioning look, a brow raised.

"What's gotten you jumping like that?"

"It's nothing. I just—" You shook your head, shaking off the fright. "—I just thought I saw someone. But there was no one there."

A dry, monosyllabic chuckle from Ghost. "Seeing ghosts, are we? Come on. Get your bloody head in the game, and focus."

You two walked ahead, yet you still couldn't shake off the sixth-sense telling you that something was wrong.

The figure you briefly caught a glimpse of made you paranoid, and you'd look over your shoulder every so often to see if something, that something, was behind you.

Nothing was, yet that didn't make the goosebumps go away, or your pulse to slow down.

Eyes closed, you breathed in and sighed. Almost immediately, you gagged in disgust.

"Eurgh! Lieutenant, do you smell that?"

Ghost quirked a brow again. "What?"

You sniffed again, and retched, tasting vomit in your mouth. "That."

The putrid odour of rotten flesh.

"You're right, I smell it," he wheezed, and fixed his balaclava. "Bloody disgusting. Smells like—"

"A dead body," you whispered.

"Dead bodies," Ghost corrected. "That isn't just one corpse. No corpse smells like that. There's gotta be a heap of these, all rotting away."

A chill went down your spine. "So you're telling me that all of the policemen just... died? On the spot? And they've just been rotting here, despite it bringless than a few hours?"

Ghost shrugged offhandedly. "Sure seems that way, don' it? Though, I admit, I'm jus' as lost as you are on this one."

Sighing deeply, and beckoned you with his head. "Come on. Let's keep going."

Looking back down, you immediately you noticed it.

A thick, magenta mist swirling from the ground and rising into the air, swiftly shifting into shapeless shapes.

It slithered like a snake up your leg, neither a fog nor a gas, but instead behaving like a liquid.

You were mesmerised, and couldn't help but take in in, if not but for a moment.

Out of nowhere, a snarling creature was sprinting straight at you, with those same glowing orange eyes.

Baring its sharp teeth at you, it had a crazed look in its eyes, pupils dilated and its sceleras blood red.

Sprinting straight at you, you realised.

Before it could register to you what was happening, what that thing was, and what to do, a single bullet went through the creature's head, straight through between its eyes.

"Godamnit, soldier!" Ghost yelled. "For Chris' sake, you should have been paying attention. You have a gun, so bloody use it, will you?"

Shook by what you saw, you had to protest: "Yes, but Lieutenant, did—"

"No 'but's," he snapped. "Eyes on the back of your head at all times, don't I tell you enough already?"

Still shaken, you tried again to physically shake off your nerves, in vain, and steadied the rifle in your hands.

"N-no. You're right, Lieutenant. You tell me enough already."

Looking down at the swishing mist, you still couldn't shake off the goosebumps on your arms.

Walking slightly behind Ghost, he suddenly stopped in his tracks, armed and ready.

He held a hand out to tell you to be quiet, and stepped aside.

Your eyes widenened.

Police cars toppled over, some completely destroyed by a rocket launcher, in a circle clumped on one side.

Shrapnel and sharp glass lay scattered on the ground, while guns were carelessly left behind.

Further along, army vans and trucks were parked, abandone. Doors left ajar and windows half-closed, as if the people there had struggled to escape, and left at the last second.

There were thick, black tyre marks from the wheels of one of these trucks leading north, that had skidded rapidly away. Away from something.

Sound of glass cracking under your foot brought your gaze to the ground. Lifting your boot, you saw what looks to be a vial. The contents were empty.

"Bloody hell..." Ghost shook his head, and, calm and composed, put two fingers to his ear piece. "There's been a shootout here, but no bodies. Any updates?"

No response.

Ghost's fingers moved to his earpiece again. "Ma'am, I repeat, there has been a shootout here, but there are no bodies. Do you copy?"

Nothing.

A cold chill tickled your spine, only this time, your body temperature dropped by degrees.

"Lieutenant, something's not right."

"More like everything is not right. Haven't you noticed?"

You gaped at him stupidly. "Wh-what?"

"That there's no bodies. Look around."

Ghost was right — not a single corpse was on ground.

It was as if everyone here had ceased fire and fled, dispersing into all directions, not caring at all whether they had been shooting at each other moments before.

There was sudden rumbling from the distance, and under your feet.

For a second, you thought it was an earthquake at the way the ground shook so forcefully.

You two looked into each other's eyes, Ghost's dark brown ones wide with alertness, while yours were wide in fear.

Soon, it dawned on you that it was not an earthquake. It was the stomping of feet, running in unison. A stampede.

"What the—?"

A cacophony of high-pitched screeching echoed from the othet side of the street.

Finally, you saw them on the horizon.

Dozens, at least fifty or more, were running right at you both.

Some, were limping, their broken leg trailing behind them like dead weight, yet still were driven by the fire in their eyes.

Most, however, were sprinting straight to you with inhuman speed, sprinting faster than any Olympic athlete could have done.

Horrified, you stared, having never seen such a sight in your whole life. If it had not been for Ghost shaking you violently, you'd have stood there, like a deer in headlights, yapping jaws of imminent death just a few yards away.

"Bloody hell, soldier! Snap out of it!"

Rescued from your trance, you had no idea what to do. You hadn't enough magazines to kill so many. There was nowhere to hide, you thought.

"Back to the chopper, now!"

Ghost pulled your arm, yanking you beside him, and you two bolted from where you came, you dropping your rifle in your haste to get away.

Adrenaline coursed through your veins, energising you in a way you had never been before.

Your sudden stamina shocked you, but you had nothing else on your mind, your mind screaming at you to run! Run! RUN!

Your feet were moving so fast that they were a blur. When you dared to look back, you nearly tripped over your own feet. The was horde less than fifty metres away.

Ghost had broken off into a full sprint at the sight of the helicopter, still on the ground, and you had been filled with hope.

Then you saw from the distance that the pilot that had piloted you here was slumped in the front seat. Two zombies had gotten to him and had ravaged him mercilessly, his jugular gushing blood, his collarbone protruding as they tore through skin and muscle.

Without thinking, Ghost pulled them off the corpse, and shot each in the head.

He spared a second's worth of mourning for the man, before pulling him out from the front seat and setting his body at the back compartment.

When you caught up to him, the horde was nearly nipping at your heels. "Fuck, Lieutenant! What are we gonna do?!"

Without warning, Ghost shoved you inside, manic. "For fuck's sake, get inside already!""

Your eyes widened in fear. "Do you even know how to pilot this thing?!"

Ghost slammed the helicopter doors, while you had a death grip on. "'Course I know how to pilot this bloody thing! I was part of the Special Air Service. I know what I'm doing."

Fiddling a little with the controls, and furiously mashing a few buttons, you miraculously got into the air.

The flight had heavy turblence. Ghost nearly crashed the thing into a tall building, yet managed to swerve in time.

And with that, you two were off. Panting, gasping for breath, gasping at the horrific scene that replayed like a movie reel.

Yet, it was awfully quiet, a contrast to the loud thoughts inside your head.

Just the whirring of the helicopter blades and the purring of the engine.

Finally, after what felt like ages, the tornado of thoughts and the narrow escape from storming, snarling creatures all headed for you as fast as whirlwind, metres away from throwing themselves and taking you to the ground, tearing you apart, you calmed. Calmed yourself enough to the point where you were no longer in a hysteria.

"S... Sir?"

He grunted in acknowledgment, not bothering to correct you this time, eyes staring fixedly ahead of him and piloting the helicopter in silent concentration.

"S-so—" Stuttering, because you were shuddering at the premise of what had just happened, shivering from a continuous cold chill and persistent goosebumps.

"—So, uhm, wh-what— what do you think happened back there?"

For a few agonisingly long moments, Ghost was agonising quiet, clearly contemplating what was at hand. The quiet was deafening.

"Listen. If I'd had to hazard a guess—" Ghost began, still staring ahead of him solemnly. "—I'd say those were zombies."

When he turned around to spare you a glance, your dumbstruck expression seemed to frustrate him.

"Fuck, what's with that expression, soldier? If that mouth of yours is open for any longer you'll bloody catch flies."

"Z— zombies?"

Although recovering slightly, enough now to speak steadily, you were dumbfounded.

"Y-you can't be serious. You've gotta be taking the piss!"

His eyes narrowed, and he glared in warning. "Think I've lost my head? Christ, you haven't ever watched a zombie apocalypse movie, or summat? The resemblance was uncanny. Those were not humans."

Tilting your head in confusion and curiosity. "You watch... Zombie movies?"

"Oh for crying out loud—" He pinched his temple in frustration. "—I'm telling you that we're in some serious shit, that there might even be an ongoing apocalypse, and you're more moved by what I apparently watch in my free time? Bloody hell—"

After a thoughtful pause, you turned to him, eyebrows furrowed. Suddenly serious.

"It doesn't make sense, though."

"Sure it does," he growled. "Life doesn't imitate art. Art imitates life. There had to have been inspiration somewhere."

"You're still going on about those zombie movies?" You groaned, tempted to face-palm yet to scared to be so blatantly disrespectful. "No. I mean, why? Why have people become zombies?"

He let out an unamused chuckle. "God, could you be more dense, you?"

"What was the reason we went on this so-called operation? Think. Think this one time, as I can you don't do it often enough."

Rolling your eyes, you immediately froze in the spot, eyes wide.

It hit you, that there could, could, be a connection. If Shepherd's men really were involved in the shootout, then...

"Look, I didn't tell you," you said, swallowing. "I stepped on what looked to be a test tube. Or a vial, I'm not sure. It had purple stains on it."

"A sample of the virus that went wrong?" Ghost proposed. "I suppose it wasn't meant to be airborne. They used it as a last ditch effort to get the cops off their tails."

"How can you be so sure that is what happened? What if it was just a mistake?"

Ghost turned around, arm slung around the back of the adjacent seat, and his eyes were dark. With a mocking tone: "Oh yes, because genetically engineering a virus that causes people to eat other people was obviously a mistake. And the shootout was just a slip of people's fingers."

You crossed your arms indignantly, annoyed, and Ghost took advantage of your offense by continuing:

"By now, they've definitely made adjustments. Engineered it so they have more control over it."

Despite being annoyed, you audibly gulped, your defiant demeanour dropping instantly. "Y-you sure, Lieutenant? I-I mean— how can you be sure of this?"

Wordlessly, dark brown eyes darkening, Ghost said: "Positive."

Turning around, his shoulders tensed up suddenly. "I'm just prayin' that I'm wrong."

For close to half an hour, you two were flying back where you came from.

From afar, the base, with its several camps and adjourning buildings, temporary tents that had become permanent ones due to the lack of time to put them down, military trucks parked in neat rows, vehicles just as they had stood when you departed, untouched, stood like an imposing monolith, despite being far wider than it was tall.

There was none of the usual commotion, however, the hustle and bustle of people rushing to and fro, the stamping of feet and the grunts of effort from the distance as soldiers took part in drills, of purring car engines and whirring helicopter blades transporting soldiers on a distant mission. It was quiet.

Upon landing, you looked back at the corpse in the back compartment, and swallowed air, throat bobbing strenuously.

"Lieutenant... what are we going to do about... him?"

Ghost, after a few moments of studying you closely, murmured: "Take the body back to his family, of course."

You furrowed your brows. "Didn't you say we may be in an ongoing apocalypse?"

Sighing deeply, Ghost's shoulders sank. "I did. But I've been prayin' that I'm wrong, and jumped to conclusions. Maybe this fella has a family to return to. Doesn't seem right to leave him to rot, does it?"

Right at the entrance, you two exchanged an uneasy look at each other. Neither of you were saying a word.

Tentatively stepping through the threshold, you held your breath.

It was a good thing you did. The stench — the odour of death and decay — made you gag.

You had not imagined anything, refused to imagine what it would be like inside. And, inside, it was worse than you could have possibly imagined:

Bodies were slumped against walls, crumpled up in heaps on the floor. Guts were splayed on the floor. Half-eaten intestines and pools of blood, right where the corpses were.

Many had fear stamped on their faces, with wide, frightened eyes and gaping mouths, and flies had been swarming to the soft tissue of the eyes and tongue until they fleed from your presence.

Some had already been infected, dead yet living, and were feeding off the rotting flesh of the victims with a crazed look in their glowing orange eyes, flashing like a cat's.

Their fingers were gnarled. Had skin peeling off their hands, revealing tendons and bone, nails morphed into claws.

Others had not fought without a struggle, it seemed; guns were held by the dead in a deathly grip, empty cartridges and bullet casings were littered on the floor, and some even had grenades in the palms of their hands, having had not reacted quickly enough to pull the pin and launch them at approaching hordes.

Some of the zombies were laying, lifeless, with a bullet between their eyes, others with wounds in their abdomen and chest. Black blood oozed out like sticky goo.

Ghost stood as still as a statue, taking everything in. Wordlessly, he unholstered his pistol and walked towards the nearest creature.

And shot it right in the head.

A mercy kill, to put whoever the monster had been before its infection out of it miserable suffering, its mortal torment.

He would do the same with the rest. A few of them even looked up at him, dazed, not knowing what was coming for them, and hissing malevolently, before a deafening bang rang out and echoed down the hall.

When Ghost was done, he was panting, out of breath as if he had run a marathon.

Although he did his utmost to keep his breathing steady, each exhale was shaky, feeling like at any moment the air in his lungs would vanish.

"The virus," He said through gritted teeth. "It is here. It's real."

Hands clenched into fists, he was actually trembling. "It is real."

For an agonisingly long time, Ghost had his back to you, yet with the way his shoulders were slumped and his back hunched forward, he was forlorn.

Feeling like it was wrong for you to speak up, yoy hesitated, your voice barely above a whisper:

"Lieutenant? What do we do now?"

Ghost didn't respond. His shoulders rose and fell with each shaky exhale, doing everything he could to stay composed.

"...Sir?"

Cautiously, you tip-toe'd towards him, hesistant to speak up again.

He sensed your presence, and slightly turned his head around so he could see you in his periphery.

Surprisingly, Ghost was incredibly calm in the way that he turned to you. His breathing was steady now, and he no longer let out laboured breaths. It was almost like he was back to his usual self. This trauma would become nothing more than a mere memory, another one to stack on top of the memories that were emotional baggage he carried on his shoulders.

Staring straight into your eyes, his voice was quiet, but he spoke directly. Assertively.

"'s you an' me, now, soldier. We're all we've got."

And that was that. That was all there was to it.

You and Ghost were lone survivors.

No one had survived the ambush, despite having double-checked every cupboard, every barricaded room.

Those inside had gotten bit without realising in their bid to stay alive, to survive, and instead of human survivors, you'd be faced with surviving zombies that you would have to put down. One at a time.

Something told you that maybe, just maybe, Ghost's intuition was right.

That Shepherd had unleashed this disease, right here, as a means of destroying their opposition quickly, to clear their names.

After all, with everyone dead or infected by a virus that made them lose the capacity for human thought, who would be there to oppose them?

The reality that likely, very like, this was true, made your stomach churn.

That a corrupt individual with a mega corporation would corrupt humanity rather than bringing salvation, sickened you.

Had he even known the chaos that would ensure?

Ghost, having hauled canisters of fuel into the closest military truck, slammed the door closed.

With you two inside, in a single motion, he started the engine, and pressed his foot on the pedal, pulling out slowly.

In hesitation, for a minute, his hands shook, knuckles on the steering wheel turning white from how tightly he gripped it.

You didn't say it out loud, but you thought it was ironic: hours earlier, Ghost had been hellbent on making his way back to base, had even saved a comrade's corpse with the promise of restoring his dead body to his family members, yet now, he was creating as much distance between it and the both of you as possible, not turning back even once. Could not turn back, as there was no family for that man to be restored to, and no one, no one, to turn back to.

Weeks passed — or were they months? The days merged into one blur, indistinguishable from each other.

Encountering zombies became day-to-day to you. The ones you encountered could be shot straight through the skull. The parasite fed off the brain, feasted off mortal thoughts, yet with just one pull of the trigger it would die on the spot.

Fighting off a third, fifth, seventh, eleventh, nth small horde, no longer struck the same fear in you. You had quickly adjusted to the circumstances. Your new life.

You two spoke little in the beginning. Quite frankly, there was little to say.

How could one approach this subject? Of imminent doom following this global doomsday? Of having lost colleagues, comrades, in a single instant, and not even having been able to help, to even witness it, because you two were assigned on a mission that had been pointless in the end?

Sure, you knew who was to blame. So what? What was there to do with this information? Vengeance was not the answer anymore, as surviving was the priority. Besides, you didn't even feel vengeful. All you felt was numbness, and the burden of this knowledge that should have been forbidden.

Walking through various locations, all abandoned and lifeless, a wave of déjà vu would crash into you, flooding you with memories of what cities used to be like.

Seeing cars all in one cluster, stuck forever in a traffic jam, metal heavily rusted and weak gusts of wind made it all the more eerie. Especially more eerie, given what the cars had been lined up to do. To escape.

The quiet unnerved you. Filled you with dread. You dreaded the silence, yet flinched at sudden sounds.

Echoes of screams were brought by the wind, whimpering voices begging to be freed, begging the callous soldier in front of them not to shoot them, their children, promising that they weren't infected, they swear! Alas, kneeling, facing a brick wall, they'd be shot. One at a time.

The best thing about walking through these locations was that the two of you never saw the chaos, the catastrophic damage, the devastation, all happening in real-time. That, in a sense, was also the worst thing about this apocalypse.

You two were not associated with the events, and, realising that you'd never experience what millions of other people had collectively experienced in those moments, their final moments, left you disassociating for hours at a time, your feet walking on their own.

Something about seeing the cities stood still, frozen in time, a relic of the past, that fateful day of panic and fear preserved in a time capsule, and unaltered. Untouched. So unlike what they had been not so long ago, made you shudder. To think that it used to be lively, full of life, and so lifeless now, was a surreal feeling.

It made you feel out of place. As if you shouldn't have been there.

You had to be there, though. Supplies would rarely last and food in your surroundings was scare.

Ghost seemed to know exactly what to do. He led you towards the dilapidated pharmacies and the rundown convenience stores, most of what was left of the medication and tinned goods thrown onto the floor, piled in heaps.

What remained of past haphazard searches from other wandering individuals, was scattered. It made you wonder whether those people that took the supplies from where you were were still alive, and if not, how shortly after they had died.

Over time, you two became comfortable in each others's company, as you had become so uncomfortable with the mutual silence, you sought comfort in each other's presence.

And, although Ghost wouldn't have ever admitted it, the truth was, he was in desperate need of comfort, too, regardless of who you two used to be to each other before all of this.

Ghost's icyness thawed, and he came out from his shell, slowly.

Soon, though, his sarcasm wasn't directed at you as much, and you two could actually exchange banter, meaningless puns with the most God-awful punchlines, as a past-time.

Warming your hands over a small fire, you'd quip: "Lieutenant, what do you call a dictionary that smokes weed?"

A huff, his attention fixated on handling his rifle, wiping down the remains of a carcass that had splattered onto it. "I'd rather not know."

You had a shit-eating grin on your face, like a Chesire cat's. "High definition."

Ghost's eyes locked on your face, deadpan. "Fuck, that was terrible. I wish we'd go back to the times when you'd say nothin'."

Back to silence you two returned.

A heavy burden was on your shoulders, weighing the two of you down.

Out nowhere, Ghost spoke up. "Y'know why an oven and an microwave broke up?"

You rose an inquisitive brow, tilting your head in interest. "Why?"

"They argued frequently, and jus' overall weren't on the same wavelength."

You were mildly disappointed. "That... was your idea of joke? Really?"

"Hold your horses, soldier. Y'didn't even hear the actual reason as to why they broke up."

A deep sigh, shoulders sinking in an exaggerated movement, and you rolled your bored eyes playfully. "Ugh, go on, then."

