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krypticcafe · 2 years ago

Note

Reader/ Y/n coming back to base covered in blood and tortured while 141 + Alejandro had no idea where reader was since they left in the morning.

Reader is "the little sibling/adopted child that we must protect all cause" to the boys

Love your writing so much ❤️

As Long as I'm Here

rating: mature

pairing(s): platonic gn!reader x 141 + alejandro

warning(s): canon-typical violence, language, drugs and drugging, torture, blood, military inaccuracies, no use of y/n, no beta read

a/n: Hope you don't mind that I decided to put this all in one long fic, kinda struggled with the writing direction with this since I had to rewrite it multiple times and I had to cut it short so I'll probably make a part two?

synopsis: it's going to take a lot more than simple torture to keep you from going back to the 141.

Part Two is now up!

"I'll be back before they know it."

Those were the last words you thought to yourself before you hopped off the helicopter. You and a team of other capable members of SpecGru and the Los Vaqueros had left before the crack of dawn for a joint operation and anticipated coming back by the afternoon if things went smoothly. And of course, they didn't.

No, you couldn't be afforded such a luxury as seen by how you were overwhelmed in battle. You wish you could've said you did your best, but god dammit you should've checked before entering that building, thinking you could lure the enemy away from the rest of your team. Compared to the hours you spent strapped to a chair with nothing but fluorescent light and a buzzing in your ears to compliment the throbbing pain in your head, you started to prefer the option of joining the rest of your teammates becoming target practice instead.

It didn't help either that the people who caught you were sick bastards. You could deal with the punches, a kick to the crotch, the hair pulling, cigar smoke, the blades, and having your body slammed around the place. It was nothing compared to practice with the 141 and prior missions you had with them. But when the metal cart of syringes came out, you knew you were beyond fucked, even when you had a swollen eye, a busted lip, broken ribs, open cuts, and burns. They took it a step further and injected experimental drugs you were supposed to investigate, homemade concoctions as they lovingly called them.

By pure shitty luck, you only escaped because one of them was stupid enough to clean up after offering you a glass of water when you woke up after passing out, dropping and shattering it in front of you, and not bothering to clean up. When your guard left to go take a piss break, you threw yourself to the floor and tried to squirm your way to the glass, using a shard to cut through your ropes. Once your guard came back, you pretended to still be bounded to your seat, coaxing him to come closer as if you wanted to confess something, and slit his throat. From there, it was easy now that you had a gun.

Or at least it was supposed to be. Maybe it was the heat of the moment or the adrenaline of finally being able to move, but the drugs hadn't fully kicked in until now. Your whole world seemed to sway, or maybe it was just you. You couldn't tell, all that mattered was that you could fight. Based on the layout of the building you were in, you were still in the same area as you were before. It took more bullets than you would've liked to admit to take down the guards that were in your way, but how was it your fault when the only two thoughts in your head were 'Where the fuck is my stuff' and 'God I'm gonna puke'.

Whoever kidnapped you really didn't think things through. Security was tight on the second floor but the bottom floor just had a single guy in the kitchen messing with a bag of crackers. You aimed your gun at him and click!

Click!

Clickclickclick!

Shit.

Well that caught his attention. You ducked down right when he reached for his gun, tossing your empty one to the side now that you'd be doing this the hard way. Waiting with bated breath, you took your window of opportunity, lunging when he had to reload. You took him by such surprise that he fumbled to put in another magazine and that allowed you to knock the weapon from his hands and tackle him to the ground. The both of you struggled on the hardwood floors for what felt like hours, but it was only a minute at most. Even in your feverish, dizzy, survival-instincts-only state, you overpowered him and stabbed him with his own knife.

Towering over the body, you gasped for breath, feeling your lungs struggling to expand and contract if you didn't force yourself to focus on the task. Great, now you're sweaty, weak, bloody, and out of breath. Based on how your hands started trembling, your symptoms were getting worse. Pacing around the area, you found your bag on a couch and fished around for the radio, yelling out your callsign before the rest of them would discover why their friends were suddenly so silent over comms.

"Sending coordinates, get a chopper over to exfil ASAP. And a damn medic."

The 141 were back from their own mission when they had heard the news of your distress call. Ghost was on the verge of strangling one of men that was on the team with you if they didn't add the fact that you made a reckless move for the sake of the team. Ghost could agree that it was something that only you would do despite his constant arguing with you and his protectiveness over you. He'd keep an eye out for you from the shadows both on base and in the field, be the one to challenge you to push your limits during your sparring matches, make sure you were well-trained so you could protect yourself. And yet you would instead protect the 141's asses countless times.

Ghost was brooding in the helicopter, well, more like sulking after a mission with you and Soap. During the crossfire, he wasn't able to keep an eye out for his flank and see the grenade flying for him. In a desperate move, you shoved him out of the blast range with all your strength, landing you with a couple burns and injuries, but nothing fatal. You knew he was going to get moody afterwards, giving a knowing glance to Soap before turning back to Ghost and nudging his leg with your boot.

"Hey, L.T, you were in the British S.A.S, right?"

"..."

"Just answer the question! C'mon Ghost, for me? Pleaaaase?"

"Affirmative."

"So back then, if you were to get bathroom duty, would they call you a Loo-tenant?"

"... negative. Was promoted after joining the 141." He turned his head away, and despite his blunt, by-the-book response, you knew he was smirking under that mask of his, especially with how Johnny and you were both snickering your asses off.

"Ghost?"

Simon snapped out of his thoughts and looked back at Soap, visibly concerned for the masked man but reading him all at the same time. Years of working together helped Soap get over the boundary of Ghost's silence and stoicism, and Ghost wasn't the only one looking out for you after all.

"You alright, L.T?"

"Solid, just need a talk with Price."

"I know what you're thinkin', and as much as I'd love to shove it to the bastards, they're going to need us when they come back. Price will come up with something, we just hafta wait 'til then." For once, Soap was the voice of reason and Ghost couldn't argue with his point.

"He's right, you know." Price stood a few feet away from the two in the hall, "Kid's capable of themselves but they're going to need a shoulder to lean on when they get here. Maybe a couple stitches, too."

Price hoped it was only going to be a few stitches. Though he knew it probably wasn't the case. Alongside Roach and Gaz, he had trained you for these situations, ensuring it would never happen and it never did thanks to his mentorship. He saw you as one of his own and ensured that you'd be able to fight tooth and nail so that it would never end up like this. But now that it has, he could only wonder what could've been done to you for you to get captured.