In a deadpan voice: "They broke up, because neither of them could be turned on anymore."

"Oh my God!" You groaned. "That was so gross! I can't believe you said that!"

"What can I say?" A shrug, still deadpan. "I'm just hilarious, and you're not. Clearly, you don't have what it takes to be a comedian like me."

"It was not remotely funny at all! Did not even laugh!"

Ghost leaned in, his voice low. "But you're smilin'."

"Okay, okay, fine. It was a little funny!"

"Damn straight, soldier. 'Course it was."

To you, you two were closer.

Although Ghost was still his brooding self, and put up his gruff front, you knew otherwise.

You were shocked by him when one day he told you to drop the formalities.

"Look, having you address me as Lieutenant now seems redudant. Call me Ghost."

"Lieutenant, I—"

"Come on, soldier. I want to hear you say it."

You swallowed. "Gh-Ghost?"

"Thas' it," he said with a drawl. "You're learning. 'S about time, isn't it?"

Yet the warmth that radiated off him now could not be mistaken for anything else.

You thought you two had formed a bond. You really thought you had.

Bonded over the shared fear, the shared experienced, your shared journey to nowhere.

Which is why you hadn't understood why would Ghost leave you for an hour every couple of days.

For exactly an hour, it seemed. You didn't know, because you didn't have a working watch, but Ghost was punctual, so you assumed that it was true.

Like clockwork, he'd leave at a specific time, and come back an hour later, refusing to explain what he had been doing on his excursion.

"Jus' 'ad somethin' to do," he'd reply briefly, and return to what he had been doing before he left.

"This 'something' — couldn't I have done it with you, Ghost?" You'd eye him, hands on hips, eyebrows furrowed in suspicion. "And what is the need for that bag? You're gonna break your back carrying that thing with you all the time!"

Without fail, he would bring along his backpack, which was in all actuality a heavy dufflebag slung over his shoulders. A bag too big to be carrying for a small errand, you thought.

He'd glare at you, and act defensively, huffing. "I can handle it on my own, don't worry your little head, a'right? I can manage."

"You know," You'd say, tone softening. "I worry about you, okay? It worries me not knowing where you are, and what you're doing."

After a pause, his eyes would slowly crinkle in a smile, and his tone would soften, too. "Yeah, but I know where you are, don't I?" His voice dropped to a low murmur, a gentle hand on your shoulder reassuring you.

You were stunned. Here he was, touching you, when he had always recoiled at the faintest brush of a shoulder. You were blushing.

"Just stay put for me for the one hour of the day, yeah? You don't need to worry about me, soldier. I know what to do."

With him gone, you'd be worried sick. You felt not helpless — you trusted Ghost, and knew that he'd protect you — but useless, sitting there idly, practically twiddling your thumbs, not knowing what he was getting up to.

This went on for God knows how long. Each time, he was oddly secretive, and act as inconspicuous as possible so you wouldn't be suspicious of whatever he was doing.

Each time, he had made it back at exactly the same time, hurried footsteps hurrying back to your temporary hideout and going back to cooking a can of something over a crackling fire.

It was so strange, as it seemed to become routine to him, his movements mechanic, and his depature precise down to the last second. Robotic. Like clockwork he'd make it back.

Unable to take the mystery anymore, you followed him. Not close enough to blow your cover, yet far enough so that you'd always catch him taking a corner before he'd walk out of sight.

It wasn't long after walking through winding alleys that you came across a building — the tallest one in the surrounding area, in fact.

Climbing up the staircase, two flights behind him, you reached the rooftop, and watched from afar as Ghost unpacked his large bag.

It puzzled you seeing him take out technical equipment. Cables, a power pack, a rudimentary router. Alongside other hardware foreign to you, mouth agape at the sight of such prehistoric technology, there was radio.

Before you put two-and-two together, there he was, listening to the same radio with bulky headphones, a cracked red bulb blinking weakly.

Intrigued, you creeped a few steps.

When you were behind him, you leaned forward, arms behind your back. "Ghost, what are you listening to?"

He jumped up, startled, and immediately turned it off. For the first time ever, you saw him flustered.

"Was it music?" you teased. "A heavy metal fan whose blown their cover now? Maybe even a trash pop enjoyer? I mean, If you're into that sort of thing, you don't have to keep it secret, you know."

He coughed, clearly caught off-guard by the sight of you expectedly leaning down to him, but shook his head vehemently.

After pulling himself together, he looked you in the eye. "No."

"Aw, then what was it? Were you listening to radio static? It's my favourite song, you know."

"If you're gonna be such a smartass, then there's clearly no need for me to tell you."

You shook your head, smile vanishing. "Okay, wait! I was just messing. Please tell me?"

"I discovered Price's signal," he grunted as a matter-of-factly, quirking a brow at your gobsmacked face.

"Been communicating with him these past few weeks. Said Soap an' Garrick are with him, an' they're still with him."

"Oh my God!" You clasped a hand over your gaping mouth, gawking at him in shock. "That's amazing!"

"Mhm," he hummed. "They've told me their coordinates, and update every couple of days, when the sun is highest in the sky."

"When's that?" You said eagerly. "Maybe I could speak to them, too! Tell me when!"

Shrugging off-handedly. "Depends on the day." he said simply.

Barely able to contain your excitement, you didn't catch on to his innuendo, and couldn't help but exclaim: "So you could regroup! Right? You could reunite with the Task Force?"

A stone-sized lump got lodged in his throat, and his Adam's apple struggled to swallow it.

Yet, he managed to nod, though with his neck so stiff it looked as if he was shaking his head at the same time.

"Yeah, soldier. Yeah. I could."

You furrowed your brows. "Well, what's stopping you?"

"Well," he replicated, "they're thousands of miles away. That's the whole point of this journey, don't you think? What, you think we've been trekking aimlessly?"

Ghost said no more, and you were glad you didn't have to, either, a lopsided smile sheepishly tugging at the corners of your lips.

He busied himself with dismantling his set-up, putting his equipment away.

"Come on." He heaved himself up, and, with a stiff hand on your back, led you towards the way out. "About time we get out of here, hm? I'll see if I can contact the lot tomorrow."

"Okay," you said, grinning. "I daresay, though, your equipment is kinda out-dated, Ghost. Maybe we could pop in the hardware shop for some upgrades?"

He let out a monosyllabic chuckle, the usual for him. "Sure. We could even upgrade our TV to a 4K flatscreen one. Get with the times, and all that."

One day, though, he hadn't made it back at the same time.

Maybe he got caught up in conversation this time. That was it, surely! Surely that was it?

Leg bouncing in agitation, anticipating his return, you had a sinking feeling that this time, however, this time, something was not right.

You could say that you let your curiosity get the better of you. But you wouldn't have called it that, more like your trepidation clouded your rational judgement.

As, turning a corner, you hadn't even heard the feral snarling of a small horde of zombies over the voice incessantly telling you to find Ghost, and had no clue that you'd be pinned down by a zombie.

It lashed and thrashed at you wildly, bearing it's stained rotten teeth and sallow, black gums.

Harsh spit sprayed your face, and to your horror, the others had surrounded you, growling in hunger.

You had mere seconds to act, you knew that. If you didn't pull out your gun in time, you'd be torn to pieces in mere seconds.

Yet, paralysed with fear, all you could do is stare wide-eyed, you felt helpless. You locked eyes with the creature, its naturally orange eyes glowing brightly, possessed.

Just before the zombie's jaws could clasp around your face, it was shot in the head.

The body crumpled on top of you, knocking the wind momentarily out of you.

Peeking over the corpse, there was uproar among the horde, and they all hissed in unison, heads turning in the direction at the shot, before brain matter and bits of skin were blasted by a heavy calibre rifle.

Ringing disorientated you. Only flashes of someone's legs could be seen in your blurred vision, before you realised that you were lying on the ground, an entire pack of wild zombies around you.

Frantic, you heaved the body off you, and struggled to your feet, full of adrenaline, and locked eyes with Ghost.

Ghost was holding off the horde one-manned, and he grunted with effort as he snapped a zombie's neck while using another as a shield, his rifle shooting at a third rushing from behind you.

"For fuck's sake, don't jus' stand there like a bloody git! Shoot, soldier!"

Snapped out of from your daze, you suddenly realised just where you were, you whipped out your pistol and shot as many zombies as you could from close-range in your haste to get to Ghost.

Slitting the throat of a zombie about to throw itself at Ghost, you used up the remaining bullets in the magazine on another, and gritted your teeth as you changed mags with shaking hands.

Back-to-back to each other, you two were overwhelmed by the horde, but the close proximity to each other meant you had teamwork. Worked as a team.

You fired two bullets at two zombies, bodies crumpling into lifeless heaps, and aimed at a third.

Pulling the trigger, no shot fired. No shot was fired.

Looking down, you fumbled with the pistol, you pulled the trigger frantically, yet the bullet was jammed. Panic-stricken, you were desperate for it to fire, in despair to be in this situation, now, of all times.

Just as you looked up and felt the zombie's cold fingers lock on your shoulders in a death-grip, head about to pounce at your neck, Ghost growled and pushed you to the side like a ragdoll.

You saw nothing as you fell to the ground again, but slashed at more zombies in a frenzy, not many left now.

Killing the final one in your periphery, your head whipped around just in time to see Ghost wrestle the zombie to the ground and stomp its head, snapping the final zombie's neck in two like a twig.

Panting. Chest rising and falling, rising and falling, in painful breaths.

Ghost exhaled deep, deliberate breaths, black blood splattered all on his gear, dark blood staining his skull balaclava, his cargo pant legs, his gloved hands.

For an agonisingly long time, you couldn't catch your breath.

Finally, Ghost turned to you, looking grizzly, nearly sinister, had it not been for the dark brown eyes brightening a little and looking at you intensely.

He trudged to you in three wide steps and took you by your shoulders, shaking you a little.

"Soldier! Are you okay?"

Breath hitching in your throat at the emotion in his usually emotionless eyes, you nodded wordlessly.

You took in your surroundings and the horde you two had massacred; bodies contorted in impossible positions, heads and backs snapped in half, limbs broken so that arms and legs looked double-jointed. Orange eyes had become dull, and were no longer glowing, dim.

Looking at the ground, the zombie, its head grey brain matter and black-red mush, lay lifeless, bleeding black blood.

Wordlessly, you two two nodded, and limped back to your temporary base, completely exhausted.

It was a calm night.

A skinned hare roasting over a crackling fire, cooking the out-of-date contents of your tinned food and eating it with a dull silver spoon, you two sat in an uncomfortable silence, which was deafening. A silence that you dreaded.

Yet, the silence was far more welcome than the high-pitched screams and guttural growls of zombies from before, and you sighed deeply.

A sky so black that it cast a shadow on the trees, your surroundings, plunging you into a darkness had it not been for the lifeline of the lashing flames, There were a few twinkling stars in the sky, blinking in morse code, trying to relate a secret message to you that you missed.

With Ghost basking in the orange glow from the fire, looking so thoughtful as his unfocused brown eyes stared a thousand yards, gloved hands holding a flask with a steaming hot stew, warming his cold fingers, your first thought was that he looked alluring.

The skull-print balaclava pulled up to his nose so he could drink, days' worth of salt and pepper stubble sprinkled on his jaw, the sleeves of his hoodie riding up to reveal scars that caked his skin, most deep, some shallow, some recent while most years' old.

To you, he looked handsome.

Then, mortified by this thought, you shook your head vehemently, the warmth on your cheeks coming not from the fire.

Looking down at the half-eaten tinned slop in your hands, you suddenly lost your appetite, and set it aside.

Ghost noticed, and turned to you, about to ask you, but you held up a hand before he could interrogate you.

"I'm alright, Ghost," you said, convincing yourself more than him. "Not feeling hungry."

"You gotta get somethin' down your system, soldier. We've a long journey to go yet."

"I know. I mean, not to be a picky eater, but eating canned slop is not appealing to my taste buds."

Ghost let out a huff. "What? This cuisine not suited to your sophisticated taste, soldier? My bad, let me bring out the caviar, your highness," he deadpanned.

You roll your eyes. "You're hilarious, you know that? If only there wasn't a booing crowd throwing tomatoes at you. You'd be a top-tier comedian."

The corner of Ghost's lip twitched upwards, before he shot you a one-sided smirk. "Knew you'd come around eventually."

You didn't know why, but the way his jaw moved in the smirk was attractive. Physically shaking this thought off, you shook your head with a smile, unable to contain the silent laughter of your shoulders.

Again, you two returned to a silence. Funnily enough, this one wasn't uncomfortable like the one before, even with the light banter moments ago. This silence was unbearable, like the high-pitched screeching of tinnitus in an empty hall.

You stared at Ghost, almost in anticipation, as if it was he who was the reason for the unspoken change in atmosphere, yet he seemed to ignore you, too taken with looking ahead of him thoughtfully.

Swallowing the dryness in your throat, too awkward to initiate conversation, you looked at the fidgeting hands, picking at the dirt under your nails.

When Ghost unexpectedly called your name from the dark, you nearly jumped out of your skin.

"What's wrong, Ghost?" You asked, worry etched into the lines in your face.

"I need you to do me a favour."

At that, your eyebrows rose to your hairline, then furrowed in surprise and suspicion. Ghost, was not, not, the one to ask for favours.

"...O-okay? What's the favour?""

"Look." He stated simply. "I want you to promise me something. You can do that, can't you, soldier?"

You were becoming even more suspicious. What was the need for him to be enigmatic? Your interest was piqued, however, and you nodded wordlessly, hanging on his every word.

"I want you to promise—" He coughed into his fist, clearing his throat roughly. "—that when I'm ever, ever to turn into one of these..."

"...things—" Shivering, which surprised you, given how much heat was radiated from the fire. "—then... Then I want you to shoot me dead, a'right?"

Your jaw dropped to the ground, so taken aback not even by his request, but his bluntness.

"What— what do you mean, shoot you dead? How could I do that to you? I can't—"

"No." He interrupted, definitive. "It will have to be done at some point."

"Of course, I wish I could... avoid, this situation, but, inevitably, it's inevitable," he grimaced, tugging at his collar in an awkward gesture that was unlike him.

"And you have to do it when the time comes. No hesitation. No second-thoughts. Just pull that trigger, and put one right between my eyes."

Ghost stared at you, eyes stern. "Now promise me."

You stammered. "B-but—"

"No. Promise me now. That you'll protect yourself from the monster I'll become."

"Ghost—"

"No, promise."

His eyes penetrated yours, his gaze inescapable and domineering. Clearly, he would not let you weasel your way out with any weak excuses, or your pathetic reasoning. It was evident that no matter what you were to say, Ghost would refuse to listen, only becoming more dismissive.

Reluctantly, you found yourself nodding, breathing out a breathless: "I promise."

Ghost hummed in satisfaction, pleased, and said no more.

"Good. See, wasn't so hard now, was that, hm?" He asked, yet you said nothing.

"Hey, cheer up..." Tone softening, as he reached a callous hand to place on your knee in an attempt to reassure you. "It's not like I'm asking you to do it now."

You sniffed fiercely, eyes glassy. "Then why would you ask me in the first place?"

"Why? Because at some point, I'll turn."

He shook his head. "It won't be you, though. Never. I would never, ever, let you get bit."

His breath hitched in his throat, and your eyes widened slightly in surprise.

Ghost took a sip from his steaming flask, seemingly unfazed by the sensation of burning on his tongue. In fact, he even relished in it.

His lips were tightly pressed together into a needle-thin line. "When you shoot me, you won't be shooting me, y'know."

"Therefore, you must not let your emotions get in the way. What's the point of me getting infected, in an attempt to save your life, only for me to kill you in death?"

You pondered this over for a moment. "What makes you think you'll get infected saving me? Maybe it could the the other way around. You can't be so sure."

Ghost's eyes had an ironic glint, and flickered like a light bulb about to blow a fuse.

"Oh, trust me. I'm sure."

You sat up, straightening your back. "Hey, what is that supposed to mean?"

"Oh, it's not s'pposed to mean anything."

"Hey! Are you mocking me?"

For the first time in this conversation, Ghost chuckled. He couldn't help not to, with how childishly you were acting.

"Maybe a little bit. But you just make it so easy for me, that I can't resist."

You groaned, and rolled your eyes.

"Well then, maybe resist being an ass."

Ghost quirked a brow at how you spoke, yet decided not to scold you like he always did. Instead, he offered you his flask.

"Will put hairs on your chest."

You scrunched your nose at the contents. "Let me guess: carbonated piss, vodka, and liquid shit? My favourite."

"Made an order at a cafe, and I got served this slop," he shrugged. "They even spelt my name wrong. Would you believe that?"

You shook your head in mock disbelief. "Unbelievable. You better have gotten a refund for that."

"I didn't pay. Made a beeline for the exit. I wouldn't pay a cent for this shit."

Unable to keep up the act anymore, you snorted, and stifled your silly giggles by clasping a hand over your mouth.

"It's tea." Ghost said. "I'm not thirsty, anyways."

"You gotta get somethin' down your system," you said in an over the top gruff voice. "Promise to shoot me when I get a papercut. I won't be able to go on—"

Wordlessly, Ghost placed the flask in your hands. The fact that instead of a scowl on his half-masked face was an ironic smirk surprised you, and he said:

"Drink that, and go to sleep, yeah? I'll keep watch."

"What about you, though?" Your eyes frowned. "Won't you sleep?"

"I'm good. I'm a light-sleeper, anyways, and I won't exactly get a wink of shuteye with your snoring."

"Hey—!"

"C'mon. Rest up."

Taking a swig of the hot beverage, you felt a warmness wash over your body, cleansing your soul, and heating you right from your fingertips to your ears.

"Thanks, Ghost," you said with gratitude. "You sure you'll be okay tonight?"

Ghost nodded, staring deeply into your eyes.

You sighed, and moved off the wooden log to unzip your sleeping bag to nestle inside, like a worm comfortably in a cocoon.

It didn't take you long to fall asleep, as the crackling of the flames lulled you to sleep, whispering in harsh, yet warm voices a bedtime story in the language of fire.

When he heard your soft snores and saw the way your sleeping bag rose and fell with each muffled breath, he untied his boot laces.

With you asleep, he finally dared to peel the coarse fabric that had dried with blood, like cardboard on his skin.

Wincing in pain as he pulled up the material coagulated with blood, his calf had an evident bite mark.

The skin around it had not rotted, yet, but was raw, with the surrounding flesh pulsating as if it had a human heart beat.

Gritting his teeth with each maggot that he picked out from his calf, burrowed deep in his flesh, feasting upon it, he blinked indifferently at the wound, already accepting of his fate.

The bleeding had stopped. That much Ghost had going for him, at least.

Stomping on that zombie's head was cathartic. Watching its brain matter splatter on his boot, a lifeless body with a head of grey, slimy mush, brought instantaneous relief.

Yet, when reality sunk in, and he realised that killing that zombie in that heated moment would not take back the bite mark, that moment of relief transformed into the weight of an even heavier burden on his shoulders, an added weight to the emotional baggage he had been lugging for years now.

His gaze turning to your concealed body, burrowed in your nest, he hobbled over to lay his own sleeping bag over you, and took off his coat. Tucking in the sleeves under you so you were cozy, he sighed again, and slumped on the ground some metres away.

How was he going to break this news to you? You were a smart cookie, even with the shit he gave you all of the time, and were bound to figure it out on your own.

But he couldn't. Not yet, anyways. He still had a base to get you to.

He couldn't burden you with this information. He couldn't.

Only when the end was in sight, the base on the horizon, you headed straight towards civilisation, could he make his peace with shortcomings, the way you'd sob and shout at him, how you'd curse as your fists pounded at his chest, voice so hoarse and choked with tears all you'd be able to do is sob.

Or, maybe he wouldn't at all.