He didn't want to wonder.

"Bloody hell, what did they do to you?" Gaz muttered, watching as you stepped down the ramp with a soldier aiding at your side. There was an attempt to bandage you up on the way, though it only seemed to be temporary since your bandages were already stained with blood and some of it oozed out. Even the bandages around your head didn't stop the crimson liquid from spilling down the side of your face. The soldier passed you to Gaz, immediately urging that your injuries be tended to.

"Something's wrong, look." Roach helped support your other side to allow Gaz to examine you.

With a closer look, Gaz found that your pupils were disturbingly dilated, eyes glazed over in a way that made you almost look dead. You were muttering and mumbling nonsense under your breath, something about the mission and wanting to go home.

Gaz swallowed an anxious breath and nodded, "We'll get you home soon, buddy. Roach, help me take off their gear."

As soon as the other man began unclipping your vest from your body, it seemed something had pulled a trigger in you.

"No... no you're not- don't fucking touch me-!" You slurred, weakly tearing yourself from the hands of your friends. It surprised Gaz that you had the energy to punch his chest with that much force, but it broke his heart all at the same time. Roach guessed that you were so out of it that you could barely comprehend your surroundings, hell, you probably thought you were still in captivity. It hurt to imagine your perspective, and how vulnerable you felt, thinking they were your enemies.

"What's going on here?" Price's voice rose over all the noise as people tried to calm you down, Soap and Ghost following behind him along with Alejandro, who joined them with no hesitance after hearing what happened.

Roach approached them, "I don't know, the Sergent just came back like this, like they're in some kind of haze."

"They're drugged, at least, I think. I took a look at them and they don't even look like they recognize us," Gaz struggled to keep you from falling but you were insistent on getting away from him, from everyone. Thankfully, Ghost had come up from behind you without being noticed and locked you in a hold. You tried to flail even more, but with your weakened state and Ghost's strength, all you could do was yell with sloppy words for him to let go of you. It hurt them all to hear you yowl and yelp like an animal in pain, but they knew that you'd only hurt yourself more if Ghost didn't keep you like this. He forced himself to ignore your cries and clenched his jaw, focusing on keeping his temper and how he was going to let it out when given a chance.

"Steamin' Jesus, Price, I thought this was a cartel recon mission?" Soap seethed at the thought of what might've happened. Torture was one thing, but it was this whole new level of "fucked-up" that had him wanting to snap and tear at the throats of your tormentors.

"It was," Alejandro spoke up, "There was talk of a new drug on the market, released even though it was 'incomplete'. Nobody know that it was more dangerous than it was supposed to be, nobody outside of them." The words left a sour taste in his mouth. Cartels being reckless was nothing new to him, it was something he had seen time and time again. But it was the lack of awareness, the blatant disregard for safety and society, and how they betrayed their own people that made him livid. As a leader, he emphasized his loyalty and dedication to his soldiers, which was why he considered those who worked for and with him to be friends or even family, like you. So to him, if someone had messed with you, they were messing with him and his army as well.

Price glanced in the direction of you and Ghost for a moment, watching you finally begin to calm down from tiring yourself out. His gaze softened after you finally went limp, but still breathing, and he felt a pang of disappointment in himself for the briefest of moments. Maybe if he had known you'd leave so early in the day, he could've better prepared you. Maybe he should've assigned one of the others to join you so you wouldn't be in this predicament. But he didn't know. He didn't expect things would go this far south. None of them did.

"We'll finish the job first and then," Price took one last look as you were taken away on a stretcher, unconscious but writhing with a pained expression.

"We give them hell."

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guilty-ff · 11 months ago

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Fading Shadows: Love and Betrayal Pt.2

ᡕᠵ᠊ᡃ່࡚ࠢ࠘ ⸝່ࠡࠣ᠊߯᠆ࠣ࠘ᡁࠣ࠘᠊᠊ࠢ࠘𐡏 ˚⁎⁺˳ .

In a Task Force 141 operation, Soap sacrifices himself to save Simon, introducing tension in Simon and your relationship. Simon's emotional withdrawal escalates, leading to a heated argument where hurtful words are exchanged. You decide to end the relationship, leaving Simon to grapple with the consequences of his actions and the loss of both Soap and Y/n.

Pairings: fem!reader, Simon Riley, König

Genre: mild angst

Tags: MW3 Spoilers, angst, anxiety, break up, independent

The chasm between you and Simon widens with each passing day, the once seamless partnership now fractured by unspoken tensions. At work, the air becomes charged with the remnants of what was, and the camaraderie that defined your relationship on missions results into an uncomfortable silence.

Unable to bear the strain any longer, you decide to take the matter to Captain Price. Knocking on his office door, you wait for the permission to enter.

"Captain, we need to talk."

Price glances up from his paperwork, recognizing the seriousness in your expression. He gestures for you to sit, prompting you to share your concerns.

"What's going on, Sergeant?"

You take a deep breath, carefully choosing your words.

"Simon and I can't continue working together like this. It's affecting our Missions. I need a change, sir."

Price leans forward, his piercing gaze assessing the situation. "You two were one of the best teams I had. I need more than vague reasons, Y/n. You know that I can't just exchange my soldiers simply because of a request", he sighs.

"It's personal, sir. I can't disclose everything, but trust me, I need a different unit," you explain, aware that revealing the true depth of your personal struggles might complicate matters further.

Price studies your face for a moment before sighing.

"Alright, I'll process the paperwork. But you better sort this out, Sergeant. I won't have my team falling apart."

Months pass, and the separation becomes a painful reality. The memories of shared victories, haunting both you and Simon. The war outside may be unrelenting, but the emotional battles within are just as fierce.

One day, as you pass Simon in the hallway, there's a fleeting moment of eye contact. The unspoken words and unaddressed emotions hang heavy in the air. The wounds of a love lost on and off the battlefield are still fresh, and the path to healing seems like an uncertain journey.

In the following weeks, your final request grinds into action, and you find yourself reassigned to a different unit called "KorTac". Not exactly what you were hoping for, when you already know the tension and rivalry between the SpecGru and Kortac factions.

Moreover, the relief is accompanied by a nagging guilt for not being entirely honest with Price. Simon, on the other hand, watches your departure with a mix of confusion and quiet acceptance.

Entering the new faction, you are going to meet unfamiliar faces and a different set of dynamics. The work is challenging, but the void left by the fractured relationship with Simon remains, a constant reminder of what once was.

Back in the Task Force 141, Simon navigates the mission parameters with a stoic demeanor, but the absence of the seamless partnership is felt. The once vibrant laughter and shared glances now replaced by a stoic professional detachment"

Today was the day to say goodbye to your colleagues and friends that have known for over eight years. Eight years of laughter, agony and the painful farewell to beloved friends who aren't present anymore.

The barracks buzz with a mixture of emotions on the day of farewell. Hugs, handshakes, and heartfelt goodbyes fill the air as you prepare to bid adieu to friends who have been part of your life for eight years.

In a quiet corner, you find yourself engaging in a conversation with Captain Price and Gaz, the weight of impending farewells plasters on their faces.

Captain Price, his stern behaviour momentarily softened, speaks with a slight of nostalgia.

"Eight years, Sergeant. You've been a significant part of this team. You'll be missed."

Your eyes examine the room, stopping at a huge Silhouette that stands in the darkest corner of the room.

Gaz shift his glaze and sees your painful expression when he adds, "You've been a damn good comrade. We've been through a lot together. By the way, he actually will be missing you too. I just want to say it on his behalf because this dork won't have the balls to do it himself"

You nod appreciatively, the gratitude for their camaraderie weighing on your heart.

"It's been an honor, sir, and Gaz. I'll never forget the missions we've tackled and the bonds we've forged."

You thank them wholeheartedly with a light smile.

As the conversation continues, Simon remains silent and visibly confused in the background. His usual confident and cocky demeanor replaced by an uncharacteristic uncertainty.

Captain Price notices Simon's subdued state and approaches him. "Simon, you alright?"

Simon, his gaze darting between faces and conversations, mumbles, "Yeah, just... trying to process everything."

Gaz, taking a step closer, tries to offer reassurance. "It's a tough day, mate. Saying goodbye to a lot of history here."

Simon's confusion deepens, his eyes seeking understanding. "History? What's happening?"

Captain Price, exchanging a knowing glance with Gaz, explains gently, "Y/n is changing to a different faction, Simon. It's a farewell."

Simon's eyes widen, the realization dawning on him. "Changing? Farewell? Why wasn't I informed?"

Gaz shrugs, "Guess it happened fast. These things aren't always planned."

Seeking solace and advice, you decide to return to the friend who welcomed you when you moved out of the apartment you once shared with Simon. The familiarity of her presence offers a comforting refuge as you navigate the emotional aftermath of the farewell and the complex feelings tied to your relationship with Simon.

As you share your struggles and the decision to move on from the Task Force 141, your friend listens attentively. After recounting the recent events and the growing distance between you and Simon, she suggests, "Maybe it's time to have a heart-to-heart with him. Clear the air, sort things out."

You consider her words, understanding the wisdom in addressing the underlying issues. However, a sense of uncertainty lingers, and you express your hesitation.

"I don't know if it's the right time or if he's willing to open up. It feels like he's a different person now."

Your friend, a supportive presence throughout, encourages you to consider the possibility of reconciliation.

"People change, especially under the weight of war. It might be worth giving him a chance to explain and, perhaps, find a way to rebuild what's been broken."

However, you shake your head, a sense of resolve settling in. "I can't, not right now. It's too much, and we both need time apart. Maybe in the future, but not now."

Your friend, though initially shocked, nods in understanding. "It's your decision, Y/n. Take the time you need, but don't let it linger for too long.“

That night, as you settle into the new routine at the Korean base, the weight of the unspoken breakup looms heavy. The separation becomes a reality, and the absence of Simon brings forth a flood of memories—eight years of shared victories, defeats, laughter, and tears.

As the night progresses, an overwhelming wave of anxiety engulfs you. The familiar rooms seem to close in as the echoes of countless memories with Simon play vividly in your mind. Each shared moment, each inside joke, and the warmth of his presence intensify the emotional turmoil.

You find yourself breathless, gasping for air as the anxiety attack takes hold. The vulnerability of the situation, the weight of the unspoken goodbye, and the uncertainty of the future converge, overwhelming your senses.

In the silence of the night, you grapple with the reality of the silent breakup, the emotions suppressed during the farewell event now demanding acknowledgment. Alone with your thoughts, you confront the pain of the unspoken farewell and the daunting prospect of a life without Simon.

As the night wears on, the panic gradually subsides, leaving you emotionally drained and physically exhausted. The room, once filled with memories, now feels emptier than ever. The journey to healing has just begun, and the road ahead seems fraught with challenges.

The weight of eight years spent alongside Simon becomes a poignant reminder of the intricate tapestry of emotions that once defined your relationship.

After a month of settling into the apartment of your friend and adjusting to the routine at the "KorTac" base, the day arrives when you're finally scheduled to meet your new teammates.

Nervousness and uncertainty grip you as you ponder the challenges that often accompany being the only woman in a military unit.

The atmosphere at the base is bustling, and the absence of your new teammates, currently on a mission, heightens the anticipation. You steel yourself, knowing that you've had to work extra hard in the past to prove your capabilities as a woman in a male-dominated environment.

As you navigate the hallways of the base, your mind races with thoughts of acceptance and validation. The whispers of unfamiliar voices and glances in your direction make you acutely aware of the scrutiny you might face.

Amidst the bustling activity, you receive a message to report to the general's office. The mention of a meeting with a colonel named "König" gives you pause. The name sends a shiver down your spine, a sense of foreboding that you try to shake off. You take a deep breath, reminding yourself that names are just names.

Approaching the door of Colonel König's office, you muster the courage to knock. The sound echoes through the hallway, and a stern voice grants you permission to enter. The door swings open, revealing a room adorned with military memorabilia and maps.

As you step inside, Colonel König, a giant figure of authority, sits behind a large desk. His gaze meets yours, and a flicker of something unreadable crosses his eyes. You cringe inwardly, unsure of what to expect in this new chapter of your military career. The tension in the room is palpable, leaving the fate of your future at the "KorTac" base hanging in the balance.

#self written #call of duty #cod angst #cod mw3 #ghost cod #cod mw2 #cod x reader #könig #könig x reader #könig x you #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #fanfic #angst

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shotmrmiller · 5 months ago

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this might be redundant to say but i can never read barracks bunny!reader type of fics bc in my headcanons, no one can be a bigger and better barracks bunny than simon. i'm too lazy to think about a scenario where kortac and specgru would stay in one place let alone work together, but i do hc that simon slept with most of female operators in both companies. kleo and nova regular casual hookups; callisto and roza bc sharing is caring. i love recluse simon too but on the other hand.. greedy slut.

awful awful i personally like the one that seems recluse but is def a bunny it's just that he's telling all of em if he catches wind of anything having to do with him and them, don't expect him to so much as glance their way when not on a job.