Maybe the gentle breeze in your hair, sun reflected in your rolling eyes that were unamused by another humourless joke, dry, unwashed skin positively glowing in the setting sun, the cracked lips twitching in a desperate desire to stretch into a smirk, and the way your body was hunched over under the weight of your heavy backpack, head bobbing in blind, naive determination to reunite him with his team, to have been there on the journey, was not a sight he had wanted to taint.

He'd tell you to walk straight, and you'd babble obliviously on about something, and slowly withdraw from your side. You'd get swept away by the crowd in the base, with familiar faces, arms hugging you from all sides and welcoming you with warmth, as a shot rang out in the cheerful commotion, his cold body laying on the even colder ground.

When the time came to it, he would have likely said nothing. A selfish need to preserve the memory of your not knowing, of your being blissfully unaware and never being burdened with the truth, was a mercy.

Just how it would have been a mercy kill for you to shoot him when push would come to shove, just was it merciful to spare your sanity and your innocence.

When you woke up, Ghost had slowly started developing symptoms of a common flu in the night.

Nothing too alarming, yet alarmingly out of character for him to be unwell, and you raised your alarm.

"Jus' pnuemonia, soldier," he'd say, voice hoarse, before coughing into his fist.

"What about these?" You insisted, taking out medication from your backpack. "And plenty of rest? Doctor's orders!"

"These drugs that the doctor prescribes don't ever work on me. Besides, we've got places to be. I'm not wasting my time in waiting room."

This time, Ghost's sarcasm didn't amuse you like you always pretended it didn't. Worry gnawed at you from the inside like a parasite, and your eyes were pleading. "Not even for me? Please? Jokes aside, you really should rest. It's fine if we cam out here for another few days or so.

At that, his eyes softened. "Gonna 'av to bear through it. Like I would have otherwise. 'S not the end of the world."

There was an undertone to his words that was so subtle you hadn't noticed. The ironic smile betrayed nothing.

Not the end of the world for you, it wouldn't. For him, it would. His life on this world would be over. Would end.

The next day, Ghost slurred his speech.

When Ghost was speaking as you two were hunched over some grub, you'd catch drool running down his chin and collecting in pools on the sides of his mouth.

As soon as he realised where your eyes were looking, Ghost immediately went to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

He ate isolated from you then onwards, and would have his back turned to conceal his eating.

Sinking his steel bat into a head of an approaching zombie, he'd grunt with effort now.

Ghost, trudged rather than walked, stomping his feet, as if each foot weighed a tonne and was a weight he had to lift each time.

Feet faced in opposite directions, perpendicular to each other, and legs wobbling as if sea-sick. It meant that he was limping, as if he had a walking impediment.

"Ghost, are you okay?"

"Twisted my ankle when we were fighting that horde," he hissed through gritted teeth, voice as monotone as always. "Don't worry about me, soldier. We're going to get you to that base."

You started. His ankled hadn't been twisted when you were running away just now. But, you reasoned, it was probably the adrenaline that kept him going, that had heightened his senses yet numbed the pain.

Then, you halted in your tracks. "Base?"

"Cap'ain's base," he clarified. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead.

He was limping. Walking like he was ineberiated, core off balance and like his legs too long for his body.

He was no longer as affectionate with you. Showing signs aggression, getting frustrated with small-talk. He'd rather grind his jaws in silence, nearly growling.

"Hey, I just— I wanted to thank you. For saving me. I mean, that day, when we were fighting that horse. You saved me."

He grunted. "Don't get used to me saving your ass all of the time."

"I won't! Really, Ghost, I'm grateful. I couldn't put it into words."

"But?" He snapped. "Spit it out."

"W-well— I mean, you should rest. For Christ's sake, you're barely able to walk! Your ankle isn't going to heal if you keep putting pressure on it! And on top of the that, you're fucking sick!"

"I've had worse. It's not like my foot will dislocate itself on its own." He snarled. "Besides; choices have consequences. I chose to save you. I could turned, and left you to the horde. But I didn't. And that had its consequences."

"Had? What are you on about? You mean has, because you damn near broke your fucking leg! You're close to a fucking cripple!"

"I can walk just fine, soldier. You're just overreacting."

"I'm overreacting?!" Your eyes bulged out of your head, and you almost erupted in fury. "Then how will your team react, seeing you like this, huh? You think they won't be overreacting, huh?!"

He gave you a death glare. "You're right, soldier. They won't be."

"Look..." you began hesitantly, wincing at his sharp voice that stabbed a dagger into your already breaking heart. "You won't die if we don't make it there by this week," you insisted, "so, won't you please rest?"

"Soldier, I won't rest until we make it there by this week." He'd smile his iconic ironic smile, one that you still couldn't interpret nor comprehend as to why. "We've not long to go. And then, I'll consider resting."

"You promise?"

He stiffened up, still as a statue.

"I don't make promises," he grunted, and stormed off.

Your heart sank.

"Hey!" You jogged up to catch up with him, taken aback by his sudden change in character. "Why not? It's not even life or death, like the promise I made to you! What's the big deal?!"

"I can't make promises," he stated as a matter of factly, almost as if it was common knowledge and he was putting it in simple terms for you to understand.

You were seething. "What do you mean you can't?!So I made you a promise, promised to shoot you, for what? For you to end up being a fucking hypocrite?!"

"I mean," he emphasised. "It's not in my moral code."

Almost grinding your teeth in frustration, you quipped back: "Just as it is immoral of you to withhold information! What is so immoral about you—"

Your heart sank so, so much deeper, so deep it was lost in an abyss.

In deep water, drowning.

It couldn't be true. Couldn't be.

"Oh my God."

You took two steps back. Not in fear of Simon , but in fear of the situation itself.

"...You're... y-you're bit, aren't you?"

Shoulders tensing up, Ghost moved his hand towards your shoulder in an attempt to placate you, but you flinched.

"Y-you're bit! Oh my fucking God, you're—"

You couldn't breathe. It was like you were suffocating, your head underwater.

For the first time ever, you understood the irony behind Ghost's smile.

Hyperventilating, you recoiled at each of his attempts to console you, refusing to allow him to.

"Won't you calm down, soldier? It's alright."

Ghost was beginning to lose his temper. "Calm down," he hissed. "We can talk about this."

"FINE! Let's fucking TALK!"

Ghost was walking ahead of you, walking so fast that you were out of breath jogging after him.

Doubled-over wheezing for oxygen, you looked up with a heaving chest. You two had reached a wide warehouse, making up for its lack in height it its width.

The metal around the door hinges had heavily rusted to the point that it took kicking a side-door down until it finally gave enough lee-way to slither inside through the small gap made.

Brown eyes darkened, and narrowed at you. "Inside."

You shot him a scowl, tempted to give him the middle finger, but backed out at the last second, realised it would be childish.

As you two were inside the warehouse, the bolt tightly shut behind you and all windows and doors locked, ensured that the place was completely abandoned, and barricaded the entrance as a safety precaution... you two got into a screaming match.

"SO?! Are you going to FUCKING tell me why you chose to say nothing?!"

"About me being bitten? Really? And what would me having told you sooner changed, huh?"

"Uh, HELLO! You're fucking infected! You were bitten by one of those zombies, and that was, what? A WEEK ago?"

"It was because this is the exact type of interaction that I was dreading. For fuck's sake, rookie, I knew you'd blow y'fucking lid like this! What sort of a soldier bloody are you if you can't fucking calm yourself?"

"Oh, me?! Blow MY fucking lid?! How fucking dare you! You're the one always calling me a fucking soldier when I'm not!"

"Fuck, don't you get it? It's your own damn fault for being so goddamn reckless!"

You seized up, eye twitching. Positively seething.

"What— what did you say?"

"For fuck's sake, I told you, didn't I? I fucking told you to stay put!" Ghost yelled. "There of course had to be an itch in your ass and of course you had to go bloody wandering, straight into danger!"

You couldn't believe what you were hearing. "What, so you're fucking blaming me for you being infected? Is— is that it?"

"Wait, no—" Ghost immediately backtracked. "—you're misinterpreting what I fucking told you!"

"No, I interpret it loud and clear," you said, tone dripping with venom. "It's my fault. I get it. It's my fault for wanting to get involved. My fault for fucking caring about you, because I was worried sick and worried whether this outing would be your last—!"

Tears of fury were streaming down your faces in rivers, a waterfall of emotions all crashing into you at once.

You sniffed angrily, and avoided his eyes, feeling vulnerable. "I-I— I care about you, Ghost! Don't you get it? I have always cared!"

"I just guess—" Your wobbly, cracked voice, blotchy cheeks, quivering lip, and puffy pink eyes made you look pathetic, you knew.

You didn't care. Feelings pent up for far too long now came hurtling out along the floodgates, and you were in utter despair.

"—I-I just guess I never should have cared, should I?"

Ghost stared at you with a steely gaze, stoic and remorseless.

"Well. I told you to keep work strictly professional, didn't I, rookie? What can I say, aside from, it's your own fault?"

He stormed off before you could call after him, slamming the nearest door in this workhouse and locking it from the inside.

You sobbed, feeling more pathetic than ever, and crumpled on the floor in a disgarded heap, like a pile of trash.

Ghost slammed his fist against the door.

"Goddamnit—"

Keeping work strictly professional his ass.

He fell in love with you. How could he not have?

Always trying to hard to break down the walls that he'd stubbornly keep building, brick by brick, you tore down those walls.

Like a human bulldozer, you demolished his reinforcements, and his bare scaffolding, his vulnerability, were exposed to you.

The moment him and you returned to base, he was hit with a gut feeling.

That, at that moment in time, it was truly you and him left. There was no one to save, no one to save you. No one to save you, aside from him. Realising that it was he, he the only one who could get you to safety, and no one else.

And he hated you.

It wasn't a hatred, or a loathing. You gave him no reason to, and were none the wiser.

He never hated you, never. It was you that he hated, the one that broke down his reinforcements and rekindled the fire inside that had been ashes.

With every time he pushed you away, kept you at arm's length, he found himself pining for you more.

And he hated you. Hated you because he loved you.

He hated your voice because it soothed him like a mother's voice would her own child.

It didn't matter when you cursed, when you hissed harshly at him in a mock anger, when you sniffed and your nose twitched. All these things about you made you human, and he realised that even if humanity was lessened, humanity was less, there was still humanity in you.

And it made Ghost feel not like a ghost, a haunting phantom, of the Simon Riley he was, but the Simon Riley he ought to be. Your Simon Riley.

He hated you because you made things all the more difficult for him. If he just was to push you away, to distance himself, he thought, surely your inevitable parting of ways would be less painful.

But it didn't get any easier. Not at all.

If anything, seeing the dejected expression you would fail to hide in time, the way the sparkle in your eyes dimmed just a little after getting rejected once more, meant that gnawing guilt ate Ghost from the inside out.

He reasoned that he was doing all of this for your own good. For his own good, too. No strings attached, with no attachment to you, your parting of ways would have been easier.

But it was this act he insisted was selfless, that was selfish. The fact of the matter was, he needed you as much as you needed him.

He hated that you made him feel this way because these feelings were dangerous.

At any moment, at any point in time, you could be ripped away from his callous hands, leaving a void that was already empty as it was.

Emptiness inside of him that only you could fill, feelings which would never again be fulfilled with you gone, and he could not bring himself to admit that regardless of how much you needed him, it was him that needed you.

Most of all, he hated you because you were the only good thing that he had left.

If you were to die, there would be no reason for him to keep living.

Yes, he had told you that he was on his own mission to track down the Task Force, but, he had known long ago that it was just a delusion he was playing into, an insane idea that managed to keep him sane as it gave him some purpose.

It was a lie he spoon-fed you, forcing you to believe in a lie that he himself was beginning to believe in, realising that at the end of the road, was would be nothing left for him.

Ghost lived for you and did everything in his power so that you too would keep living. You were just a rookie, had your whole like ahead of you, and deserved to live past his own years. Deserved to live, and outlive a person like him, as he knew that he didn't deserve to.

With that logic, he just never knew that he was willing to die for you, too.

He had cheated death once. Faced the Grim Reaper and spat in his face.

But not this time.

He swore he was hallucinating the cloaked figure in the corner of this room right now, sneering, domineering, with glowing orange eyes.

This time, he wouldn't claw his way out from his grave, the taste of blood and dirt repulsing him in his mouth and his limbs weary, yet tasting the sweet, fresh air of freedom; this time, all that he would ever taste is the dirt. Buried for good six feet under a nameless tombstone marking his grave.

As he saw his bruised leg pulsating, he couldn't control the unnatural tics, his calf twitching as maggots swarmed to feed on his decomposing flesh.

Whole body spasming painfully, his arms and legs jittered as if his limbs as if they had a severe form of arthritis, yet each involuntary contortion of his limbs brought agony, agony, agony.

The bags under his eyes had gotten bigger, hollow eye sockets with milky white eyes that had a thousand yard stare now.

Deep grey veins bulged out of his hands to his forearms, all the way past his biceps, shoulders, and neck. Throbbing in rhythm to his synthetic pulse.

Pupils were sensitive to light, and had adapted to the darkness.

Skin was far paler, sallow and sickly-looking, sagging in places and skin cells starting to peel off.

And, despite the layers of clothing he had on — a tank top under his shirt, a jacket, a hoodie, and a tactical vest, all underneath a thick winter coat — he was freezing, and constantly shivering from the cold.

Constantly cold, cold, cold.

The realisation that he was watching himself decomposing into a corpse in real-time was a horrific one.

Few times could Ghost admit he was horrified, as he had become desensitised to horror after his exposure to it from a young age, witnessing horror beyong imaginable that he was wholly unfazed by.

This, however? It was not horrifying. It was torture.

His brain, however, had self-awareness in tact and sufficient enough for rational thought.

His limbs did not do what he told them to do, though — would seize up, as if having an epileptic seizure, the feeling of writhing on the ground in agony as he was also electrocuted, imparting his movements.

It took every fibre of his being to hold off the urge to take your body in his claws and to rip it apart with his teeth.

He was a prisoner of his own body, unable to break free of the virus consuming him from the inside out, the way his cells were mutating alternating his strings of DNA, his code, coding for an intense desire for flesh. For your flesh, because you were the closest living being in his proximity.

Not to mention, that his teeth were decaying, too. Black gums bleeding, yet tongue salivating excessively even though he'd have thought his body physically incapable of producing saliva.

He yearned to bite into a chunk of your flesh, to lick his dry, coarse lips, his mouth stained with the sweet taste of your blood.

To chew on the meat of your neck, and watch in fascination as a fountain of blood sprayed from your neck like a hose, blood splattering on the walls as you screamed in agony, struggling in vain to push off the crazed monster—

Ghost let out a shaky sigh, and after a moment, regained his composure.

Looking back now, Ghost could have amputated his leg. He felt the jaws close around his ankle and sink his teeth to his bone at that exact moment, felt his skin, muscle, flesh, be torn apart by sharp canines.

As soon as you two were safe, he could have hacked off his lower leg with a saw at the abandoned warehouse you two were camping outside that night that he would have surely been able to find, no matter how rusty and the bluntness of the sharp blades.

But why? Why butcher himself? What was the point of doing all that in a frantic effort to cease the disease infecting his entire body when he'd be crippled?

He wouldn't be able to protect you. Instead, he'd be dead weight and drag you down. A burden that you'd be burdened with.

You were skilled, intelligent, and lucky, too. Yet you were only human. Your luck, as plentiful as it was bound to run out.

And, through no fault of your own, a gang of deranged lunatics would ambush you and kill you if it meant they could divide your possessions amongst each other, a horde of zombies would come storming in like a mass hurricane and devour you when you were at a dead end, succumb to starvation or, you would succumb to an injury like he was succumbing to.

He couldn't let that happen. He had to keep going, would only rest in peace when he knew you were at a secure hideout, a safe location, free of danger. At that, he'd gladly pass away, his mission completed.

And his mission would never have been completed if he had been hobbling with makeshift crutches, holding on to your shoulders for support, weighing you down with his weight and having been powerless had a zombie, zombies, found you.

Then again, he couldn't have blamed them. Just one sinking of teeth... just a small chunk of the juicy meat of your thighs or arms... j-just to quench his thirst for human flesh—

Ghost punched his arm, hard.

No. He couldn't.

The temptation was becoming too great to resist.

He could overpower you, could, but he could not do that.

To you, of all people. His love.

He had shut the door in your face. It was like driving his own dagger through his own heart at your forlorn face, but it had to be done. His love for you was dangerous.

Having these thoughts was dangerous. Not just thoughts to kill, but thoughts to kiss you, just once. Just once, before he died.

How he would have had liked to feel your lips on his, to bite down on your lower lip.

Harder, and harder, until he pried your mouth open with inhuman grip and snapped your jaw, ripping your gums with his own teeth, oh so delectable—

Ghost hurled the lone chair in the cellar.

"Godamnit!"

He was self-aware, but not self-aware for rational thought. Not anymore.

Only minutes ago had he been thinking straight. Now, he couldn't differentiate his desire for you, between his desire for your flesh.

Calmly, he limped towards the turned-over chair in the corner and set it straight, and slumped on top of it, feeling like a sack of potatoes.

It pained him knowing that the last time he would see your face would be frowning, your lower lip quivering, chin and cheeks blotchy from the salty, bitter tears of your argument.

You would blame yourself, would go on thinking that this was your fault.

It was never your fault. Never.

It was never your fault that he got bitten.

It was never your fault that he loved—

"Ghost?"

Your voice was shaky, hoarse with tears. At any moment, it seemed, anything to trigger you would cause your emotions to tip over in an explosion of anguish, and you could maintain your composure.

"Ghost. P-please come out. I'm sorry."

A muffled voice on the radio spoke to Ghost, yet he said nothing in reply.

Putting your ear to the door, the loud noise obscured much of what you could hear from the other side of the door, meaning you had no idea what was going on in there.

Yet, if you really, really concentrated, then you'd hear vague shuffling in the room, heavy footsteps moving things.

"Ghost? Please. Please come out."

You still waited.

Waited for Ghost to say something, anything, anything at all, to hear him respond, reply, acknowledge your presence at the door, to at least acknowledge the voice on the radio.

By the sounds of it, the voice was beginning to get emotional with Ghost's unresponsive state, his lack of reply, and it began emphatically ranting about something, all unintelligible from your side.

Slumping on the floor, your back to the door, your chest rose unevenly with each inhale, fell as unevenly with each mournful exhale.

You hadn't thought you'd really be mourning.

As, a sickening crack behind the door suddenly brought you to your senses.

Panic-stricken, you banged on the door with your knuckles. "Ghost, Ghost! You okay? Ghost!"

Knocking turned to hammering with your fists, afraid and desperate at the same time. Yelling repeatedly: "Ghost! What happened?" "Are you okay?" "Can I help?" "Ghost, please. Please!" "Say something!" "Please!"

The door would not budge, and no noise came out. Ghost would not respond. Or maybe he couldn't.

You resorted to kicking the door, using your entire body weight to tet it to open. To no avail.

"F-fuck—" Too desperate at that moment to care about the ringing from shooting from close-range, your hands scrambled for your pistol and shot the door handle multiple times, grimacing when high-pitched ringing in your ears was splitting your skull open louder than you could have anticipated.

Miraculously, the handle fell off. But something was in front of the door, and even with your entire body pressed against the door, the door stayed put.

Full of adrenaline at having made some progress, in your blind haste, you hurled your entire side to the door.

And, the door slid an inch, a vertical line revealing little in the room aside from the light from the awning window. It was progress.

Energised by this sudden success, you became a makeshift battering ram, not caring for the grey and green bruises already that had surely formed already all on your side.

Inch by stubborn inch, the door moved outwards.

The door flung open, and what had obstructed the door — a tall metal filing cabinet — crashed onto the ground, with yellowed paper spilling on the ground, fluttering like butterflies.

At the sight before you, you froze.