#NDA but the consequences are you'll never be graced with his piss poor presence again #oooh men being like this always get to me cuz then he's just loud and proud about his relationship with reader #like now he's left some in their feelings but who gaf he was a situationship #you're hurting your OWN feelings #and bring up what the nothing they had with him to reader and he's killing them #floating upside down on the beach

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gemmahale · 5 months ago

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Righteous Fury Master List

When one man finds himself in the same position he was in four years ago, he has a choice to make. When the beast hungry for retribution and protection roars, Sergeant John 'Soap' MacTavish answers.

That choice leads him into a life he never expected as part of Task Force 141 and SpecGru: one of subterfuge, counter-terrorism, and intelligence operations. He knows how to defuse a bomb and shoot a gun, but can he handle the increased pressure of the work?

For the shattered but unbroken.

A fix-it and beyond of MWIII. Part of the Museum Muse Universe.

Contains: Canon Typical Violence, Gun and Knife Violence, Civilian Death, Character Death

Many thanks to my partner, Kallen, for the technical advice. This wouldn’t be here without the two hour lecture I endured listened to about all the inaccuracies of bomb design and hand-to-hand combat in the original material. (I brought it upon myself by asking for help from him. ☺️)

My editors @the-californicationist, @syoddeye, @pfhwrittes and @eilidh-eternal are amazing and you should support them too.

Edit (9.17.2024): Huge ginormous thanks to @phoenixhalliwell for their Scot-picking throughout this adventure.

Chapter 1: Don't Go Down Easy, Sunshine

Chapter 2: Twilight Falls Heavy

For WIP thoughts, check out #Rightous Fury WIP.

#gemma writes fanfic #Righteous Fury WIP #john 'soap' mactavish #john soap mactavish #cod mw2 #cod modern warfare #cod mwiii #call of duty modern warfare #soap mactavish #cod soap #johnny soap mactavish #cod mwiii fix it #fix it fic #fan fiction

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yawnderu · 8 months ago

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// OPERATOR BIO: K-9 //

MAIN INFO:

Name: Jiang Zhi (蒋智) Alias(es): K-9 Rank: Combat Medical Technician Age: 32 (as of 2024) Sexuality: Heterosexual Native Language(s): Cantonese Other spoken language(s): English Nationality: British Eye color: Dark brown Hair color: Black Height: 1.73CM Weight: 65KG Body Type: Lean Blood Type: O Marks: Small beauty mark beneath her left eye, a tattoo with the quote ‘’In Arduis Fidelis’’ on her left arm that runs above her elbow, a bullet wound scar on the right side of her body, above the iliac crest.

AFFILIATIONS:

British Army

Royal Army Medical Corps

SAS

Task Force 141

SpecGru

BACKGROUND:

GUANGZHOU, CHINA.

Welcomed to the world in 1991 by Chunhua Jiang and Junjie Zhao, Jiang grew up with nothing but pure admiration and respect for her parents, a couple consisting of an anesthesiologist and a medical translator. Despite her parents never engraving their professions into her head, Jiang displayed a keen interest in life sciences from a young age, oftentimes stealing their medical articles and documents to read in her free time.

Wanting better life opportunities for a freshly graduated Jiang Zhi, Chunhua and Junjie made the decision to move around the United Kingdom in early 2008 before eventually settling in Hereford, England. In awe of living fairly close to one of the SAS bases and armed with a newfound interest in the Army, a then 17-year-old Jiang spent months preparing for the selection process, passing with flying colors and officially becoming part of the British Army in 2009.

From fieldcraft to how to handle a rifle, Jiang took on the challenge, eventually using her background in medicine to start her training as a Combat Medical Technician for 22 weeks, traveling around the world with a lot more maturity and interest in saving lives, aware of how crucial timing is.

While faced with countless injuries during her service, Jiang showed utmost determination to recover and keep serving, never being one to stay still for extended periods of time, not when the sense of responsibility over her mates has been weighing her down ever since she joined the Army.

Once the policy changes that allowed women to become members of the SAS were announced in 2018, an eager Jiang all but begged her superiors to put in a good word for her, eventually being contacted by a recruiter after anxiously applying. Despite her 9 years of experience in the Army and plenty of determination, Jiang found herself challenged by a system set up to only allow the best of the best to pass, close to giving up mid-way, she found strength to move forward in the name of the fallen soldiers she had an oath to protect.

Despite the extensive and exhausting selection process, Jiang made history as one of the three women who have completed the six-month course, celebrated in 2019 by her parents and the extensive group of soldiers she managed to befriend during her time serving. Interrupted by a ringing phone, Jiang heard of the name John Price for the first time, called for what would be her first mission with the SAS after a number of multiple terrorist attacks in Central London.

Working along Kyle ‘’Gaz’’ Garrick and John Price, Jiang proved herself to the war-hardened Captain by providing cover and patching up injured hostages and soldiers, eventually being hand-picked by Price himself a month later, once Task Force 141 formed.

“Y’can’t heal others if you’re falling apart yourself.” Within the 141, Jiang found someone who could always tell how hard she was on herself, how much harder she worked to ensure no one would ever die at her hands again, oftentimes only being able to sleep after working her fingers to the bone.

Her relationship with Simon was surprising to even herself, oftentimes finding the quiet man in her office doing his own paperwork or offering to get her a cuppa whenever she seemed stressed, despite knowing her preference for coffee.

Despite how witty she can be, her relationship with the 141 was based on mutual trust and shared understanding despite it all, knowing that every single member is needed to keep each other alive and make things work.

In late November, Jiang’s skills and knowledge were put to test as a gravely injured John ‘’Soap’’ MacTavish was brought to her, panic quickly setting in the moment she saw the bullet wound leaking out blood from his head like a broken faucet, quickly rushing into surgery and defying the odds against them, managing to save his life as the base of his brain and spinal cord being completely untouched by Makarov’s bullet, allowing him to be part of the 10% of people who have survived a headshot after a 12-hour-long surgery. Jiang’s body collapsed the moment Johnny was stabilized, a build-up of stress and disappearing adrenaline quickly catching up to her, only being held up by Simon, who was present during surgery and helping her with minor medical assistance for his injured mate.

Her first sexual encounter with Simon happens the day after, an extremely stressed and tired Jiang asking him to lay with her when he comes to check up on her, his resolve tested the moment he accepts her offer and feels her cuddle up to him, acting like a painfully fitting piece against his body. Clothes were discarded not even minutes later, hungry lips meeting as their hands desperately grasped for anything they could touch, quickly escalating into Jiang sitting on Simon’s face while he masturbated, the first sexual contact in years for both of them, yet a memorable one at that.

Lines were blurred after the events of that day, eventually starting a not so secret relationship with the Lieutenant.

PREFERENCES:

Clothing style: Long pencil skirts, turtlenecks, sweatpants, Simon’s shirts. Favourite song: Bauhaus - Passion of Lovers Favourite book: The Woman in Black - Susan Hill Favourite smell: Latex Favourite drink: Black coffee

TRIVIA/FUN FACTS:

Jiang renounced her Chinese citizenship at 22 years old, as the Chinese government does not allow dual citizenship.

The tattoo ‘’In Arduis Fidelis’’ translates to ‘’Faithful in Adversity’’ and it comes from the motto of the Royal Army Medical Corps, remaining as a permanent placeholder of a Medic armband, and being a representation of her commitment to being a Medic.

Jiang never had an interest in dating, only briefly accepting someone’s proposal in high school to see what it was like— and quickly realizing it wasn’t for her. Due to this and her close relationship with her best friend, her parents thought she was a lesbian until she brought Simon home.

Jiang smokes a lot, easily running through a pack of Marlboro Gold within a day and a half.

She’s surprisingly good at picking up accents, usually heard speaking in a painfully thick Birmingham accent, much to the dismay of the entire 141.

She has a pet octopus named 親愛的 (chān oi dik), meaning ''darling'' in Cantonese.

Despite not being extremely religious, Jiang and her family are Catholics.

She’s usually seen with a pair of black half frame reading glasses.

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papaver-decervicatus · 1 year ago

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Headcanons- Sobieslaw "Gromsko" Kościuszko

Is not-so-secretly displeased that no one can pronounce his name. He is absolutely a Polish Culture fanatic and is incredibly patriotic. It bothers him that people either can’t or aren’t willing to learn how to say his name.

For this reason, a quick way to get in his good books is to practice his name and get it right to him. If a pretty girl does it, he’s not-so-subtly hearing wedding bells.

Lowkey misogynist, very traditional

Wants a wife and kids. No kids are a deal breaker for him.

Wants a wife who will clean and cook for him when he can fix stuff around the house and earn income with the military

Grew up with 4 siblings, two brothers, and two sisters, they all have the most Polish names imaginable.

Desperately wants at least three kids.

Generally very outgoing and boisterous. Is commonly told that he’s “too loud”

His response is to smile and laugh even louder than previously.

The exception to this is when he’s embarrassed, which is incredibly infrequent. He will get quiet and turn red if he does anything particularly stupid

He bought a copy of Silence of the Lambs thinking it was a field cooking guide. He gets genuinely flustered when people bring it up

Reads a lot in his off time, and learned English from reading almost exclusively

As such he mispronounces words in ways that people that learned from English speakers typically don’t, like pronouncing “chassis” like “chass-iss” not “chass-ee”

If anyone brings it up he blue screens for a second and argues back that that makes no sense and why can’t it be phonetic?

He inadvertently started a book club with Reyes, Nova, and a few other SpecGru operators by asking around for books to practice with.

Sleeps naked or in very tight boxers much to his bunk mates' chagrin.

He has the unique habit of sleeping on his arm and holding his pillow to his chest and between his legs when he’s asleep.

It’s because his right knee is damaged from a particularly rough infill landing, having his knees together when he sleeps is really painful

Everyone assumes it’s something to do with humping his pillow because he’s just. Got no shame like that, but it isn’t actually.

Has no insecurities appearance-wise. He is how he is and people can like that or not, he doesn’t give a shit.

Cocky? confident? Self-assured?

all of the above and then some.

Magic touch when it comes to being a medic. He has stabilized people who damn well should have bled out and died on the field.

He should be a bad medic because he’s so loud and aggressive on the field

And yet, he’s nearly always right on target and right where he needs to be to help someone out.

His whole demeanor changes from patient to patient.

Otherworldly sense of what people need emotionally when they’re hurt.

Need someone to empathize with you? He’s already telling you how much your family back home needs you to pull through.

Need to get your mind off the pain? He’s telling you knock-knock jokes that don’t really make sense in between stories of his childhood misadventures.

Need someone to kick you into gear? He’s spitting in your face about how you can’t just give up now and die like a fucking dog.

Need some peace and quiet? He’s holding your hand and stroking your wrist with his thumb, only providing pulses of pressure to keep you in the moment.

Absolutely capable of gentleness and caring, but just does so very infrequently.

He is kind, not nice.

He will help out anyone with anything without being asked to, but he’s gonna make fun of them the whole time. (Playful banter, he means no harm by it)

Much more likely to be “nice” to a woman or a child than a man.

Handles his liquor poorly at the moment, will get black-out drunk without batting an eye, and yet somehow never gets hungover.

The others are convinced he takes medical supplies for homemade hangover cures, he doesn’t but he lets them think that.

Superior Polish genes, baby. His liver is the strongest thing about him.

He does not necessarily need to be “the alpha male” in any given room or situation, but very much commands a certain kind of attention.

This man occupies space. Wide stance, a loud voice, a louder laugh, and the personality of a wrecking ball. His ego is through the door before he is.

Despite this, most of his coworkers don’t really find him all that jarring because he doesn’t demand subservience. He knows his station and does not need validation outside of it.

He doesn’t care to be a leader, it’s not that he’s opposed, he just has a different skill set.

He tends to wander on the battlefield, always hyper-vigilant to where he is needed most.

His weapon of choice is a rocket launcher.

AVADA KADABRA KURWA

BOOM

He and Soap are on the top of the “UNDER NO FUCKING CIRCUMSTANCES ALLOWED TO USE A ROCKET LAUNCHER” list, followed closely (and inexplicably) by Farah?

Read about that story here!

Despite being in a profession centered around fixing people/caring for wounds, has a natural tendency towards destruction.

Soldiers' vocabulary all the way. Every 5th word is a swear, and that’s on a “clean” day.

#navigation -> headcanon tag #gromsko #cod mwii #gromsko cod #cod gromsko

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kneelingshadowsalome · 2 years ago

Text

Scorpio Curse (König x F!OC)

Part 2/3 of Valkyrie

(Part 1 here)

Summary: König gets an order to make a female SpecGru sniper talk, but König doesn't want to hurt women.