There Ghost was, sitting cross-legged on a chair.

That same skeleton mask, the same gear, the same body, true, but it wasn't him. Not anymore.

The sickening crack you heard moments before made sense now.

His jaw, dangling inanimately, was off-center. It was completely broken.

Dislocated, it seemed, through brute force. Broken with his own hands, his hands shining with wet, black blood.

His neck was strapped to an unfolded metal chair by his own belt. His chest and waist also were binded to the chair, but with with thick rope, tied intricately initially, then had devolved into a sloppy loop when the task got too fiddly.

His arms, likewise, were strapped to the arm rests, wrists handcuffed for good measure, yet Ghost's left forearm had broken out from his restraint, and his nails had scratched metal, deep claw marks in the armrest.

The radio had been loud. Loud, so it obscured the sound of his struggle.

You suddenly doubled over, hands on your knees, thinking that you were about to vomit.

It hit you, that he had been doing this while you had stood there, idle, none the wiser.

Immediately imagining Ghost thrashing around in this chair, fighting the spread of the disease, all the while you sat there idly and ignorantly, you regurgitated what you had eaten, tasting vomit in your mouth.

You gagged, groaning in disgust, but swallowed it all in one go and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand.

Torn between looking at Ghost and not looking at him at all anymore, you found your gaze gradually going down.

His ankles were also bound to the chair legs. One of his calves, however, was completely decomposed, to the point that you could see his tibula and the tendons in his foot.

An airy gasp escaped you, silent. No sound came out.

The skin around it had deep black veins, and had frayed, decayed, oozing a slimy pus, with maggots feeding off the rotted flesh. Already, flies had swarmed around his corpse through the open window.

It was clear. Using his last remains of sentience, what remained of his consciousness, his humanity, Ghost tied himself to this chair.

Yet, something must have told him that this wouldn't last. His belt, the ropes, and even his handcuffs wouldn't have been enough to hold him back.

As a last resort, be broke his jaw. You knew immediately why: as a final precaution, in order to prevent himself from infecting anyone. From infecting you. From biting you.

You were unbelievably calm processing all of this. Too devastated to move, you now understood the voice that was speaking to Ghost on the radio.

It was as if the sound was on mute, your world at a stand-still, and some higher power had unpaused this moment. Like some cinematic choice made by a director.

And the plot twist, was that it was neither the voice of Soap, Price, or Garrick. This was a stranger, a female, speaking:

"—a safe zone. Here, there is safety, and we can guarantee your protection."

You recognised that voice. It was the female commander talking through Ghost's earpiece.

"Humans have not yet gone extinct, and humanity in our safe zone exists.

"To anyone that is out there, you are welcomed. We will welcome you with open arms and tend to any and all of your wounds.

"You will be fed, will be given shelter, and will be a member of our community of survivors.

"If you are hearing this, our coordinates are ***°**′**″ N, ***°**′**″ E. Keep this channel on. We can track you, as long as you play this message.

"Every day, we broadcast this message at 1200 for an hour, just as we have done yesterday, the days before, and will continue to do so tomorrow.

"There is a safe zone. Here, there is safety, and we can guarantee your protection.

"Humans have not yet gone extinct, and humanity in our safe zone exists. There is food, water, warmth, and shelter. Close to seventeen thousand of us have regrouped — civillians, farmers, teachers, doctors, scientists, soldiers — and are rebuilding civilisation a day at a time.

"Your background does not matter. We take in anyone able-bodied and fit to contribute in any way possible.

"We have a pharmacy, with medication, with antibiotics, with inhalers and with insulin.

"To anyone that is out there, we will take you in, and you will be protected. You are not alone.

"I repeat, If you are hearing this, our coordinates are ***°**′**″ N, ***°**′**″ E.

"Every day, we broadcast this message at 1200 for an hour, just as we have done yesterday, the days before, and will continue to do so tomorrow—"

You shut off the radio.

Ghost had been lying to you.

Lied to you about the Task Force. Lied to you about the journey you two had been making.

Had lied about having been bitten, and it was only through chance that you had found this out.Ghost had been lying to you all this time.

You broke down in hysterics, your calmness taking a 180 all in the duration of seconds.

Why, why? Why didn't he tell you? Why couldn't he just tell you?

This whole motive, the reason to keep going, was all a lie. A pretense.

It was a selfless act, yet to you it, couldnt have been more selfish. How dared he keep this from you? How dared he? Why didn't he tell you the truth?

Curse you, Ghost! you thought, wailing in pain as hot tears cut your cheeks.

Vision blurred, you looked up, stricken with grief, and glanced into those milky white eyes of his.

For a moment, a wave of serene had crashed into you, and your crying calmed. Mind was tranquil.

Ghost wasn't thrashing around like a zombie would in his restaints.

Wasn't bearing his teeth, lunging forward to sink his canines into your flesh.

Wasn't letting out a guttural roar.

It was clear that he had before you entered, the restraints that did little to restrain him evidence of that.

Yet, he observed you in a docile manner, and his broken jaw made him look pathetic.

His eyes weren't glowing, neither, nor were they orange. Just white.

You had thought he was blind, as his pupils were pinpricks unresponsive to light, but his eyes followed your every movement, watched you intensely.

Completely still, he stared at you with unblinking eyes, unable to swat the flies landing on his eyeballs with his wrists cuffed. Maybe not even feeling them at all.

Perhaps you were imagining things, thinking irrationally when hysterical, but you swore there was more to those eyes. Recognition.

A hesitant hand moved towards his face, wavering yet unwavering in its purpose.

When you cupped his masked cheek, his eyes conveyed a certain sadness, and were apologetic, almost as if his eyes were apologising. Conveying an apology through his eyes that he couldn't ever had through words.

Silently pleading for forgiveness. For you to forgive him. To understand.

It was unbearable. You couldn't bear to look him in the eyes anymore. You couldn't bear this.

His eyes narrowed, gaze as penetrating in death as it had been while he was alive. Even more penetrative, almost as if seeing right through your very soul.

The promise. You had of course remembered. The promise you had made that night had weighed heavy on your mind ever since.

It was unbearable. The thought of what you had to do was unbearable.

You promised. You had promised. Even if Ghost wasn't one to make promises, you were.

Your pistol on the floor where you had dropped it while collapsing, shimmered in the slither of sunlight that broke through the crack in the window.

With effort, you stretched your arms and reached for it with all your might.

You couldn't bear to hold your gun in your hands. Hands were clammy, so your grip was weak, and fingers too weak to hold it properly.

Even with both hands, you couldn't steady the shaking, the swallowed sobs causing your throat to go dry, and to choke on oxygen.

Head turned away, waterfalls of tears streaming down your face in gushing rivers, you pulled the trigger.

And a deafening shot rung out, echoing in the cellar.

You knew what you had to do. You did.

You had promised him. Promised Ghost.

But you didn't have the strength to do it.

The bullet pierced through the handcuff restraining his other wrist.

The metal fell to the floor with a dull clang.

Ghost, mesmerised, raised his hand to stare at it, not fully registering to him that this was his own hand.

You broke his promise.

Guilt overwhelmed you, as you denied a dead man's wish.

Without looking up at Ghost, you crouched down, and with your pocket knife, began working at the thick ropes binding his body.

When you stood up, Ghost had not budged. Had not even moved a muscle. His eyes were on you, unblinking.

"Come on, Ghost," you whispered, in the same tone of voice that Ghost himself would use when he used to address you.

Eyes widening, he allowed you to pull him up to his feet, no longer towering over you like he always did with his back hunched over now.

Your eyes softened at the sight of him, fresh tears brimming at the corners of your eyes, but you wiped at them before they could fall, and smiled reassuringly at Ghost, the ways that his eyes would smile reassuring you.

"Our journey isn't over, s-s—soldier," you whispered, voice cracking.

"My journey has always been you, Ghost."

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A/N: Happy New Year guys !! 🎉🎉🎊🙌🎆🎇🎇 Startijg the year off strong with a fanfiction TWO MONTHS in the making!! 💥🥳🔫 Sure do hope all tjis work was worth it 😍, bc i SWEAR im not postijg anytjing for ANOTHER two months bc I am EXHAUSTED 😭😭😭😭💔💔💔

𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐁𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐟𝐚𝐬𝐭

𝐊𝐨̈𝐧𝐢𝐠 𝐱 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫-𝐧𝐞𝐮𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐥 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

*𝐒𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧!

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 7700+

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲

𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐁&𝐁. 𝐊𝐨̈𝐧𝐢𝐠, 𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐲𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐢𝐧. 𝐀 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐦 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐝𝐞 𝐯𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

*𝐀 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨. ☁️😇

*𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐔𝐊, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐁𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐡.

*𝐊𝐨̈𝐧𝐢𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐲, 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐝❤️‍🔥 + 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 (𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞, 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐥𝐦𝐚𝐨).

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“𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭„ ♡ @simpforkonig ♡ @rustic-guitar-notes ♡ @best-soup ☆ @lotionlamp ♡ @trepaika ☆ @luci4theminorannoyance ☆ @happy-mushrooms ♡ @nightlyvoids ♡ @skeletalgoats ♡ @aethelwyneleigh27 ☆ @arrozyfrijoles23 ♡ @dobaddo ☆ @the-second-sage ☆ @wil-xyz ☆ @revnatheshadow ☆ @feelya

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König was tired.

Very tired.

So tired was he of being tired, that it was tiring to be tired. And he was exhausted.

How long he had been on deployment, he had no clue; initially, it was meant to be a month-long mission, but time seemed to be simultaneously zooming in double-speed and moving in slow-motion. A day, then a week, then another week, then three days. Day, night, night, and day — shifting from one to the other in the flick of a switch.

And, before he knew it, it had been over three months: in the barracks afterwards, those three months had felt like three years.

Still, the hours that he could recall were gruelling: hours upon hours — from morning, throughout the day, up until the night, unending — of syncopated staccato gunfire, of cacophonous voices roaring themselves hoarse, of humming helicopter blades as the bass accompaniment to the crashing cymbals of explosions, and of deaths, anticlimactic finales for those that had perished.

Of course, it was no coordinated orchestra: just chaos.

And König was tired.

What he needed was to collapse onto a mattress, face-first, and fall asleep instantly — to be possessed by a near comatose-condition, catharsis, and wake up, not knowing what day it was.

A hand reached weakly to his temple, where an intense migraine had been plaguing him for days, and held it there in vain to numb the pain.

What König needed was sleep. And actual sleep, not the kind of sleep he became accustomed to; laying idly, wide-awake, on the thin, firm barracks mattress on the metal frame, a bed too uncomfortably small and uncomfortable to accommodate for both his disproportionately gigantic size and battered, aching back. While being a Colonel had its perks, clearly the perks did not extend to an agreeable bed.

So, obviously, he was not going to lay on a bedding which, to him, felt like a plank of wood.

Instead of arriving back at the barracks — which was more than 5000 km away — in two days for a briefing he was intended to deliver, he figured that the pilot could make a detour and land somewhere in the UK as it was on his way anyway.

Besides, he could always insist that they had experienced heavy turbulence and had to land as a safety precaution. A day later than scheduled would not be a disaster — charm offensive tended to work, yet if few were charmed, he could just as easily go on the offensive and assert his authority as Colonel.

By now, it was far closer to the next day than it was today. Or was it early morning, and the day had already passed? 0500 read his watch, but whether it was dark due to the winter still lingering and prematurely enveloping the sky like a black, starless blanket, or dawn in a few hours, wouldn't have made any difference.

The pilot had landed fuck knew where, König thought, but all he knew was that the town was quite quiet: aside from the occasional drunkards at a pub or a single customer at a convenience store buying cigarettes, the town was asleep. König ought to have been too, but the thought that he would be soon was comforting.

König was too tired to research either hotels or motels nearest him as he usually would, as he was struggling to keep his eyes open as was. He just needed a bed, to rest, and that was it… perhaps some breakfast, too. But that wasn't the main objective.

König continued to trudge at a begrudging pace, back slumped over under the mass of his rucksack, his legs difficult to lift as if they each weighed a tonne.

At this point, a sofa would do, as long as he could stretch his sore legs on it.

As he turned the corner, he rubbed his puffy pink eyes, eyelids sagging. That's when the fancy, elegant letters of the “ʀᴏʏᴀʟ ʙᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋғᴀsᴛ”, caught by his closing eyes.

At last — salvation had come!

“No vacancies — sorry!” said the sign in front, but König, choosing to ignore it, opened the door.

Given the hour, it was pitch-black. Aside from the weak fluorescent glow of a crescent moon casting a silver luminescence across the walls, a faint sliver of pale light was visible through the crack beneath the door. A shadow.

Running of water and the soft clinking of plates — the washing of dishes, as quiet as one can be. König wasn't going to consider why anyone sane would choose to wash the dishes at whatever hour this was. Frankly, he couldn't care less. What he cared about most was rest.

A dulcet humming slid smoothly under the door; faint, yet audible, and soothing. Whether it was the melody of a song or an improvised tune, it sounded pleasant.

Drawn towards it like a moth to a flame, König chucked the rucksack into the darkness, alleviating the pain of his shoulders after carrying such baggage.

Realising that it would give the person behind the door a fright to see an uninvited guest — to them, an intruder — on their doorstep so late in the night, it would be wise to pose as little of a threat as possible. Starting with louder footsteps to alert them beforehand, and a gentle greeting as he opened the door:

“Hallo.”

Almost dropping the plate that you were washing onto the floor, you shrieked in surprise nonetheless. Turned off the tap, having heart palpitations.

At the sight of the intruder in front of you, you stifled another shriek, a hand shooting up to grasp the fabric of your tee tightly, almost collapsing onto the floor had not your left hand held onto the countertop for support.

The plate, dropped in your secondary shock, shattered, loudly clattering as porcelain pieces still foaming with the dish-soap bubbles scattered across the floor.

“Fuck!” you cursed, but before you could lean in to tidy the mess, the stranger was crouching down and scooping it all in his gloved hands — quite agile for someone his build.

Then König's back was protesting in pain, joints cracking embarrassingly loud.

“Nicht,” he hushed, accented voice hoarse from barking orders and yelling at the top of his dust-lined lungs. Not like you knew — to you, he sounded like he was a chainsmoker, croaking his final breath before his lungs collapsed. “Bitte. Allow me.”

This was… unusual. Unusual was an understatement, however — just what the fuck has happened in the last ten seconds?

The moment you saw him, head almost reaching the ceiling, hovering ominously in the darkness, your first thought was that this man had come to murder you.

Big, bulky, and brawny, as tall as he was wide — fuck, taller — heavy military gear, combat boots and all…

And if his appearance at a first glance hadn't made you faint, his veil was the cherry on the cake: even with the cutouts for eyes, his eyes were camouflaged by the cover of darkness, so that the holes were eerily resembling two empty caves; or even ravines, emptier, deeper, as an abyss.

Oh God, you thought. Maybe that's how and where he would dispose of your body; just dump it in a cave to be forgotten and fossilised, or into a pit, plummeting to the ground; unrecoverable.

Either way, the veil made the entity appear uncannily similar to an executioner…

Should you have called for help? Fuck, get it together, you fucking idiot, of course you should have! The man had murderous intentions! He had come here to murder you, he had! Why else would he be here at this ungodly hour? And— oh God— was that a pistol in the holster?!

In your head, you were calculating the seconds needed to stall for time after loudly shouting for help before your experienced guests would come running from the corridor and tumbling down the stairs from the second floor. Not only were there four of them, but they were soldiers, too — good men, and good soldiers.

So, your boys would definitely overpower this guy, outnumbering him and tackling each one of his limbs to the ground long enough for the Police to arrive, and…

…no. That's ridiculous. What were you thinking? This man has not given you any reason to think this way. Sure, his appearance left a lot to be desired, but aside from that, he was... docile. Polite.

Awkwardly hovering over him, quite literally twiddling with your thumbs and unsure of what to do — ...call for help regardless? — you hesitated when asking: “So, uh— what, um, brought you here then, sir?”

He grunted in acknowledgement, and, having scooped up the remnants of the plate, it all dwarfed in the palm of his hand. You gulped audibly as he stood up to his full height, and you didn't do a good job at concealing the way that you flinched when he leaned close to dispose of the ceramic pieces into the bin beside you.

As he took two steps back, he drew out a weary sigh, head sinking a little.

“I'm tired,” he said. “I need a room.”

Oh.

In your panic, your anxiety… you had totally forgotten that you ran a B&B. That this man was perhaps here because, you know, your business, your current career, was in hospitality and catering.

Yeah… You totally had overlooked that…

…But it's fine. It's totally not like you forgot that you were in the building that housed your guests or anything. Rather than realise that the people you were housing were your guests, your first instinct was to bring their profession into this.

Self-preservation had never been so selfish until this point. Yikes.

God. Had you been less afraid at the start, you could have spared a laugh at the absurdity of the situation and your irrational thought process, but as things stood, you were still pissing yourself from terror, intimidated by this unit of a man.

Now you were just standing there, expression stony and as still as a statue. The veil hovered over you, scrutinising you with squinted eyes in curiosity.

Your expression softened slightly at the sight of him; so pitiable and pitiful, evident exhaustion weighing him down.

Frowning, you were sympathetic. “I'm… sorry, sir, but there are no vacancies available. You must have missed the sign outside? I'm so sorry—”

“I didn't miss it,” he stated, rasping in the same assertiveness of a German (that's what you gathered his nationality was, anyways — what, with his accent). “I still need a room.”

Sighing in exasperation, you were less sympathetic: still, you were going to continue being polite. Just in case he took anything the wrong way. You prayed that he'd prefer his pistol over his hands.

“Sir, you— you must understand that I cannot possibly accommodate you. You— you do understand, right?”

The man's shoulders drooped, and light finally reflected off his eyeballs as his head dropped, too heavy to keep straight: his eyes were sagging, both in sadness and tiredness. Scleras were nearing crimson, and heavy bags under his eyes were burdened by dark half-circles. Some warpaint that hadn't been washed off well enough outlined his eyes, giving the impression that his eyes were sunken into his skull.

You looked away, overwhelmed by guilt and pity.

“Um…”

Biting your lip in consideration, your eyebrows furrowed.

Yet there was little to consider — this was a man desperate for some rest, and given his assumed soldier status, he was evidently deserving of some sleep. Besides, what sort of a person would you be if you refused to house a guest? The decision would remain in your conscience, reminding you of how heartless and inhumane you were.

Or it wouldn't, when you'd be murdered in your sleep and all of your meagre belongings and material possessions would be stolen, while your four other guests had their throats slit.

Because despite their similar profession, it seemed that this man was not in their faction. Your gut churned at the thought that you could be unknowingly housing two rival contracts.

As you swallowed thickly, you looked back at him, your unease easing by degrees the longer you listened to his slow breathing, yet persisting nonetheless.

“Well—” you hesitated. “—I do have a room—”

The light in his eyes became brighter, as his eyelids could barely remain open. “Ah, you do, do you?” he said, eyes crinkling in a small smile.

“Yes, sir,” you sighed, then offered a small smile of your own. “It's upstairs, though. Is that okay with you?”

“Ja,” he affirmed. “Lead the way.”

Wordlessly, he followed you up the stairs, the thump—thump—thump of his heavy boots following close behind, that would have otherwise thud—thud—thud’ded had they not been muffled by the fluffy carpet. You mourned the way that it would never be as fluffy again. The dirty dirt marks left behind with each footstep made you grimace, so unlike the ones left by the others. Did this guy even shower before coming here?

Finally at the door, a little awkwardly, you unlocked it, and ushered him inside, flicking on the light switch.

“Uhm, it's a little small… “ you murmured apologetically, voice trailing off. “I mean, it's a double, but it might not be big enough…”

König surveyed the size of the bed, taking long, thoughtful strides… then flung himself face-first on top of it, sinking into it.