Category: Smut 🔞, angst, fluff

Tags & warnings: Explicit mature content +18 audiences only, strangers to lovers (slight enemies to lovers), dubious consent, threats of rape, virgin!König, size kink, size difference, p in v, multiple orgasms, cunnilingus, squirting, hugs and cuddles, super fluffy ending. König will be named in later chapters.

Part 2: Mostly König who is in desperate need of a hug (don't worry, he will get it soon enough :*)

A/N: KorTac and SpecGru are rivaling military contractors, Conor is König's superior (and a huge villain), and I just wanted to write angsty smut featuring our favourite Austrian boi.

"You should've come to me, König."

He was still here.

No one had told him to leave his stuff and sign the papers and get the fuck out.

He had been called to see the team leader, though.

Immediately.

"It's true that we don't do that shit. Especially with the SpecGru, not after everything that already went through."

He told his side of the story, and apparently, the command agreed that Conor had made a mistake.

"Your superior officer slipped, but that doesn't mean you have the right to do whatever the fuck you deem more appropriate."

The leader's cheeks were red, and his voice traveled from peaceful, tired account to a booming loud yell.

"To tell you the truth, König, you're good at what you do. But pull this kind of shit again, and the KorTac will ensure you lose your rifle for good. They'll make sure you'll get spat in the face in every fucking PMC on this fucking planet, you hear me?"

He was surprised he didn't catch spit flying right now.

"Sir."

"Now go fix that goddamn fence."

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir."

König, former weapons sergeant of the Jagdkommando and current operator of the special forces known as KorTac, felt like a fresh recruit when he turned heel and marched from the office. He thought about asking whether the surveillance tape would be destroyed or if it was already but sensed that this was not the best moment to ask questions. The leader's tired voice followed him as he walked away with cold sweat tingling down his back.

"Jesus. Where did you even get those bolt cutters.."

He worked half a day to get it right. Repairing the fence was easy, but fixing it so that it wasn't a weak spot in the area's defense was not. He had kneeled down in this exact same spot less than 24 hours ago, with a tense, silent cargo thrown on his back in a fireman's carry.

He had yanked the door to the surveillance room open to let the men know they could get a coffee break while he watched the prisoner — only to find that there was no one there. He had been played twice the fool, and she had paid the price. He wasn't man enough to tell her it had been all in vain when he went to get her.

He certainly wasn't going to tell her that he would still do it all again.

She stayed mute the whole journey to the fence, remained quiet even when he placed her gently on the ground and showed her the hole he had made on the chain link fence for her to crawl through.

"There you go, little Walküre."

She stared at his work for a while, sniffed, then looked up at him.

"You think you can fit through that?" He asked, although he had made sure the hole was big enough for even him to go through.

"Yeah…" she uttered her first words since forever before reaching for her road to freedom. Realizing she was still tied, she pivoted back.

"My hands.." she started, but he was already kneeling on the ground with his combat knife pulled out. With utter care, he cut her loose. She caught him after it was done, and he glanced at those tiny fingers that barely reached to close around his wrists.

"Thank you."

He raised his stare, and her eyes bored into his as she ensured her words had sunk in. Then she turned, dived for the hole… but turned back again.

"König."

He had enough time to discover that the naked pain in her eyes was of the exact same kind as the agony spreading in his heart before she leaped to him, threw her arms around him — and suddenly, he was home.

"Don't get yourself killed." Her voice was a muffled sob that hit his skin through the mask as she pressed her face against his neck and squeezed him with a surprising amount of strength. Dumbfounded, he raised his arms but wasn't sure if she would welcome the touch. He didn't want her to think he would seize her just when she had been offered a way out.

"Promise that you won't get killed."

He knew that he would probably get maimed for this. At the very least, he would lose his contract. But he hadn't even thought about it when he made that hole and carried her here.

She released him and pulled back. Her eyes were pure attention, a time-halting awareness that seized him without warning. It didn't matter that he was loaded with gear, that he had a helmet and a mask on. She could see him. All of him. And she smiled.

Then she reached for his mask.

He did nothing to stop her as she grabbed the hood and started to lift it. His vision went black with the ascending cloth for the longest second…

And then he could see again — see her wide eyes roam his face. The silence was pierced by a few raindrops, the first of an impending heavy rain. They landed on his helmet and on his arm guards, specked on her cheeks as they fell from the heavy clouds above them.

"Wow," she breathed, with parted lips and eyes that sparkled.

She grabbed his helmet through the cloth and pushed both the hood and the piece of metal away. The bundle landed somewhere next to him with a soft clunk a second before her lips pressed against his.

Rain fell, and with it, the paint from around his eyes — all the black he had surrounded himself with ran down his cheeks and neck, all the way under the collar of his shirt and over his heart that thumped like a maniac. They were in a warm August shower together, and she pulled him by his neck, threatened to swallow him, and he could do nothing but melt and surrender and answer with the same gentle hunger.

Her fingers swept across his chin; they caressed his temples, brushed his scalp, and tugged at his hair, not hindered by the fact that there wasn't much to grab hold of in the classic military undercut. They slid down his neck, grabbed his tactical vest, and pulled him deeper into the kiss. She sucked his lip, kissed the raindrops away, and he was hard as a rock even in the pants that were soaked and cool.

When she relented, all too soon, he would've given everything to freeze time and stay there. Under that hail, kneeled in that mud — with her, forever.

"I can't go through that fence unless you promise me," she panted in his mouth, and every single fiber in his body told him not to promise anything. He wanted to grab her instead, take her back, tuck her somewhere safe, and keep her as his own.

"Ok," he whispered.

A gush of hot air landed on his face as she gave a short laugh.

"Ok what?" She smiled against his mouth, her teeth colliding with his lips.

"I… promise."

"'Atta boy," he felt the words before he heard them, and she kissed him once more, and he could've drowned in that kiss. In those words.

"I'll never forget this," she said, lips wet with all that rain, eyes blinking through the drops that slithered down her face and got caught in her lashes.

I'll never forget you.

"No problem."

"No problem…? God. Could you get any more charming?"

She thought he was charming…

"Just one more thing, hero."

She bit her lip, looked down on the soaked grass, then up at him, and smiled.

“What’s with the hood? I really don’t get it. You look super nice.” She winked an eye at him. And then she turned and crawled through that hole and vanished into the darkness.

He was left alone in the descending rain, and there he had remained ever since.

He was convinced he still had her scent on him. He never washed that shirt he had been wearing the day he lifted her in his lap. He tried to catch her from it, and for a few days, he thought he actually did. But then that scent became only a memory.

Nevertheless, it followed him everywhere. No one knew that he was encompassed by it. That he was shrouded with her as he walked the base or rose on the plane.

Days passed by, and he still felt her lips on his own. Her taste in his mouth. Felt her legs around him, her soft walls surrounding him.

He replayed the frenzied vision over and over again in his head to remind himself that he had truly been inside her. That he had made her produce all those sounds. Made her clench around him and smell like honeydew and summers by the lake. He realized that he had started to truly live only after he had opened the door to that bleak room full of her. And then his life froze like a movie that was pressed on an eternal pause as he saw the soles of her boots push against the muddy ground to get her through that fence and away from him.

Three weeks passed — three weeks without her.

He did his job, went on missions, and executed orders to the letter.

But mostly, he was in his thoughts.

Mostly, he thought of her.

He thought of her when he had a rifle in his hand during ops. He thought of her during briefings, when he did deadlifts, racked a barbell after bench press, or sparred with training knives.

He thought of her in showers, in the mess hall, and most of all, in bed at night when he stroked himself to a release that eased his sleep.

He had never been so virile, not even as a teen. His libido was off the roof as the only thing he could think about was how he could get to jerk himself off in the shower stall or in his bunk after the day was done. Thoughts of her were his reward, the only thing that seemed to sustain him.

She was the most radiant thing in his life: everything else had faded away, turned to gray and black. Monotone, lifeless, empty. The pain faded for a while every time he came into his fist. Then it hit him with an even more crippling force as he realized that she wasn't real; she wasn't here.

Still, he fantasized what it would be like to hold her after, how they would drift off to sleep together. He envisioned her skin, her scent, her hair. The top of her head against his chin, her little hands around his neck, her laugh, all of it.

Sometimes when he had a hard day, he fantasized how her body would press softly against his back, and she would slide an arm around him, and it would disappear beneath his shirt. Her palm would come and rest right where his heart was, and she would just hold him.

On the worst days, he cried. He thought of the bullies and what they would say and how they would laugh if they saw him now, curled up in the soiled sheets with a cock in his hand, falling asleep on a tear-soaked pillow.

After a few months, he started to dissolve.

He got reckless on the field — jumped out of the helo before it had even landed properly, was all sloppy with his cover, wasted bullets, and revealed his position for the sake of getting up close and personal, for having the satisfaction of killing his opponents with a knife or with his bare hands.

People complained. Hutch complained, Fender complained — even Zero complained.

Some said it was just good old König, that he didn't care. Medics said he had a guardian angel with him when he never got hit, got barely even scratched when at the same time, some of the best operators were severely injured.

And some saw right through it.

"He fell in love with that sniper bitch. That's what's wrong with 'im," Conor had said.

He had nearly attacked the man for what he said — what he had called her. His angel.

But he knew that's what Conor wanted: to taunt him into making a mistake that would result in his dismissal from the force. Would probably destroy his chances to continue a career anywhere in the military. And then he would quickly find himself in civilian life, where he had never quite fit into.

"Promise me you won't get killed."

He had promised her to stay alive, and he couldn't disappoint her. So it became a prayer. Every night he made an offering to her, so she would keep him safe. No bullet could touch him. He knew that somehow she could feel his longing, the love he had for her. She would protect her like the war maiden that she was. And even if he caught that bullet, he knew it would only take him to heaven. She had already carried him there.

Six months without her, and people started to fear him.

His teammates looked at him with dread as he geared up for missions with the secret knowledge that he was practically immortal. The team leader said he resembled a machine, and he took it as a compliment. Even Lieutenant kept his mouth shut and looked at him with something akin to respect.

But he got even more time off when he wanted the exact opposite. He was pretty sure that there was a note in his file now. Right after the screaming red words released a prisoner without the requisite order from a superior officer. A comment that said he was behaving wrong, that he was unstable or something. They offered him cognitive therapy, sleeping pills, meditation groups, ice baths, even acupuncture. He turned it all down, knowing that it was no use.

And so they sent him home more and more often.

It was even worse there. He never wanted the leaves, but KorTac was firm in their protocol. Contract soldiers needed time off duty to prevent "substantial impairment concerning the operator's ability to work." Even if he wanted to, he couldn't stay in the barracks and get every mission he could get his hands on.

He sat in his apartment, slept late, went for a swim, went to the gym, and came back to sit and sleep. He thought of her when he walked the streets with a hole in his chest, a hole as deep as the Mariana Trench. He saw her in all the women of the same height and weight as her. At some point, he realized he had never paid so much attention to women as he did now.

"Go get a pint and a girl, König. Just get it out of your head."

Zero meant well, but he could've punched him too for saying that.

He didn't want a girl; he wanted her.

Pint sounded good, though. He had visited the nearest pub only a few times before, but the place had only reminded him that he was not home and that pubs were different from bierstubes. But right now, he didn't want to go back to that cold, dark flat to stare at the ceiling and wait till sleep would come.

He pushed the door open and stomped his feet on the mat even though it didn't rain outside. He walked further into the dimly lit hall and saw that early evening wasn't the busiest time in this place: more than half of the tables were empty.

And then he looked for the counter and saw her.

His Kriegsmädchen was there.

His Walküre was here.

She was here and looked just the way he remembered her — no, even more luminous. Glowing.

Perhaps he had finally lost it. But he kept looking, blinking, and saw her fingertips curl around a glass, saw the hair she had tied into a high ponytail, the smile that spread across her face just before she laughed.

The angelic sound went straight between his legs and stabbed a hole in his gut, and he was bleeding — months and months of pain, right there in the hallway of a quiet pub.

She was alive and safe, laughing, and so lovely that his hands started to tremble just as they had when his bullies approached him back in school. It was odd because she was everything but. He took a step, heart thumping and palms sweating, like he was approaching an enemy he knew he had to finish with his bare hands.

He walked to the counter in the eye of a storm, and she evaded his gaze and tried to act like she didn't even notice that some man was striding toward her.

Did men approach her often?

Of course they did. And she tried to look like an immovable stone, a prey that wouldn't draw attention.

"Walküre?"

And only then did she turn her gaze, eyes filled with both fear and hope.

Her mouth opened, and she drew a sharp breath, shoulders tense. He had to fight tooth and nail to not grab her and press her against that counter or kiss her, devour her while he carried her off out that door...