Your eyebrows disappeared into your hairline, jaw dropping to the floor in amazement. His feet stuck out, but he didn't seem about to complain.

“Are— are you okay?”

“Perfekt. I have needed this.”

You crossed your arms, dumbstruck and rendered dumb by this… display.

“O—kaaayyy... I’ll—I'll leave you be then, sir.”

“Ja,” he yawned, not bothering to take off his shoes. You sighed, shaking your head sternly, but decided to hold your tongue.

As you were heading out, you glanced into the room, hovering in the doorframe. “Sleep well, soldier,” you whispered, flipping the light switch. The darkness enveloped the man like a blanket.

…

For four straight days he slept like a log. Literally, because he was like one in length and diameter, but mostly in the figurative sense. Of course, König didn't know that. Yet.

When he awoke, König felt reinvigorated, rejuvenated, revived… all synonyms of said words (he couldn't think of any more — funnily enough, he would use none of these when speaking to you).

The first thing that he noticed when he awoke was that the duvet was tucked in neatly into the covers around him, and that his boots were off.

He noticed that his rucksack was next to his boots second. Even if you were someone strong for your size, he doubted that your strength really could make up for your height — the footage of you struggling to lug his bag up the stairs brought humour to him. Or, maybe he was underestimating your strength, and you were stronger than you looked. Still, he found humour in the idea regardless.

Thirdly, the curtains were drawn tightly closed, but daylight penetrated unrelentingly through the material regardless, giving the impression that the room was feebly glowing with white. Heavenly.

Was this heaven? It sure felt like it. Surely, a few more moments of blissful shuteye would—

Wait. What day was it?

Springing out of bed, sprinting downstairs, he was about to rush outside…

…when he halted in his tracks halfway.

What the fuck was he doing? He was a fucking Colonel. Who fucking cares what fucking day it is. The idiots on base should be glad that he's even there, regardless of how belated his entrance is. Honestly, at this point, he's considering this his own vacation in the semi-countryside. He deserves it, after three months of doing his utmost not to let himself or his comrades die.

Walking down the steps, he overhead a familiar sound: the running of water, and humming. Humming a different tune this time.

Having woken up alert, not groggy like he had been that late night/early morning, he could appreciate the sound now.

In all actuality, that hummed tune was nothing extraordinary — quite frankly, it was one of the most ordinary songs he could have heard.

Clearly, you must not be a good singer; otherwise, your breath would not have hitched in your throat with every high note you'd have to reach. Your song was syncopated, despite you likely not having meant it to be.

Occasionally, you'd sing the words that you'd know — voice off-key and clumsy — then revert to humming once more, stealing quick breaths every once so often.

Then he saw you, and he could put a face to that clumsy voice. It was his breath that hitched in his throat.

There was nothing particularly pretty or handsome about you, either. From the profile, you were decently average — or annoyingly average — neither exceptionally beautiful nor exceedingly ugly. You were just… you.

And, yet, the sight of you washing the pyramid of dishes precariously balancing on top of each other, singing softly a song so out of tune, so out of sync, was… concerningly domestic.

Just for a split-second, König visualised you as his partner, waiting patiently for him as he was on deployment, and this being the morning after his return, this being one of those precious mornings you two could share. It would be nice to have something to cherish so much.

And as soon as that vision materialised, it disappeared just as soon. Too soon.

A little flustered by what he had imagined, he shook his head, shaking off the remaining pixels of that screenshot until they completely dissipated, disappeared. Now was not the time.

This time, he wasn't going to frighten you, Gott forbid all of those plates would come crashing down like an avalanche of porcelain; it would save breaking his back, secondarily, but primarily, he didn't want you to snap out of your trance, so innocently focused at the task at hand, only to react so strongly like you did the last time.

So he contented himself with waiting, despite hovering a little too awkwardly in the doorframe, unsure of what to do with himself.

After turning off the tap, you sighed — an anticlimactic conclusion to your encore — before drying your hands with a teatowel. Now was the time to introduce his presence.

Coughing quietly to draw your attention, König announced: “Guten tag.”

Whipping your head so quickly towards the source of the voice your neck nearly had whiplash, your eyes widened.

Sighing a sigh of relief after recovering from your surprise, you smiled politely.

“You're awake! Thank God. I was beginning to think that you had died or something. How are you? Do you feel better?”

It's been a while since anyone had asked him that.

“Oh— ah, Gut. Thanks.”

There was something so appealing about your face that König couldn't place; so easy on the eye.

Awkwardly adding: “I slept… well. Very well. The bed was the most comfortable I've ever slept on in ages.”

“I mean, I figured — what, with you there for so long!”

You laughed, and he swore he was floating. “I swear, you must have been hibernating or something. I was hoping that there wouldn't be a corpse I'd have to dispose of. But, you are okay, right?”

His hoarse voice had a hint of a morning rasp in it, as he whispered a quiet: “What… what day is it?”

“Day?” You looked to the side, thinking. “Uhhh, let me think— Tuesday, right? I think it is, anyways? Well, you arrived on Friday, so nearly four days a—”

“Scheisse.” König's voice was monotone. “I was supposed to brief subordinates. They were meant to commence training on Monday.”

You gasped. “Then why are you still here?! Go! Look, it's only two days—”

“Nein. If I am going to be late, I might as well be fashionably late. I hate it there. I am treated like I am elderly and coaxed to do paperwork when I am in my prime age for fighting. I hate it.”

“You sure do hate your job, it seems,” you mused. “How come?”

“I do not. I hate the people. I am a soldier for that precise reason, and I always get reprimanded for my brutality, when it is a thrill to me. Did I say I hate it?”

“...Oh. O-okay...”

You shifted from leg to leg, twirling your foot into the floor awkwardly, not knowing what to do with this information.

“...Well, how about some breakfast?”

He blinked. “Breakfast?”

You laughed. “Don't you know how a B&B works? Breakfast is included, you know.”

“Oh.” He blinked again, enlightened. “OK. I won't be long.”

“Please, take as long as possible.”

“How thoughtful of you,” he said, pleased.

“I mean— it gives me more time to prepare the food — which, by the way, what would you like? Any preferences? Allergies? I tend to hand out a menu, and offer a full English, but this situation is a bit—”

“Everything,” he interrupted, assertive. “And anything.”

“Mmmkay,” you mumbled. “I'll do what I can.”

“Thank you. Will be seeing you.”

The “will be seeing you” sounded a little too ominous for your liking, despite seeming to have no ill intentions. Goosebumps formed on your arms, but you skillfully hid your trepidation with a warm smile.

König walked up the stairs, leaving you behind to mournfully look into the fridge, praying that there was food enough to feed this guy.

(...This giant. Mutant, perhaps. It was hard to believe that this unit was even human.)

You were thankful for the fact there seemed to be enough food. What you were not thankful for was that it'd only be enough for one meal, or two if you scavenged for some more ingredients out of the cupboards.

A carton of 16 eggs, a jug of milk, two hams, a loaf of bread, some fruit, some vegetables, some leftover pastries… all fine and dandy; alas, this guy was probably going to chug the milk straight out of the jug and likely had some weird fixation with eating the raw egg yolk, as if it's the ultimate forbidden protein source, or something. Maybe you were prejudiced, based on your current experience with three out of four of the other soldiers not knowing how to make pancakes. The clean-up afterwards made you seriously consider abandoning your B&B and hiking to the next country by foot.

König on the other hand? He had already decided that he would never abandon this B&B. Your B&B.

He was making himself quite at home. Everything in this bedroom was so homely, and, come to think of it, it was exactly what König needed; a change of scenery. To be home. It was just a shame that he had not a place to call that — for now, at least.

Feeling refreshed and looking fresh out of the shower, he half-heartedly dried the mop of hair on his head. Slipping on some shirt he dug out of his bag, he cursed when he wore it back-to-front, and slipped it on again.

Finally dressed with no further discrepancies, he stole a glance of his profile in the reflection; grimaced; then quickly slipped his signature veil over his head. The thing was falling apart at the seams. He would fix the stitching when the night came.

As soon as he opened the door, an intense aroma — aromas — overwhelmed his olfactories. His stomach growled, and König remembered that it must have been almost 6 days since he had eaten.

Approaching footsteps drew your attention to the masked man advancing, so you turned off the running water, and dried off your wet hands, to pull out a chair for him. At least the largest load of the dishes was tackled; the rest could be put on pause. You didn't exactly find the prospect of more washing up promising.

“Hey, welcome back. I hope your shower was good!” you chimed, a cordial smile gracing your face.

The smile became lopsided as you followed the man's unspeaking gaze towards the food you prepared for him.

“O-oh, yeah— well, uhm, I didn't know what you'd like, so I put together all the scraps and then some to make you breakfast,” you said, rubbing your nape. “Come to think of it, is this even breakfast at this point? Is it lunch? Brunch sounds better, but it's past noon to call it that…”

König had tuned out your ramblings — not because the sound was like white noise; because he was mesmerised by the platter of food:

An omelette, colourful with diced peppers, tomatoes, and sautéed mushrooms, cheese melted on top of it, and presumably mashed together with mashed potatoes; a poached egg (which, by the looks of it, went wrong — but was still appetising nonetheless) on top of an avocado, tomato, onion corn, cucumber, and rocket salad; a fried egg in a bacon barm, with a toothpick through it and, also melting with cheese; two sausages, sprinkled with crispy onions, more mushrooms, with a ramekins of beam on the side. If that wasn't enough to whet his appetite already, the sight of two croissants and two muffins — warm, and fresh out of the oven — buttered and smeared with jam, and the fresh bowl of fruit, then he was surely salivating.

He was salivating. Coughing into his hand, he discreetly rubbed the drool off his chin with the hem of his mask.

“Mein Gott— this is—”

Amazed, he sat down in the chair that you pulled for him, in a daze.

“Scheisse.” His throat was dry. “Are you an angel, by any chance? Is there something that you've not told me?”

Laughing bashfully, you waved a dismissive hand, swatting the blush away from your cheeks.

“Aw, you're so sweet! I'm flattered.”

“No, really,” he insisted, the eye contact he was making with you intense. “If that's the case, maybe I should make you my own personal maid turned housewife. You'd fit in my suitcase, nicht?”

Your laughter became awkward and strained, yet you forced yourself to keep your eyes trained on his. “Ahhh, nah, ha ha… I'm not flexible like that. Such a shame, ha ha ha…”

His eyes crinkled in a smirk, and with the way that they did you instantly knew that he was taking the piss. “I'm joking. You can relax. I am sincere when I say I have no such ill intentions.”

“Wait— your… mask.” You gestured to the veil. “Would you, uh… rather I look away as you eat?”

Surprisingly — surprising himself more than he did you — König shook his head instinctively, decisively.

“No. I do not mind. I will only mind if you try to look under it.”

Holding up two placating hands, you reassured him that you wouldn't, and that seemed to please him.

After that, aside from the clinking of cutlery on plates chewing on crispy, crunchy food, it was silent.

The man appeared comfortable in your presence, and was too focused on his food. Still, out of consideration for keeping his identity private, you stared at the chipped paint on the wall that you hoped he hadn't noticed. You would paint over it at some point.

Antsy as you anticipated his answer, you were nervously strumming your fingers against your knee. “...How is your breakfast?”

He was chewing the food slowly, eyes closed, enjoying the tastes. Swallowing even slower, he finally whispered a shaky: “Fantastich.”

Your face lit up, and you couldn't contain your excitement.

“I'm so glad! I hope it's enough. I-I mean– you know what I mean! For a big guy like you, this must be a snack. If this hadn't been so short notice, I would have prepared something more.”

He hummed appreciatively, appreciating every bite of food and devoting more time than he usually did to eating: usually, he was the type to shovel food by the mouthfuls and set his plate aside with his mouth still full; but, to König, it would be disrespectful to do that. He was holding your culinary skills in far too high of a regard to do that.

After he had finished, he pushed the plates aside, satisfied. “Gott. That was delicious. Maybe I will smuggle you inside my suitcase after all.”

He laughed, and dismissed your concern with a shake of the head. You furrowed your brows sternly, unamused, and collected the dishes, eyes widening; the plates were totally clean, not a crumb of food left.

You were beyond pleased. To describe your joy would have been impossible…

Yet, you had to wash all of those dishes. Again. Maybe you should seriously consider getting a dishwasher, but it was… oddly satisfying, to say the least. It was quite calming: the running water; the rubbing of the porcelain; the bubbles. And it was most satisfying seeing the plates in the rack stacked nicely.

“Every time I see you, you are washing dishes,” König pointed out, observing you from the few feet he was away.

You laughed at that. “Well, that's just how it is when you've got four adult men eating at your place, plus other guests. Trust me, this load isn't even half of what I wash most of the time.”

“Where are they now? The men, I mean.” he inquired, inquisitive.

“Gone,” you shrugged, elusive. “They always make a short stay anyways; they have places to be.”

“I see. Who are they?”

You bit your lip, wavering in your hesitation. “I'm… not in the position to divulge.”

“I don't see.”

Scoffing, you rolled your eyes. “They're soldiers. Just like you. They returned from deployment not too long ago, and are regular guests at my B&B, I guess. Not much to it.”

König let out a snort. “Regulars?”

“I don't know how else to put it!” You groaned, holding up your hands in exasperation. “Anyways, long story short, they returned from deployment, landed here, and seem to keep landing here, even though their barracks are miles away and this place is nowhere near any of their stops. Sure do wonder why.”

“I do not wonder; it's because your bed and breakfast are excellent, and you are an excellent host.”

Not knowing how to respond in your bashfulness, you contented yourself with washing the dishes, prolonging the process for as long as possible.

Time decided to defy you, and you were done in a matter of minutes.

“Well then. I better give you the payment, yes?”

The man pushed his chair aside, and sluggishly rose to his feet. “How much do I owe you?”

Cheeks still rosy, you considered for a moment. “Well… for four nights, it'd be £355.96, but given that you took my bedroom — by far the premium room — I gotta slap onto that an additional £50.”

“Still, since you were basically hibernating for three of those days, why not make it a nice and round £400?” You winked, smirking mischievously.

It took you a few seconds of him staring at you in order for it to register that he seemed to catch on to this revelation, and was appalled.

“Wh— what are you looking at me like that for?”

“I am… sleeping in your bedroom?”

“...Yeah? Look, it's not even a big deal. I don't mind, really! I'm happy to accommodate to your stay—”

“Scheisse! You should have said something, verdammt!”

“Like what? Tell you to shoo in the middle of the night and have you wandering around, only to end up sleeping on some bench? No! Besides, I've made the basement quite cosy, so no one is losing.”

Grumbling angrily in German, out from his wallet, he pulled out a crisp, crumpled — yet fat — stack of a wide array of notes, foreign currency from more than one country. “And I am in debt to you by how much again? Four hundred of those pounds?”

You nodded, smiling sweetly. “Y-yeah!”

“I have not the correct currency for this country, unfortunately.” He was apologetic, rifling through the stack and skimming through it. “Will this suffice?”

Your smirk flickered, yet remained flashing. It seemed a lot, but maybe other currencies didn't equate to as much as the Pound Sterling. God, what a chore it will be counting all this…

“Hold on… I can just Google the conversions, and add them. Good thing I've got a calculator on hand for these exchanges!”

After calculating the sums of all the equations, your jaw dropped.

It was over quadruple what you charged him, so you thought you had hallucinated and calculated the sums incorrectly. Maybe your maths wasn't as good as it used to be…

Inputting the numbers into the conversion rates in a different order gave you the same result, however. You were puzzled…

Unless…

“You— you've given me too much? Fuck, hold on another moment, please— I'm struggling to calculate, and I think I'm doing something wrong—”

“How much did it come out as?

“...£1417.”

“That little, it did? I thought it was over 1500. I guess I overestimated. Shame.”

If your jaw hadn't dropped, it was on the floor by now.

“I— what?” You contained your bulging eyes before they popped out. “Okay, u-uhm, you're not making it easy for me to give you back change, are you? I need a few more minutes to—”

“No. That is my payment.”

You couldn't believe in what you were hearing.

“What?! N-no, wait— it's too much! I can't accept this! Look, I—”

“Then I'll be staying for the rest of the week.” He stated, direct. “Consider that the payment upfront.”

Nearing hysterics, you insisted: “But it's still too much! P-please, let me give back the change—”

“Nein. Then I want you to consider the overpayment the tip, yes? For good service. Please.”

Tears brimming in your eyes, your lip quivered a little.

Despite denying him out of principle, the truth was that these sorts of gestures were too generous, and you couldn't handle such kindness. Even with the other four regulars that would slip in extra bills into your purse, this? It was all just—

And the fact that this man was so adamant made you tear up.

“I— o-okay… Thank you…”

“It is my pleasure.”

The fabric of his veil crumpled as his eyes crinkled and cheeks were made visible in a smile.

“I will go to your room and sleep some more, if that is okay with you?”

“Sleep? Haven't you hibernated enough for two consecutive winters?” You joked weakly, still overwhelmed by his generosity.

“True. But I need this,” he said, back hunched over and shoulders slumping. “I will be as fit as a young boy tomorrow, and will resume my workouts! I will be going jogging for most of the noon.”

“You— don't look so old,” you stammered, a bit bashful. “But I won't disagree with you. You deserve the rest, Colonel.”

The nickname amused him. “Don't call me that. At the barracks, yes, but I would prefer it if you would refer to me as König.”

“Okay then, Colonel König,” you repeated, a mischievous smirk on your face.

“You are a devious little thing, aren't you? How cute.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, and you groaned exaggeratedly, playfully pouting.

“Seriously though,” you began, eyes earnest. “I hope you enjoy your stay. And if you wanna sleep in all day today? Go ahead!”

“Thank you,” he said, relieved. “And you are sure that this is no trouble?”

“None! This is my business, after all. I'm happy to be here, and I'm happy that you're happy too.”

“Well, I will be seeing you. Bis morgen, Süße.”

Offering him another warm smile, König walked upstairs.

The rest of the day went without a hitch. Two guests filled the empty rooms of the previous four, and you booked them in. It was quite quiet, and when night came, the two guests tucked in their beds with a cordial “Goodnight”.

A sigh left you, satisfied that everything was in order, everywhere was tidy, and all countertops were spotless. Checkup done, you were pleased with yourself and your effort for the day.

The bed in the basement was still big; a small single — plenty of space to sprawl all your limbs and sink face-first into a pillow.

That night, however, the bed was strangely bigger than usual.

…

Rubbing your eyes with your yawn as you walked up the stairs to prepare breakfast for your guests the next day, you halted in your tracks.

“Guten morgen.”

The sight of him wearing an apron — your apron — so comically small, was hilarious. If it wasn't so hilarious, you would have been furious at the fact that your favourite apron was splitting at the seams, but as things stood, you were splitting your sides with laughter.

“I… what?”

“Good morning.”

“N-no, I mean— what are you doing?”

“Well.” He pondered for a moment, then turned to you, expression blank in its confusion. “Breakfast. What does it look like, little one?”

“That's…” You were at a loss for words. “...my job?”

“Ja, I learned. But I wanted to return the various favours you made to me.”

You were perplexed. “I didn't make you any favours?”

He chuckled. “Forfeiting a bed is one of the strongest favours, no? It's the easiest way to bring someone closer — letting them into your bed.”

“Oh my God, will you shut UP about that, PLEASE,” you groaned, embarrassed by his teasing. “And stop wording it like that. You're making it seem as if I brought you into my bed to have sex. So gross.”

“What is gross? Sex, or sex with me?”

“I— oh my God…”

“...Sooo, ha ha… h-how did you sleep?” you innocently asked, desperate to divert conversation onto another topic.

“Well.” König said, thoughtful. “I would have slept better if I had you to cuddle, of course.”

“You'll sleep even better when I suffocate you with a pillow. Then you'll never wake up.”

“Just admit it: you like me,” König asserted smugly. “Don't be shy, schatz.”