"... Valkyrie?" Her friend repeated sarcastically, with a birth of a laugh on her lips, staring at him like he was a circus attraction. He didn't spare even a glance her way.

Couldn't, because he was mesmerized by the most soothing gaze in the world.

"Hi," she breathed, voice almost breaking.

His eyes went straight to her lips as she said it, the sound far too similar in his mind to the breaths that had escaped her in that dull, grey room.

She cleared her throat and swallowed.

"Kate, this is… Siegfried. A friend from my old job."

He knew he should move, look to the side, and say hello. Act normal. But he couldn't move, couldn't even blink.

She pursed her lips and looked down at her drink, at her friend, and then back up at him.

"Nice to meet you," her friend spoke, and he finally managed to turn his eyes toward her and nod slowly.

“You must be the battering ram.” She took a sip of her drink with a flash of eyebrows.

He heard a sharp inhale from beside him and only wanted to ignore everything and everyone else in the room except for the one who gasped like that.

“You know, the one they send to charge through doors?”

“Done that too.”

The friend called Kate's eyes widened from the stare he knew made most people uncomfortable.

"What are you doing here?"

His angel spoke, and he turned. She was looking even more beautiful with flushed cheeks. It was strange to see her like this: sitting gracefully on that bar stool, wearing jeans and a bit of mascara. She wasn't covered in dirt and sleepless nights and fear, and he realized that he never wanted to see her like that again. He wanted her safe and sound, and happy; even if she had come on this earth to fight, just like he, even if she was deadly with a rifle. Even if she was a more able-bodied sniper than he ever could be.

"To get a lager."

"No, I mean," she laughed, sending warmth between his legs, "Why are you here, here?"

After a blink or two, he realized she meant the town.

"I'm on leave. I live here."

"Oh." She bit her lip. "Kate, um. Would you… Would you mind if we catch up a bit?"

He saw from the corner of his eye that the woman looked him up and down, and then a smile started to creep up her face.

"You know what June, I think I'm gonna head home. You two catch up for as long as you need and I'll see ya later, ok?"

Her name was June.

Like midsummer fests and seagulls and Radler.

Honey and raindrops…

"I'll go grab a table," he declared, thinking how odd that sounded, thinking whether his English was somehow off. As if he was going to physically grab a table and raise it in the air...

Kate chuckled behind his back as he turned and headed for a darker, more private corner.

"Jesus Christ, June… I knew you did some special commando shit, but that guy is -"

"Will you keep your voice down?"

"I mean… If you catch up all night, I doubt you'll be able to walk tomorrow."

"Kate…! "

The rest of the exchange of words faded as he reached the table and adjusted the chairs to be able to sit down.

Then he noticed that he was still wearing his jacket and got up to take it off. He saw her coming with her drink in hand, and she flashed a smile at him as he threw the leather bomber across the chair next to him.

"Nice jacket."

He looked down at the dark brown leather, worn and looking mostly what people called vintage or something.

"You gonna go get that beer, sweetie?"

Sweetie.

"Ja," he nodded, turned, and marched back to the counter.

He ordered a beer, then asked what the lady over there was having.

"I think she, ah… ordered a mojito." The bartender extended his neck to the side to glance at their table. "Yeah, that's a mojito."

"One of those as well."

The man gave him a look that distinctly said You really think you're gonna get some of that? He didn't know what it was in his aura that told people he was a loser. Or a menace. And he didn't know which of those looks made the pain worse. But all of it faded instantly as she greeted him with a shy smile when he returned to the table with the drinks.

"Oh, you shouldn't have… I haven't even finished this one." She raised those lovely eyes at him, smiling, smiling… "Thank you, König."

Her fingertips brushed his as he gave it to her, the glass sweating with tiny cold drops of condensed water. She had pale pink, almost nude nail polish that made her nails look shiny and pure, her hands even more delicate. She watched as he scoured through the chairs to take a seat, pick a coaster and place his own glass on the table.

"A big one."

She then turned those playful faerie eyes on him, and he was suddenly grateful that he had picked the loose, black cargo pants to wear today… and that he was sitting.

"This is considered a small beer where I come from."

"I'm sure it is," she chuckled. The tight, white t-shirt she wore reminded him of the first time he had seen her, even though it was not one of those heavy cotton, military shirts. He grabbed the beer to do something, anything, and raised it to his lips, almost pouring the liquid all over him when he took a sip. She watched him gulp and smiled even wider. He was half hard at that point and had to spread his legs to accommodate and conceal what was happening in his pants and under the table.

"What about you, Walküre? What are you doing here?"

"I'm helping a friend -uh, Kate. She had an awful breakup."

He nodded and kept picking up his beer, drinking a small sip and trying to hit the center of the coaster as he set the glass back down.

"You're not with SpecGru anymore?"

"I signed off one week after… After. You know."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, even though he wasn't sorry at all. At least, not for the fact that she was out of harm's way.

"Nah, don't be. It was for the best. I'm able to sleep at night and everything."

She had trouble sleeping? Maybe that's why she looked even more radiant than before. She had slept well.

"I was worried about you."

"Really?" she tilted her head to the side, and her eyes started to shine even brighter.

"... that you might not find your way home."

"I'm a big girl. Trained with the Green Berets and everything.. But it warms my heart to hear that. I worried about you, too."

"You did?"

"Yeah. Sure, I mean… I was afraid you'd get into some trouble because of me."

Someone laughed at the next table, but the unexpected sound reached him through a comfortable haze; like he was sitting underwater. The battlefield wasn't nearly as distressing an environment as this peaceful pub - or any other place he rarely visited. But this time, with her, it was not too bad. His senses were blown wide, but he wasn't afraid.

"Also ja… They did yell at me."

"That's horrible. I could never yell at you."

He felt himself nearly choke on the beer, tried to breathe through his nose, and forced the liquid down with an audible gulp.

"You kept your promise," she said in a low voice, her smile fading slightly. Her eyes locked with his, and he basked in the warmth.

"Natürlich."

I prayed for you every single night, Kriegsmädchen.

She gave him a small, sad smile and looked down, swirling her ice-filled glass.

"You know I…" she started, took a breath, then another. "I've missed you, König."

He squeezed the tall glass before realizing that it might actually break at some point.

"I've missed you too, Walküre."

He looked at his beer, still halfway full, and then at the completely untouched drink he had brought her.

"You want to go to my place?"

Part 3:

#könig fanfiction #könig mw2 #könig call of duty #call of duty #könig imagine #my fics #könig x oc #könig #könig x female oc

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