“I'm not shy,” you lied. “You're just wrong. I barely know you.”

At this, König cackled loudly, yet not mockingly — just obnoxiously.

“I know you well enough to say that I like you; why not say the same, hm?”

Laughter dying down, König was about to pull out a chair for you when you pulled it out for yourself and sat down without a second thought. A scowl was under his veil, but he didn't point it out.

“I still don't get why you're making me breakfast.”

Balancing two plates on his forearm as he placed a third in front of you, he said: “Hush. Genieße dein Essen, schatzen.”

Pretending you knew what any of that meant, you nodded eagerly, as you had a kid-like grin on your face at the sight of such food, especially being prepared by a hunk as handsome as he.

“König!”

So, why not impress him with your language skills?

“Gracias— fuck! Wait, no… uh—”

“Ah, it is me who was mistaken,” he teased. "Bon appétit.”

Why not? For that reason, you learned…

Rather than there being an awkward silence, König chuckled, and lovingly stroked your hair, careful in his way not to tangle it. Meanwhile, you were redder than the chopped tomatoes on your plate, and to you, this wasn't remotely funny. You just got nervous!

“You are so sweet, schatz. Such a treasure. Never change, ja? Now eat your food before it is cold.”

You huffed, then stabbed a fried egg with a fork, uneasy, and feeling queasy, your mind drifting back to that morning where those other four soldiers absolutely desecrated the pancakes they made and cooked an unholy concoction of raw egg and half-cooked batter. With chocolate chips on top.

Gulping, you opened your mouth, and took a tentative bite.

Eating it… it tasted quite good. Great, actually.

“See? I am a good cook. You would like an extra pair of hands to make your workload more… enjoyable?”

You choked on the egg. “An— extra what?”

“Help, of course.”

“You— you knew what you were doing when you said that.”

“Knew what, little one?”

“Nevermind,” you scoffed. Scarfing down the food was enjoyable indeed. Having had breakfast prepared for you was pleasant, for a change.

His breakfast gave you a run for your money, and you were silently seething.

Admittedly, his breakfast was a “man's” breakfast — hearty, full of food, and abominable presentation, cobbled together. The taste was phenomenal, though — nothing to fault there.

“Finished? Wunderbar. I can cook for the remainder of my stay—”

“Wooaah, there, big guy. Hold your horses. Are you replacing me at my own job?”

You smirked, touched. “I think it's sweet, really, but let this be a one-off, okay?”

König frowned, and even with you not being able to see it, you could sense his disappointment.

“It's not like I didn't appreciate this… but, König, c’mon. This is my job, you know.”

“OK…”

You sucked in a breath. “Another time, okay? When I have no guests. I'll reserve the establishment for you.”

He perked up at this. “OK!”

…

“Why is your Breakfast in Bed named “Royal”?”

You let out a snort. “Bed and Breakfast, König. And why? Well… to be honest… the only reason I did was to appeal to the Brits.”

“...Oh. That is the only reason?”

Contemplating it for a moment, you realised: “Yeah… don't get me wrong, I don't worship the Royal family — between you and me, I don't give two flying fucks about the King — but if I'm here, oughtn’t I cater to my target demographic?”

The mug of coffee — with a Union Jack flag and the text “ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴄᴀʟᴍ, ᴄᴀʀʀʏ ᴏɴ ᴅʀɪɴᴋɪɴɢ ᴛᴇᴀ” printed on it — that he was about to take a sip out of, froze mid-air.

“...King? Not the Queen?”

“She's dead, König. I know that much.”

“...Oh.”

“I… figure you didn't know that much?”

“...No.”

You couldn't hold back a laugh, and burst into uncontrollable laughter.

Doubled over and splitting your side as you wiped a tear, you exclaimed: “Ain't it— funny!? How— how nice of a coincidence it is that— that you, a King, landed at the ʀᴏʏᴀʟ ʙ&ʙ?!”

Yeah, you had Googled what his name meant. Simply out of curiosity, nothing more.

“It must be fate,” König said dreamily, which went unnoticed as you giggled a little longer.

“Ye—ah! Oh my God, HELP— I-I can't breathe... fuck. Who knows? Maybe. Fuck.”

…

Before you knew it, the week had passed.

You took the liberty of doing König’s laundry and dry-cleaning folding the day before, his clothes folded neatly. Rather than wasting time going to the laundrette, you said, you would be more than happy to do it for him.

While awake, you wanted to bake him some pastries and prepare a few plastic containers of food — “...So you won't be hungry. Or go hungry, for at least 2 days or so.”

“At most. Your food is so irresistible that I will not be able to resist eating everything in one sitting.”

“Hey, be my guest! Not telling you how to live your life. 2 hours it is, then.”

König was no longer tired; and, although you were, you woke up earlier than usual nonetheless in order to ensure that he wasn't missing anything. What, with his meagre possessions, most likely wasn't, but the both of you refused to acknowledge anything.

“God — you're, like, almost a week past schedule. What are your superiors going to say about going AWOL?”

“They are not going say anything,” he proclaimed, confident “No one is superior to me, anyways. They will not say anything.”

“You're as full as yourself as the first day we officially became acquainted.”

“Ha ha, very funny,” he said drily. “Did I say I like you?”

“You sure did. Like, a hundred times by now.”

…A hundred times, and he hasn't said “I love you” once. How humiliating it was for König. It didn't seem as if you caught on to his feelings, but that was for the better, he gathered.

“It will be two hundred when I return.”

“Sooo…” A little awkwardly: “Are you going to be a regular guest at my B&B? Asking for future reference, so I know when to reserve a bed for you.”

“Of course. There's no other bed I would like to sleep in than yours, meine liebe.”

Blush erupted on your cheeks like a volcano.

“It would be nice for you to sleep in it and join me, nicht? It is your bed, after all. Maybe you would like the company, and a helping hand—”

“Are you leaving already? Begone with you!” you hissed.

Hopeful:. “...But will you write to me? Send me letters, or a pigeon, or something!”

“I… cannot guarantee it,” he said sternly. “But rest assured, this will not be the last you will be seeing of me.”

“I hope so…” You sniffed. “When will you be back?"

“Soon.”

You gazed in each other's eyes for a few agonisingly short moments — the time was agonising short, this moment was too short. There was more that you wanted to say, more than you wanted to hear from him.

“Well, König… goodbye.”

König snorted, laughing his signature cackle, and you were confused.

“What is the reason for this “goodbye” or these “farewells”? Say “see you”. Or, in German: Ich werde auf dich warten, mein König. That will make me happy.”

“I… am not even going to attempt that. Thanks, but no thanks..”

König patted your shoulder, but he had to lean down in order to do it, and you pouted whenever he patronised you so.

“See you,” you said, eyes earnest. “And I will see you, you fucking bastard; you're so big that I wouldn't exactly be able to miss the mountain on the horizon.”

“Ja, ja, liebe. I will be seeing you. Wait for me.”

…

König was full of energy — dreading the barracks, yes, but rejuvenated by an intense vigour and excitement. Excited for the next mission.

Now, even on deployment, no matter how many of those months would be gruelling and no matter what that he will be eating the worst canned gruel imaginable, he would have some place to look forward to returning — “ʀᴏʏᴀʟ ʙᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋғᴀsᴛ” — and food, homemade. That was a bonus.

Yet, most of all, to look forward to a familiar face; yours.

If what people say about long distances making the heart grow fonder, then by the time his return rolled around, his heart would be yours to keep.

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A/n — Been resurrected like Jesus Christ to bring this fanfiction to you after 3 months days. How fitting. 😊

This idea only came to fruition because I was Four In A Bed, which is a British TV show showcasing Bed and Breakfasts. 💀,, It could have been literally ANYTHING else, but it's fitting?? 🤨, so, i made i work 😩

I'll be honest, I was kind of unmotivated and have been REALLY struggling to write these past months, but this person somehow singlehandedly gave me all the motivation I've been needing to think of and finish a fic 🥹💓.

Because, like,,, THIS?????? 😭😭😭😭😭

It was such a surprise to wake up to in the morning — especially knowing that I would have to sit an WACK maths exam that day 😩 — and it honestly made my entire week! 🥲💘

I've never had anyone dive SO deep into all the little ins and outs of my fanfiction that I thought no one would consider memorable to bother commenting on. 😭🫶💞💞✨✨💖💓💞✨💕💕

(Sorry to call you out publicly like this LOL 🤖. Wass too shy to msg you, qnd I thought it would be better if i kept this quiet in case u didn't wanna be tagged haha)

Also thank you to this anon for this sweet message. After you sent this in, i was motivated to work HARDER !!!!!! (writing three sentences a day instead of two 😍😍). Seriously though, thank you 🥹🥹💓

////Also, totally irrelevant, but i got the platinum trophy for Ghostrunner 2 !!!!!! 😸😸🎉🎊.. (. 🥲🔫)

////Last trophy to get was the "Godrunner" and i wanted to kms 👍😁

////Beating the Dismantler without dying was the BANE of my existence 🧍🏼‍♀️, and it didnt help that I KEPT DYING UNFAIRLY IN "I Won't Be Back Today" level like BRUHHH 😭😭😭😭, I WOULD KILL ALL OF THE CREEPS I NTHE SECOND PHASE AND YET ID STILL EXPLODE????? AND THEN DONT GET ME STARTED ON THE SEQUENCE AT THE VERY END ,,, THE AMOUNT OF TIMES I DIED TO THOSE FUCKING LASERS AND TJOSE CREEPS ON THE CEILING IS TOO EMBARRASSING TO NUMBER) 😡😡🤬😡😓😟😭😭😭😭,

////, Its ok tho bc i have the bragging rights now — i have the platinum trophies for Ghostrunner 1/2, and hopefully 3 (if it ever is announced 😼) 🤧

//// NOO BC I LOVE THESE GAMES SO MUCH AND ESPECIALLY THE OST BUT THE STORY????? THE GAME PLAY??!!!!! THEFUCKING MECHANICS???!???!?!?!?!?!!!!!!! THE CHARACTERS AND THEIR INTERACTIONS ON THE COMMS??????????!???!!!!!??? JACK HIMSELF????! !!?????!!?!?!??????????... ... And THERES LITERALLY NO ONE THAT PLAYS IT SO IM LEFT DUMPING THIS INFORMATION ONTO MT FRIENDS WHEN THEY LITERWLLY DIDNT ASK LMAO 🤡 — So. I'm dumping it onto you guys instead. 🤯 Srry💔😭 not srry❤️🥵 but i adore Ghostrunner 👾

...

Anyways, I'll go back into hibernation after dropping one (1) fanfiction. I SO deserve it guys... 🥵🥵

Okay okay I have to ask, what’s your fav head canons of Nikto then? I love hearing other people’s ideas and head canons of cod characters ^^ 💕

Ngl, i get inspired by other people's headcanons, and i make headcanons off THEIR headcanons 🥲👍… I'm unoriginal 😔💔

SOOOO, im “” Tagging”” (by that i mean putting // after the @ so the original creators dont get the notifcation for this LMAO=) blogs whose own works inspired me to create my own headcanons 🥰❤️

General Nikto Headcanons ❤️

Word Count: 1,584.

Tag List: ♡ @simpforkonig ♡ @rustic-guitar-notes ♡ @best-soup ☆ @lotionlamp ♡ @trepaika ☆ @luci4theminorannoyance ☆ @happy-mushrooms ♡ @nightlyvoids ♡ @skeletalgoats ♡ @aethelwyneleigh27 ☆ @arrozyfrijoles23 ♡ @dobaddo ☆ @the-second-sage ☆ @wil-xyz ☆ @revnatheshadow ☆ @feelya

Allusions to NSFW beneath the cut! Readers are warned.

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Blunt and straight to the point. Sees no rhyme nor reason in beating around the bush and sugarcoating his words. As a result, he can be viewed as insensitive and lacking in empathy.

Impatient, and has a short fuse, so blows up often. Only you are able to be the calm after his storm, subduing him with soft reassurances and whispered words.

To say that he is possessive would be an understatement — he is extremely territorial.

After his torture, he is wary of the few things that he posesses and can actually call his own (you). His biggest phobia is losing you, and his irrational fear is someone stealing you away. Any prick unlucky enough to not catch on to you two dating will be lucky enough to survive the beating that he is given.

On that note, he is simultaneously self-assured, and insecure.

His mask is a part of him, and personal. It will take him months for him to shed said part of him.

Constantly fears that you will leave him once he reveals his face to you, so puts it off for as long as he possibly can. The day that he takes off his mask, only for you to be so casual about it and passing it off as your day-to-day, is the day that became cemented in his hard, stony heart.

Has conflicting views towards marriage. On the one hand, is an official document declaring your relationship really so necessary? Isn't an expensive wedding superfluous, and too sensational? To him, all of that is redundant — he's yours, and you're his…

…On the other hand, a glistening ring on your finger invokes a primal desire to make you more his than you are already. It would be a declaration of a love which even death wouldn't do part. Maybe he should pay more attention to the rings on display at the jewellery stores you pass by when shopping occasionally together.

An introverted man, who finds solace in solitude; excluding you, his partner, he has no companions, and rarely associates with anyone else. The voices in his head are bothersome enough, so why does he need additional voices bothering him? With that said, you would think that your presence would be a bother — especially with your mindless chatter when Nikto doesn't grunt at the idle small talk at times, wholly unresponsive for the majority of the time — but the moment you give any indication of leaving, he seizes your wrist, his cold, icy eyes silently pleading for you to stay. And you do. You always do.

Bringing me onto my next point: he is a good listener. Your ramblings are all that to you; ramblings. To Nikto, however, it's his chance to unpick all the information about you, down to the littlest of details. You wrongly assume that your words fall on deaf ears, but he listens, and he memorises every opinion you have, every statement you make, and even the small anecdotes that you share, which becoming engraved in his brain. He goes over every sentence religiously, as if it was the Bible.

He has an exceptionally good memory, tending to remember things that you had forgotten. Mention something that you craved in passing? He would surprise you with it the next time you bring it up. Alluded to someone who insulted you and ruined your day? Well, it would be no surprise that that person would never ruin your day ever again.

He is like a cat in the sense that he is an unwanted stray. However, when you came to want him, it dawned on you that he was no cat, but a panther. A predator — savage, vicious.

He would kill for you, no questions asked (He has already done it, but you don't know about that. After all, you hadn't asked him that question yet, only in jest. Truth be told, he has made so many death threats that you have become desensitised to them, dismissing them as nothing more than that: threats).

He would have died for you (PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE @//charliemwrites’s DEPICTIONNOF NIKTO IN THIS SCENE??????? HAD ME ON MY KNEES 🛐💍🧎🏼‍♀️ PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE VI NEED HIM SOVBAD); however, when you were hyperventilating as you sobbed and were close to reaching hysterics, that's when he realised that he should value his life more.

Incredibly stealthy. You've seen his execution animations… 🤒 Uses that stealth to sneak up on you whenever your guard is down to smack your ass. 🤭

Insomnia troubles him at night, the relief of sleep rarely coming to him; therefore, he tends to be nocturnal, buying groceries and going about the usual errands you would have otherwise done during the day. When you wake up, that empty fridge is magically stocked with your favourite food, your bear snoozing sometimes — most of the time he stares at you like a creep. 💀 /aff

When he does sleep, it tends to be during the day, and it's almost as if he is a bear entering hibernation

He sleeps like a plank — on his back, his arms by his sides, and his legs straight. You'll curl onto his side, your head on his chest, his legs between your core, and a strong arm wrapped around your waist.

Snores. REALLY loud. 😬 ONLY when you are in his arms 🙄 — when he sleeps alone, he is eerily silent.

Subsequently finding him laying in bed, still and silent, you were sobbing, thinking that he died in his sleep. Finally, after minutes of shaking him awake, he opened one eye, and grumbled groggily: “Дорогая, shut up. I am not dead. Not when I have you to live for. Now, come.”

Once he is asleep, good luck getting him to wake up again; unless you somehow manage to disentangle yourself from his arms — only then, when his myshka is missing, does he begrudgingly get up from bed, stand outside the bathroom door, and whisk you back to bed, willfully ignoring your complaints.

Proud of being your protector. Always has his hand[s] on you in some way or other, protectively keeping you by his side.

Has 20/20 vision, and perfect hearing.

Don't mistake his opening of pickle jars and water bottles for you as chivalry — he is taking advantage of it to show off his muscles for you. Doesn't want you to ask if you want to cup a squeeze of his bicep — when he sees you staring, he will forcibly take your hand and put it on his arm, positively smirking beneath that mask of his.

Has a staring problem and is unashamed of it. From his point of view, there is no problem in staring at you all day and every day.

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Eye contact with him is intense. Whenever you avert your gaze, he instantly grabs your chin to angle it so it's facing him. Eye contact during sex is a given.

Despite not wanting to be a father, he has an insatiable breeding kink (does not care whether you are a female, a male, an infertile female, or other — he is delusional in that sense).

Although he isn't against children per se — mainly indifferent to them, if I'm honest — wouldn't want to pass on the generational trauma onto his brood. He would prefer his bloodline ending with him.

His dirty talk is so filthy that you get wet from just his voice and innuendo. (Thank you @//xoxunhinged for your headcanon 😫💦)

His animalistic instincts are so prominent that you've become convinced that he purrs whenever you stroke that sensitive spot on his scalp, and growls in between grunts as he thrusts into you.

Is rough, leaving dark hickeys and bruises, but he would never, ever hurt you. He's rougher than most, but has sufficient self-restraint to be realise ahead of time if he is making you uncomfortable.

You are his deity, and he worships you — if he was to ever hurt you, he would enter a state of loathing. Since you were a merciful God, he would take the liberty of punishing himself — retribution suited to his crime.

One time you two were play wrestling and he almost dislocated your hip on accident. He didn't touch you again for at least two weeks, until he finally considered himself worthy of your touch.

Is dominant in bed, for two major reasons: because he prefers exerting the control which was forced upon him, relishing in having you submit to him; manhandling you to showcase his strength

A third reason is because if you were to ever top him, he'd cum embarrassingly quickly.

Probably gets off to being stronger than you. Deliberately puts you in positions which render you powerless, only able to take what he gives you.

Whenever you enter his room, he always sits in the darkness. Insists: “I do not need lights. Lights are wasted when I can see in the dark.”

Which is true... but it is also a pretence to hide the concerningly detailed shrine taking up an entire wall, dedicated to you. You'll come to find all of your lost trivial belongings when you mistakenly flick on the light switch.

His loyalty and devotion is unparalleled to any other's. He is utterly and unashamedly down bad for you, and he is willing to do anything and everything to keep it that way.

Thankfully, he doesn't have to do much, because you, too, love him. A lot.

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A/N I NEED HIM I NEED HIM I NEED HIM I NEED HIM I NEED HIM I NEED HIM I NEED HIM I NEED HIM I NEED HIM I NEED HIMI NEED HIM I NEED HIM I NEEDH IM I NEED—

Yeaah i thought comparing him to a panther would be cool 🐈‍⬛

“Guard dog” and just anything to do with a “dog” is an overused trope to me at this point 😐. Dont get me wrong!!!! , it doesnt mean that i dont LIKE the trope!!!! , but my own interpretation of Nikto is a little different, abd i think it suits him better,, Esp bc panthers technically 🤓☝️ do *not* exist, which links to how the definition of his name in Russian is “Nobody” :)

An unconventional animal for a very unconventionally attractive man😽,,

Anyways, it is time for a cigarette 🚬🤏😪. I will return in approximately 56 business days (trust me guys 😋✌️).

Extension of @itsagrimm ’s post and conversation which we had 😇✨✨💖

Some additional Nikto headcanons

Word Count: 653

Tag List: ♡ @simpforkonig ♡ @rustic-guitar-notes ♡ @best-soup ☆ @lotionlamp ☆ @luci4theminorannoyance ☆ @happy-mushrooms ♡ @nightlyvoids ♡ @skeletalgoats ♡ @aethelwyneleigh27 ☆ @arrozyfrijoles23 ♡ @dobaddo ♡ @the-second-sage ☆ @wil-xyz ☆ @revnatheshadow ☆ @feelya

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Nikto is extremely bitter, and spiteful. His childhood was stolen from him from the moment he became an officer. In addition to this, his torture left him scarred — physically and mentally — and he is conscious of a childhood which he could have had, yet is unconscious of what the childhood which he did have was like. He either does not remember, or the memories have been repressed; either way, he recognises what he has lost, for he is met with the naively mischievous glint in the eyes of the boyish rookies that arrive with the optimism of a young, hopeful lad, and he is cursing under his breath in Russian, resenting the happiness and zest which they give off, contrasting the spite and bitterness which festers within him.

Perhaps he displays said “boyish” behaviour in order to reclaim some of the innocence which he had when he was a young boy; again, either it is intentional, and he behaves in such a way as to I personally believe that he doesn't even realise that he behaves in such a way: in Nikto's eyes, he has prematurely matured and aged, making him see through the lens of a damaged man; yet, that same lens may be making him blind to the boyish behaviour which he unintentionally displays, evident in the scraps of content that we are fed of him 😓

Maybe Nikto has two boys inside of him which define him, both the same age, yet different: one is the child which was robbed of its innocence and forced to endure atrocities unimaginable; the other is the child, innocent, which has been locked away, wondering why it cannot be let out. Neither is aware of the other, and it's all the more tragic.

Exploring this point further, Nikto being 28–29 is surprising, as he acts far older than his age. It's as if the experiences which he has experienced have aged him mentally, and he genuinely feels the pain of it all straining his psyche. It's tragic that someone so young was subjected to such torture so soon, and be forced to wear a mask 😟…

Given how the wiki states that “he has an uncanny ability… to hide his true identity”, it is ironic. What if from his perspective he has hidden his identity so well that there is none to be found anymore? What if he perceives himself as an actual nobody after having been done so immorally wrong? What if as a result of his torture and lasting trauma he has had his personality and identity stolen, just like his childhood, and is therefore unable to rediscover it?

…Maybe the mask is his subconscious way of protecting the remains of the innocent child, wanting to preserve the past purity of his child self (before being inevitably forced to mature as a result of his environment, and consequently his other experiences?*)

*Note, I can imagine that Nikto's childhood was robbed at some point as an adolescent, but he was still innocent and did not grasp what it was. After his torture, the truth behind his childhood may have come to light, and shed darkness on what was otherwise something positive. Furthermore, he could be clinging on to what little remains of that innocent child.

In addition to own personal headcanon (where he is blunt), he probably spouts the darkest jokes and has a morbid sense of humour. I don't necessarily believe that he would use humour to cope with his circumstances, as in all honesty, he does not strike me as man who indulges in idle banter like “haha i got tortured guys 😎,, sooo anyways 0/10 would not recommend 😰😰 — my other voices wouldnt either, trust 💪🙏” 💀,,

,,but, I certainly believe that due to how desensitised he has become to morbid matters, he has reached a point in his life where the horror amuses him, and doesn't affect him.

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A/N Finished writing this yesterday at 23:11 instead of actually fucking SLEEPING 🥱😫😫,, my priorities are notbthe ones that i should be prioritising lmfao 💀

Surprisingly posted something else 😱😱❓⁉️⁉️❗ this is VERY uncharacteristic of me!!??? I was supposed to post one post and disappear for ~3 months?? 🤔🤔🫡🤨🧐🧐🤨

Been reading Metro 2033 rn and its [Redacted, as the rant was two paragraphs] 😍😍

Not much else to say lmao — been existing i suppose 🤯

Nikto x Reader Angst Drabble

You love Nikto. But Nikto does not love anybody.

Word count: 829

Allusions to smut! Readers are warned for mentions of NSFW.

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"I do not love you."

You're bent over, hands clutching the bedsheets, fingers bunching up the fabric in a shaky, white-knuckle grip.

Nikto, who had been thrusting into you, was still, as still as a statue, and, although you cannot see his eyes, you imagine them to be stony, the expression under the metal mesh plate of a mask stoic, unresponsive. Disgusted.

Five words. Just five single syllables, whispered in a voice that is hoarse from groaning, gravelly and rough like always. A voice which belongs to Nikto, the voice that you had hopelessly fallen in love with, despite how reckless of you it was for you to grow accustomed to it, to be comforted by it. To find solace in it.

You hadn't meant to let it slip. You really hadn't. It was in the heat of the moment, even though those feelings were anything but. Those feelings were a fire, and Nikto the fuel, a finite source that you should have known better than to extract from.

He would be gone for weeks, for nights, months at a time, deployed on missions with intel classified to you. You never knew what would happen, what was the goal, where, and why. What you would know is that Nikto survived each time.

And what you do know is that you're a toy for him to be used, abused, and reused, dumping weeks' worth of semen into you.

You enjoyed it. Nikto enjoyed it. Really, it was meant to be no strings attached — just a case of arriving at your apartment when least expected, the intensity of his gaze enough for you to realise his intentions, and you'd be bent over the nearest surface before you could do so much as blink, clothes discarded haphazardly on the floor and half-naked.

Nikto did not exert warmth. Not comfort, nor love. Stoic and stone-cold, his heart a hard rock incapable of oozing love for anything, his mind irreversibly damaged and traumatised, he was incapable of emotion, of feelings. Incapable of reciprocating your feelings.

Aftercare was nonexistent. Every careful caress of his scarred skin, every tentative touch on an area that is sensitive, even the merest of kisses that appeared too intimate, too affectionate, too full of care, were swatted, spat on, and chastised. Nikto's nose scrunched in utter disgust at the prospect of intimacy, and he positively felt sick to his stomach whenever you mistakenly kissed him, too lost in the moment for the consequences of such a mindless action to register.

You were meant to be a toy. And that's all you are. That's all you are, you repeated, was reiterated, was reinforced.

Yet, you longed for more. How fucking pathetic of you to think that Nikto could offer you more.

"I..."

Licking your dry lips, you swallow the build-up of saliva in your mouth, throat bobbing up and down as you do so. Although drool had collected at the corner of your mouth in pleasure, saliva built up from guilt, from shame, from humiliation.

You lie through the skin of your teeth, thankful that your facial expression isn't visible to Nikto from this position: "I— I-I didn't mean it in... in that way. You— you know that, Nikto."

Tears collect in your eyes. Why couldn't you have contented yourself with the sex? His presence? His existence? Why did you have to fall in love with a man who would never, ever love you?

"I meant— I meant I love what you're doing. W-what you're doing to me. J-just— it feels so, so good."

He grunts in acknowledgement, and you gulp a little too audibly for your liking, blinking profusely in the hope that you convinced him enough.

His callous fingers tangle themselves in your hair, fingertips scratching your scalp — not fingernails, because some are missing. It never warranted an explanation because you didn't deserve one.

The silence is deafening. For those seconds, you don't dare breathe. Your eyes are wide, panic-stricken, and you're mentally praying for any salvation, for any mercy — anything.

Finally, Nikto's grip on your scalp loosens, seemingly satisfied with your answer, and he resumes his thrusts, grunting into your ear again.

A quiet moan escapes your lips, and you squeeze your eyes shut, willing the tears to go away.

"Good," he laughs, laughing a cruel, callous laugh, apathetic. "And I love it when you keep that mouth shut. So keep it shut, or I'll cut that tongue out if you keep letting such shit leave that goddamn mouth."

You feel so pathetic. So ashamed. So humiliated.

And you are. You really are.

But you can savour his touch for a few moments more, lose yourself in the pleasure for a some more thrusts, orgasm some more, until Nikto decides that he is satisfied, and abandons your apartment to return to the barracks.

And who knows? Maybe this is the last time he will ever come back to you — abandon your apartment forever without a word of goodbye.

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Haven't written in a while, but this came to me as I was on c.ai, and the inspiration was so strong that I wrote this all in one sitting lolol 😝

Still obsessed w Nikto behind the scenes. I am on my KNEES 🛐, PLEASE GIVE ME MORE NIKTO CONTENT I AM IN NEED 😭🙏😭🙏😭🙏 IDC IF YOU DO NOT FOLLOW ME OR KNOW ME TAG ME IN ANYTHING I NEED IT SO BAD 😭😭😭🙏🙏🙏😭😭😭🙏🙏🙏😭😭😭🙏🙏🙏

Anyways although this isn't my headcanon, it suits Nikto's character, and as tragic it is for me to imagine this, it's pretty accurate (I would say)... 🥲💔

I'm undecided as to whether or not Nikto would ever show his lover (you) his face willingly — and if so, how he would go about it... 😟❤️‍🩹

I'm torn between him putting it off as long as he can put it off for, so paranoid by the prospect that the sight of his mangled face will repulse you, that it becomes a phobia that his traumatised mind justifies.

Nikto valued you over anything, and should the sight of his face — irreversibly disfigured and ugly — look utterly repulsive and nauseating to you, it would devastate him.

So, with that said, perhaps Nikto would wear the mask always, parting with it never, ever, and refuse to be seen without the reinforced plastic mask strapped tight to his thick skill — with a black balaclava beneath just for safe measure. Only when you'd be soundly asleep would he brush his teeth and wash his face, cursing silently in Russian at the hideous face that stared back at him in the mirror. A stranger who he couldn't recognise.

I doubt he'd be able to raise this with you, and I headcanon that you would feel sheepish to ask. At this rate, he would never, ever take off the mask, for as long as he could help it. And any glimpse of his profile would have been on accident, and a secret that you'd keep to yourself. Out of respect for his privacy, you'd never sneak a peek behind the rare door left ajar, closing it quietly for Nikto before he realised his mishap.

Or, Nikto, considered the nobody, no one worthy of your love, thinks that if his stoic personality and traumatised self haven't done enough to drive you away from him, surely the fact that he is an ugly brute ought to do so? Surely you'd come to terms with how he doesn't deserve you, and that you deserve better? Deserve better than a shell of the man that he once was?

Because you were too good to be true. There was no reality in which a sweet little one like you would love this repugnant, disfigured face, even if his dick — miraculously in one piece — satisfied you and the scarred tissue after chemical burns and scars on his body alone weren't a sore sight to begin with. He didn't deserve someone so lovely, so loving, the epitome of beauty. The complete contrast of him.

So, thinking, “Fuck it”, having convinced himself that you'll inevitably leave when you see the face he keeps hidden from view anyways, he rationalises his impulsive action as not prolonging the inevitable. As not getting his hopes up and letting himself be disappointed later when he won't be able to imagine his life without you.

Maybe Nikto would impulsively discard the mask on the ceramic sink after a shower, and exit the bathroom nonchalantly, his expression emotionless and unreadable to conceal the inner turmoil and hurricane of emotions like a whirlwind in his mind, silently awaiting your approval. Maybe Nikto would surprise you by having you in his arms after a long deployment, and catch you off-guard by his face, laid bare for you to see and criticise. Maybe Nikto would ask you to help him paint his eyes with black warpaint, pretending to need help, when in reality it was simply an excuse and a test. To see if his face would shock you.

In any case, whatever the case, Nikto would feign indifference, appearing uncaring, when he was internally in turmoil, a violent storm of emotions like a whirlwind in his mind.

Were you repulsed? Did the scar tissue from chemical burns on one side of his face disgust you? Did that lifted lip — cut when he was tortured — resembling an animal’s snarl make you visibly cringe? Was the hooked nose that had been broken so many times that it was permanently off-center and deformed, the root of his snoring and inability to breathe, make you grimace? What about his crooked teeth? His thin, cracked lips? Those stained, out-of-shape teeth really that bad to look at? The bald patches of closely-cropped, prematurely grey hair on his scalp that would never regrow a full head of hair? The sunken cheeks? The hollow eyes? The slight concave to his jawline?

He noticed the initial wince, the reaction that came instinctively, which hurt regardless, even after having had braced himself for that grimace.

Bozhe. Stop looking at him with sympathy with those earnest eyes. Don't pity him. Don't pity him. Don't pity him.

Yet, when your eyes wouldn't linger on any specific aspect of his face, and you would offer him a smile that reached your eyes, the stormclouds would calm, and the intrusive thoughts slowly dissipate.

TL:DR, either Nikto will never show his face to his lover, or will do so impulsively.

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A/N

Couldn't sleep, so I decided to brainstorm Nikto drabbles 😍😍❣️❣️❣️

My neighbour wouldn't stfu. GOD I hate my street!!!!! 😡😡😡👊👊✊👊👊✊💥💥💥💥💥🥊🥊🥊🥊 (and Linda!!!!!! )

The description of Nikto's face is a compilation of my own headcanons. 🥹 (I want to kiss him SO BAD 😣💔💔💔)

This was going to go in another direction, but I have another Nikto work coming after I realised that I could write a separate ficlet 🤭✨✨

"You drive me crazy."

Obsessed! Nikto x Reader

Word count: 2472

Nikto's POV! Sporadic uses of "Y/N" — otherwise, reader is referred as "You".

To say that Nikto is obsessed with you would be an understatement 😵‍💫...

Nikto's psychological state gradually deteriorates as you read!

Google Translate Russian lmao 💀,, please forgive any errors! 😟

Edit: Realising that this fic is darker than my usual works. Warning my readers for darker content!

Edit 2: Added the appropriate "dark content" tags. <3

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I'm crazy: I don't think I needed to say, yes?

I know it. We know it. Everyone else knows it.

I've lost my mind long ago. We're losing it as we speak. I've lost myself long ago and I have not known what to do with ourselves.

Of course, not all was lost. I was cleared for service. I can approach situations without hesitation or uncertainty — but most importantly, kill methodically.

All I need are targets. Just give me targets. Nothing else matters. Nobody.

But I found you. I found you. And you found us. Although there was nothing to find, you found us.

How? It's a mystery. An enigma. An unsolvable puzzle.

My name is Igor. Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich.

Игорь. Igor. I—gor. Two syllables. Four letters, in English. A not so common name in Russia, according to the statistics: in 1991 — the year of my birth — approximately 37 baby boys born were named as such. In 2021, only 17 baby boys born were named Igor. I would assume the number declines each year — maybe less than a dozen Igors were christened this year. Or a single digit. Nine. Eight. Seven. Or even less than five.

October 13, 1991 was my exact date of birth. I was born in Novgorod, when Russia was still the Soviet Union. I had parents. A sister…

…Yet that means nothing to me.

Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich? That is foreign. That is not anyone that I know of. I am Nikto. I am no one. Nobody to know, yet somebody that I know of. Not this… Igor. I am nobody. Никто.

When the voices are quiet, that's when I can silently mourn the man that I once was.

Though, can you mourn someone whom you don't know? Can you mourn the faceless person in the casket, whose face is unrecognisable? Can you mourn at a funeral that no one attended, and hadn't taken process?

I'm crazy: I don't think I needed to repeat it, yes?

I knew it. We knew it. Everyone else knew it.

But you didn't. You. You.

You… remind me of someone.

They're dead now.

They were just a target. Too bad I can't remember who they were.

But you're not. You're more than a target.

You treated me with kindness when everyone avoided me like the bubonic plague. A Black Death following the death of the former Igor Vasilyevich Yurievich and the black, black blackness lingering — a reminder. But not anything that allows us to remember, or reminds us of who we once were.

I don't remember anything. I don't remember anyone. Photographs of my family before the torture are irrelevant. Documents stamping my existence could just as easily make us inexistent. Nobody exists any more aside from Nikto.

A cacophony of voices has infiltrated my brain. Our brain. We will never be me anymore. We are who we are now.

I am a broken man. I hear the voices of many men, who won't let me sleep, won't leave me be, won't give me peace. I was one of those men. Maybe all of the men are me?

But if all of them are me, and I am all of them, then who are we? What are we?

Then again… who I am is nothing. What I are is everything. What we are — crazy.

The pieces of the puzzle aren't fully there. Surely you must have been aware, my treasure?

You were doing your due diligence to arrange the puzzle pieces, so meticulously and with dedication, devoting hours of your time and wishing for the finished product to be cohesive, but you won't find that within us. How unfortunate.

Some of the pieces are missing. Some of them don't even fit. What you're left with is an incomplete picture — one which will never be completed.

No matter. You can be the missing puzzle piece, yes?

My fellow operatives named me Никто — “Nikto”, meaning “Nobody” or “No-one” in Russian — for… what did they say? My “uncanny ability to replicate other people and hide [my] true identity”? Ironic — seeing as replicating an identity is not the same as claiming your own, and being an individual. Having an actual identity, as opposed to being forced to think that being nobody can suffice.

Funny. I was apparently religious before all of this.

Have you heard of Orthodox Christianity? It's a branch of Christianity most often practised in Eastern Europe, in case you weren't aware. Orthodox Christians believe that Jesus redeemed humanity by sacrificing himself through crucifixion — unlike Catholics, who believe that Jesus sacrificing himself through crucifixion was all in an effort to redeem humanity.

Perhaps I was an altar boy in my childhood. Or wore a cross around my neck. Maybe I was devoted, and prayed in the morning, before a meal for grace, in the night, before a mission for mercy, during a mission out of desperation, and after a mission as gratitude.

Such bullshit.

Obviously, God doesn't exist — not in the ethereal, omniscient sense.

Oh no.

The God is You. You are my God.

Just like with Orthodox Christianity, and the salvation of humanity after the sacrifice of Jesus, your presence, your mere existence, was salvation. You brought redemption unto us.

Of course, following my torture, God became an abstract concept. How could the Holy Father abandon me? How could my prayers after the tortue be so wilfully ignored? Why would he actively play a passive role in my damnation, as I'm burned, as I'm beaten, as I'm bruised, abused, cut, and mutilated?

No one was born a sinner. Not even me, this nobody. So what kind of retribution was this — a disfigured face, ruined body, and voices which infiltrated my psyche, words equivalent to the evil of the Antichrist?

But You? You made it worthwhile. Your kindness. Compassion. Charity. It was all worthwhile. Even to gaze at You from afar.

Well.

For the most part.

We have repented for our sins: stealing Your dirty laundry, Your hairbrush, Your t-shirts, and other trinkets which we deem Holy Relics; using Your lip balm without permission, You none the wiser; committing sinful acts in the comfort of your own bedroom, only for You to return, oblivious. We apologise for that nagging paranoia, demanding You to turn around, to catch a glimpse of the eyes staring at You, but You not noticing us when we were camouflaged in the shadows. For stalking You and learning Your schedule. For hacking into all of Your devices and acquiring every little piece of information available from Your digital footprints.

But, You forgive us, yes?

Don't look so horrified, dushka. We left no trace, yes? No evidence. You said You have forgiven all of our transgressions. Think of this as a confession, nothing more. Besides, we never tampered with You belongings. They're all still with us. Just like you will.

You are our oxygen. Without You, we can't breathe. Our lungs suffocate without Your natural scent to fill them, to keep us alive. Our eyes go blind with time without the sight of Your face, Your body. We can't hear anything other than Your voice — our ears tune out any frequencies and wavelengths that don't leave those pretty little lips, yet wage civil war amongst ourselves, spitting curses that cut like knives and pierce like bullets. And Your lips. And Your eyes. And Your eyebrows, hair, hands, neck, God — everything.

You won't abandon us, yes? You wouldn't abandon us, would you, мое сокровище? You are our treasure. I treasure you — all of us do: your pretty little lips, that speak in the softest of tones to us; those eyes that stare in slight fright, yet crinkle in as genuine of a smile as you can manage; those eyebrows that furrow over your bright eyes in the subtlest of frowns, in sorrow or frustration, maybe vexation — and that's just your face. What about your hair? Your hands? Your neck? Your body? What is there not to treasure?

Боже мой, Bozhe moy, my God. Oh God, it's as if an angel has descended and granted us salvation, a merciful deity absolving us of our sins and cleansing our soul. And both the angel and deity are You — working in perfect sync, so benevolent and forgiving, taking pity on a creature so pitiful, so ruined, so unfixable.

We can't remember what some of those was.

Those puzzle pieces, of course.

Zakhaev’s torture stole some of the pieces to the jigsaw, and the puzzle won't ever be solved. We ourselves interrogate, torture, eliminate, kill. Sometimes we dissociate. Other times I am completely in control. Yet all the time, we are committing sins, sins, sins.

And You forgive them. Forgive us.

Every prayer is us praying for you, to you, about you. And each one concludes with your sacred name, whispered in hushed tones as the syllables are too precious to utter out loud.

Poor, poor thing. You probably didn't even know what you were signing up for, did you? You probably intended to be charitable. Sympathetic. And you were, sweet one.

But you were naive to have assumed that we wouldn't become possessive of you like an unwanted stay mutt of its only bone. So innocent — perhaps stupid — but we like to think that you were misguided in your intentions, yet guided by some God.

An ignorant God? If You're the God to worship, then are You an ignorant one? An innocent, naive, and unconditionally loving one? Yet, one that, despite Their obliviousness, can knowingly soothe with a simple string of words? With a caress?

What an oxymoron. It suits You. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Aw. Are those tears, dushka? Let's wipe them, hmm? Kiss it better, yes? You will like our lips on you.

Don't scream. Don't hurt those vocal cords. We like the sound of your voice. We want you to talk.

There there, little one. You look beautiful when you cry, but you look most beautiful when you're smiling. Smile, hm? Do it for us. Your Nikto.

You don't have to be afraid, you know. Don't be afraid, krasotka. We love you.

Here, put your hand on our chest. Feel how our heart is beating? It beats only for you.

Our abdomen, our stomach. You feel how toned that is, yes? You feel the muscle?

What about our biceps? The strength in our forearms? They're all for you. We're all yours, yours yours yours.

Our blood looks good on you, dushka. The blood really accentuates your nails. But please, stop. Stop.

You don't have to scratch us, or scream. You know that none of that will change anything. You know that we will love you, even if you tell us you hate us. It's too late.

Get used to touching us, yes? What's left of us, anyways. Yes, our body won't be the most appealing, or the handsomest, but it's all for you. Every inch. All for you — just like how you are all ours.

You're ours, just as much as we belong to you. You could stab us with a knife and we'd smile. You could shoot us with a gun point-blank in the head and we'd thank you. What an honour it would be to live with you by your side, or die by your side. We're a dead man either way. Your dead man. Your Nikto.

You underestimated my capacity for violence. Or were perhaps too naive to understand it.

That's okay. Put your hand on my face. Just like that. See? Nothing to fear. It's just us. Your Nikto.

I can feel it shaking. Why do you shake so much, hm? Don't be afraid. There's nothing to be afraid of. You should know there's nothing to be afraid of. After all, you were fearless when it came to speaking to me, and weren't afraid to reach out to us. Surely you don't want to abandon us now?

That's too bad. You won't abandon us. We won't let you.

I'm crazy: I don't think I need to repeat it, yes?

I know it. We know it. Everyone else knows it.

You drive me crazy.

You drive me crazy.

You drive me crazy.

So crazy.

So, so crazy.

I am already crazy yes but it is You who drives me to insanity do You know that? Why do You deny? Do not deny us this yes? Yes You do know that it is You who makes me mad beyond return of course You do You've always known it and You know it now little one You're just pretending feigning ignorance with surprise in Your eyes. Why pretend that it was all a pretense? Your kindness? Your sympathy? Your company? It was not pretense to us no it was everything. Everything we could have hoped for prayed for and lived for.

You drive me crazy.

You drive me crazy.

You drive me crazy.

So crazy.

So, so crazy, baby.

Craaazyyy. Crazy crazy crazy!

You have made us the craziest we have ever been from the moment we met Your eyes and will be forever driven crazier with Your around from the day You die. And that won't be anytime now, my treasure. We will treasure You, take care of You, keep You safe. You will want for nothing, we can assure You — nothing, nobody, no one. Only Nikto. Nobody will ever look at You, as their eyeballs will be gouged out for having the audacity to spare a glance at the pinnacle of perfection. And nobody will ever want You, nobody will taint that precious skin with unworthy fingers, as anyone who tries will have them broken have their bones crushed to dust their skin muscles and tendons ripped to ribbons until there is no body left.

Nobody will ever look at You. Only Nikto. Us. Forever, and ever, and ever and ever and ever we will have our eyes on You until our retinas dissolve and our pupils can no longer absorb light and we become blind and crippled, crying, crying crying crying for You, crying only for You. You crying out for us until Your voice is hoarse from moaning, until our name becomes a prayer just as much as Yours is to us.

We love You. Think of nobody. Only Nikto. Only of Nikto. Only for and against Nikto. We will live for You. We do already, do you understand? We're yours. Yours. Yours yours yours yours yours yours to have yours to hit yours to scratch with those nails yours to scream at yours yours yours yours yours. Yours. Yours! Yours!

Yours!

Y/N.

I'm crazy: I don't think I needed to say, yes?

I know it. We know it. Everyone else knows it. You should have known it.

And if you didn't know it, then You will know it.

Because You drive me crazy.

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A/Ns

Really really really Really REALLY had doubts about posting this and thought that no one would like it. I felt inspired and happy and proud of myself when I was almost finished but it took me days to conclude the work since I was second-guessing whether or not I should post this after all. Kind of embarrassed, in all honesty, but I decided to post it in the end since I quite like it. :'>

I just wanted to highlight your, @//connorsui, lovely, lovely words when you reblogged my last Nikto post 😭😭😭💘💘💘. To receive not only some compliments, but your thoughts on my headcanons AND analysis *AND* your evaluation of my post was so, SO heartwarming to wake up to in the morning 🥹🥹🥹💓💓💓, especially when it was so long!!! Like, what?!! 😢😢😢😢😢😿😿😿😿😿😭😭😭😭😭💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💓💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💞💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💕💖💖💖💖💖✨✨✨✨✨

Thank you so so so SO much for your positive feedback !!! I've read it over four times by now. O really appreciated and still appreciate it. ☺️💞🫶💖✨✨💕💕

(I also want to kiss Nikto's scarred face ☹️☹️☹️ just wordless acts of intimacy where words aren't necessary and just to show the man some affection, regardless of how he looks 😟💝 need that ugly traumatised Russian man SO BAD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 😭😭😭😭😭😭)

Inspiration for this gained from:

thisvvv song!!! and Chapter 7 in Metro 2035 lol,, when Artyom was drunk and disorientated I thought it was written really REALLY well and I wanted to incorporate his meaningless drivel into this.

Nikto's voicelines and his various voices/sporadic changes in character

the Fandom Wiki

my own headcanons lol 😋

From fluff this whatever the fuck this is!!!!!!!!!! Hope you enjoyed 💗💗

hiii dumb question here!

in “𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐈 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐥𝐥 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐭 𝐦𝐞.„” what was ghost lying about?

Hello !! Not a dumb Q dw <3,, im glad u asked since i can write all the little things i included 😈

Ghost lied about several things (paraphrasing quotes btw!):

about being [not] bitten; always assuring Reader that he is okay despite his progressive deterioration in health — physical AND mental. He accumulated many lies with each mention of his wellbeing growing worse and his increasing struggle to pretend that his suffering isn't intensifying. For instance, he dismisses his hobbling as "twisting his ankle when fleeing from another horde" (a zombie from the previous horde had bitten his lower calf/upper ankle) — when that it false. He comforts reader and rationalises his deterioration in health, at the expense of deflecting Reader's concern and twisting it as something irrational.

about the TF141 being alive. I've left this deliberately ambiguous since I a) don't write for TF141 and b) it would have involved expanding the fic n universe which i was NOT up 4 doing 🤯

— anyways, Ghost disappears to use the radio under the pretense that he "communicates" with the TF141, when in all actuality, the radio being turned on and connected to the looped broadcast message allows his and Reader's location to be pinged and tracked by the "Safe Zone" (i know jackshit abt how tracking works but since its fiction i thought itd be a p cool idea ! :D).

As a smaller detail, Ghost insinuates that it's difficult to get a hold of TF141, as he responds to Reader asking "when the sun is highest in the sky" they could contact them too, Ghost is elusive, and says that it "depends on the day". According to Google, on a clear, cloudless day, the sun is highest at noon; therefore, the looped broadcast message is broadcast at 1200 hours (noon) for an hour, which allows the signal from Ghost's radio to be tracked. Again, Ghost is lying, and evasive of Reader's myriad of questions.

and that^^^^ brings me conveniently to how Ghost lied about where he and Reader were headed. Whereas Ghost assured Reader that TF141 was and that their journey was to reunite with Price, Soap, and Gaz, the true nature of it was to safely bring Reader to the Safe Zone. Ghost thinks that he cannot be saved, and vows to protect Reader until his dying breath and ensure that they reach a location which they can call home.

about his feelings for Reader; being aloof, standoffish, and distant all for the sake of preserving Reader's innocence.

about keeping things "strictly professional". The casualness between him and Reader, their many interactions, the eating of food together, their constant close proximity and near-deaths, and slow development of a genuine friendship with "Simon" as opposed to being acquainted with "Ghost" all led to Ghost growing feelings. In the end, Lieutenant Riley caves and requests Reader to refer to them as Ghost instead — not necessarily a drastic difference, but it demonstrates how their relationship dynamics shift from superior/subordinate to equals.

— However, instead of preserving Reader's innocence, Ghost lies to preserve the good times the two of them had — to have that tainted for Reader with painful memories of Simon being bitten and being utterly powerless to save him was more devastating for him when still alive than it would have been for Reader (from his perspective).

and, finally, about the Promise. At the campfire, Ghost is deliberately vague about the nature of the promise that he forces Reader to swear by, and that is to inevitably kill him when he turns. Because it was inevitable, and at that point, he knew that it was too late for him.

— Ghost "lied", from Reader's perspective, about where they were taking them, and the nature of their journey. In their grief-stricken, hysterical state, it's not until later that they realise all of the lies they were told, and how Ghost was closed about particular details on purpose — a purpose which they were ignorant to, and which Ghost intended to keep them ignorant of.

I know that in most Zombie Apocalypse universes, people tend to turn quickly; yet, I felt that dragging on the inevitable would not only be more painful and tragic in terms of Ghost's last moments, but because I headcanoned him as a fighter until the end — which was supported by him literally digging himself out of a grave in which he was buried alive in according to some issued comic. Until he had air in his lungs, until he could walk, talk, and suppress the virus' urge to ravage Reader like a feral Zombie would, he swore to protect and escort Reader for as long as he had to, and for as far as was necessary. In the end, things didn't work out.

Ty for the ask n i hope this answers it !! I included some of my side notes too since i couldn't stfu ☺️💖

wait a minute. pookie. how do we think nikto would react to reader asking him to clasp her bra...

Omg!!! Never in my life did I type out ideas so FAST!!! 🏃🏼‍♀️💨

Fem! Reader Asking Nikto To Clasp Her Bra

Word Count: 1719

Implies friends to lovers with Nikto. Atrociously down bad Nikto for Reader <3. Themes not dissimilar to this fanfiction (only less intense lol 💀).

Reader is addressed as "You". No Y/N used.

*Russian Speakers, please forgive me for any linguistic inaccuracies. This is the first time I tried to write in Russian without relying on Google Translate 🥲... If there's any errors, please let me know! 🙏

❗SUGGESTIVE CONTENT BELOW THE CUT! ❗ (No sex, but allusions to it). Readers are warned for suggestive content. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

…Did you say what he thinks you've said, or was that the voices?

Did he imagine it? Was it a hallucination, maybe? Perhaps he's just a maladaptive daydreamer, and he hasn't realised…

His thoughts — or the words spoken by the voices, he's not sure — whisper in an uncharacteristically gentle tone:

Ммм... красотка. А... така красивая... рядом со мной...

They whisper to him about you. To him, for you. And to you. But those words don't leave his scarred lips, his throat hoarse and vocal cords damaged

Treasure. So beautiful. And with me, with me...

No. Not with you. He could never be with you. All he can do is content himself

“—Nikto?" You asked gently, eyebrows furrowed over your eyes, instantly dragging him from his trance. "Are you... okay? Did you hear me?"

Ah. There's that angelic little voice. How divine...

Wait. So it wasn't a hallucination? He didn't imagine you asking him to clasp your bra? Unless he heard incorrectly? Surely he heard incorrectly.

Staring at you with a blank expression under the mask, his response was less like a question, and more like a statement, if anything:

"You... want me to clasp your bra. Yes?"

"...Yes, please," you said, a sheepish, lopsided smile on your face, as you bashfully looked off to the side. "It, er... it came undone as we were cuddling. And uh... well. You know. I tried to be subtle and do it myself, but... it didn't really go that well, did it? So... put me out of my misery, please."

You were so very… casual. True, you were embarrassed, but you didn't display disgust at the prospect of being touched; rather, you were... expectant, as if it's what you wanted, and it made Nikto's heart soar at the possibility that his feelings could be reciprocated.

But he wasn't going to delude himself more than he was already.

You brought this up so offhandedly, as if this was some passing topic of conversation or an ordinary occurrence, and a normal favour to ask of someone. Someone normal. Who was be to be a fucking pervert?

When that fact registered, Nikto probably: a.) clenched his fists so tight that the remaining nails on his fingers pierce his skin and draw blood — all in a desperate attempt to see if this was indeed reality, and not a hallucination; b.), short-circuited and got into an intense unintentional staring competition with you, eyes vaguely red and unblinking for minutes, disbelieving, still and not moving as much as an inch; and/or c.), popped the hardest boner in his life that he almost lost consciousness, fainted, and fell from the bed to floor.

"I... why?"

A laugh almost escaped your throat — almost — but you swallowed it in time, realising that to laugh could have been making a mockery of Nikto.

"Ah... these clasps are so fiddly, you know? And... well..."

Awkwardly laughing, you explained: "...I couldn't reach. Not without drawing attention to myself, anyways. But it's really uncomfortable having to hold your bra while you try to be discreet when you clasp it, you know? And..."

Obviously, Nikto was not someone normal. Isn't.

This was extraordinary. A gift. Oh, what a blessing this was!

To look at you and bask in your presence is salvation in it of itself.

To be close to you, within arms' reach, his strength and size ensuring that in his wildest fantasies you'd be beneath him, with no chance of escaping, and in a position where all you can do is accept what he forces upon you.

Of course, he would never do that. The voices seduce him, urge him, order him to, but he doesn't listen. He won't touch you without permission, or without explicit consent.

Simply living has become worthwhile, as he can breathe the same air that left your precious lips. The pain, the agony, the aching, and the inexplicable grief, the, sorrow, the woe, the burden, and the mortal suffering — all meaningless and trivial if it means that you are with him.

So to touch you? And so intimately? Oh… боже…

Not only does it demonstrate that, despite the grotesque monster that he's been transformed into, the prospect of his hands on your body doesn't repulse you, but it proves how you trust him. You trust Nikto enough to touch you. To be vulnerable with him.

You consider him trustworthy enough to feel your bare back, and to trace his rough, callous, quivering fingertips over the delicate lace of your bra. You have decided that he's worthy of such a privilege.

Still, he wavered in his uncertainty. He'd rather be certain, than ruin things with you. His everything.

"...You are sure?"

Eyes crinkling in a small yet kind smile, you assured him, that: "Yes. I am sure. Please, just do it for me. I'd rather you do it."

He did not want to fuck this up. No fucking way. Ни хуя сибет.

You're friends. Good friends. As a matter of fact, you were his only friend.

But he was so fucking hard that he was almost nauseous — and that was before he has even touched you.

From his hazy recollection of his past and his continuing life which he occasionally unintentionally dissociated from, he can't ever recall being so turned on — half the time, his dick doesn't even function the way it should do.

But for you? You needn't ask; the effect which you have on him is evident. Simply through existing, you're his personal aphrodisiac.

A snort escaped Nikto’s broken, deformed nose at the sight of you shyly holding up your shirt tightly over your chest with one hand, and steadying your bra in the other — if it was up to him, he'd have hurled the offensive piece of clothing into some obscure corner of the room, and stripped you both naked, uncaring of his scars or of how his body looked, just to have you once, once.

But it was not up to him. And he wouldn't do something that rash. He wasn't about to scare you off when you were good... friends. Friends. Yes.

His fingertips touched the junction of your spine, tracing the subtle bumps of the vertebrae. His touch was so delicate, so tentative, that you could have almost mistaken it for a gust of wind.

You shivered involuntarily, goosebumps forming on your arms, and Nikto's breath hitches when you flinch slightly, your back arching a little.

“Блать… душа моя…”

He's trying to be good, trying not to cross any boundaries. You've already been so charitable, so selfless, to offer him this. If he wastes this, or ruins things between you two by making you uncomfortable to the point you won't be on speaking terms, he would rather kill himself.

Gently, with shaky, shaking fingers, he reaches for the clasp of your bra, which is lose, and attempts to clasp it for you.

His big, callous hands weren't made for handling such small, delicate things.

He's breathing heavily, his mask doing nothing to muffle the desperate puffs of air, his throat constricting and going dry. Your hair stands on the nape of your neck, and you shiver again — only, it's not from the cold.

He's gritting his teeth, pissed off by how fiddly this is, but he wouldn't ever voice this out loud — any intimacy and touch is better than none at all.

By some miracle, he does it. And he thought that was that.

To quell his temptations, he gently pulled the hem of your shirt down, fixing the material and making sure the midriff was exposed, and respectfully averted his gaze so you could fix your bra, denying himself the sight he'd cherish until he was blind and engrave the image in his brain.

That was that, he thought. It wasn't really what he thought, of course, since he silently hoped, yearned for more, but he would be thankful for any scraps of affection that he was allowed to give you.

Except...

"...You can touch me, you know," you murmured, averting your gaze as your cheeks heated up. “That… was the whole point.”

Suddenly, he couldn't speak English.

Or Russian.

Or articulate himself in any way, shape or form.

He's struck dumb. Dumbstruck. Dumbfounded. Bewildered.

Really? Really? You had wanted him to do it?

Before he had the time to process your declaration, your smaller hands took his and guided them onto your chest — not over your shirt, but under — letting him cop a feel of the skin he so desired to.

No... not letting him. Encouraging him. With a smile so impossibly sweet and effortlessly sexy at the same time that he had to bite his bottom lip until the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

He needed you so bad. So, so bad.

Both large bear-like paws clutching at your chest, he held your covered breasts as if they were the most precious objects in the world.

His. Eго.

Нет... не его...

Not his. Not ever. You were only taking pity on him, aware of how deprived he's been of physical intimacy, the boner always prominent when you're close. He's pathetic.

A silence enveloped you both, but it surprisingly wasn't an awkward one; rather, a pleasant, calming, and comfortable one.

Nikto's hands wandered absentmindedly across your torso, stroking your skin, gently groping the soft parts of you.

You moaned in content, closing your eyes as he massaged your flesh as if he's never seen women's boobs or a woman's cleavage before.

He had, in another life, but never yours. So this is different. Special.

His pupils were blown black with love, eyelids hooded with adoration and complete focus. Only you. And only you. Только ты.

He wouldn't... he told himself he wouldn't... he shouldn't go further... he couldn't do this to you. To himself.

What if he ruined your friendship? If he was without you and alone again, he would really kill himself after all.

He shouldn't...

He mustn't...

Really. Really. He ought to stop now before he loses himself.

Your eyes open, and you bless him with the privilege of watching you undress, the shirt slipping over your head and revealing your body to his starved, starving gaze.

It's too much...

…

…

…

...The bra came off not long after, along with all of your and Nikto's clothes.

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