Anonymous asked:

i absolutely love your könig drabbles, i can’t help but keep rereading them over and over- hes just so mysterious 🤤

if you’re feeling in the mood to write for him some more- i’ve got a cute little trope. though i LOVE könig saving the reader every chance he gets, id like to get the chance to see her save his ass for once. maybe while he’s distracted with something/someone else, someone comes up from behind and the reader shoots their ass or sum. idrk how missions in cod work- never played it, but i wouldn’t want the person to be from either of their teams (don’t want to kill her own team + doesn’t make sense for his ally to hurt him)

If you don’t like that idea, any scenario of her saving him and he be like “SO U DO LIKE ME!!!” would make my year honestly

+ no pressure to write it ofc !

Wolverine

König x ‘Maus’ Reader

(Part 5 of “Little Mouse” Series)

Word Count: 1.5k
Rating: Teen and up
Tags: Enemies to lovers, Slow burn, Dark König, Reluctant allies, Lying to your team on behalf of your enemy boyfriend, Sniper! Reader, Female Reader
Warnings: Mentions of human trafficking
A/N: Just a small chapter/scene to tide everyone over before a longer next chapter!

You see the AQ fighter before he does.

Price has you on the backburner this mission- relegated to suppressive fire only as the rest of the team infiltrates the AQ warehouse where the cell is supposedly hiding human trafficking victims. It’s a clean house job. Get in, get out, lead the hostages to safety. Out of all the missions the 141 has done together, this is fairly tame. 

So you perch from your spot atop a building 2 blocks away that overlooks the warehouse, exposed arms being baked by the Crimean sun, sweat beading along your neck. Here, high in the sky, you can see every move, every flutter, every step. Your finger taps along your weapon, and with every heartbeat you feel your blood thrum like a familiar staccato in your chest. 

Yet the second you set up your sniper nest you had felt it, a prickle of awareness at the back of your senses. Like eyes watching you from the dark, it had bored along your back, creeping up your spine and setting goosebumps trilling across your flesh. Like a fox in a twilight grove, the wind ripples across your nape, and it carries the scent of something all too familiar, something forbidden, dangerous. You know the sensation well enough by now, know exactly what it means.

You aren’t alone. 

You tell Price as much. You don’t have any evidence to go off of, but you trust your instincts. They’ve yet to fail you, and neither has he. You trust your captain wholeheartedly, his years of leadership and experience weighing down across his scarred shoulders and burdening him with the gravity that comes with duty. 

So you listen when his voice echoes softly in the comms, concealed from the hostiles that lurk just beyond in the courtyard.

“Eyes open.” He tells you sternly, voice muted into his mic. “The second you see anything off you RV with us, clear?”

Clear.

You’re instructed to stay where you are, to not betray your position and be the perfectly little still mouse you are, not moving a single muscle. So you do, tracing the group as they make their way through the back gate of the warehouse single file, weapons ready.

Under his instruction you down the three fighters standing near the entryway, their bodies slumping limply to the ground but caught and dragged off before their comrades are any the wiser. 

You watch as Price and the others rally behind a door leading inside, faces grim and eyes sparking with determination.

Then, movement. 

About a hundred feet away where they can’t see. A flash of gray and green in the dying afternoon sun, his massive form carefully concealed behind a corner. Watching, observing, but not interfering. 

It’s him.

König.

By the time you switch your comms back on though the group has breached the warehouse, and your radio is filled with barked orders and rapid gunfire that drowns out your voice when you attempt to speak. 

“Price? Price, how copy?”

The captain doesn’t respond.

All the while König creeps closer, staying in the slanted shadows of the building. Form coiled, he seems for all the world like a wolverine, muscles rippling and claws outstretched. The metal of his bracers flicker like fangs in the sun, bared and dripping threats. The static of your radio feels for all the world like a grinding growl that echoes deep into your own chest, a warning that’s come far too late.

They don’t know he’s there.

Your voice shakes now as you try to contact the boys, but the radio crackles with echoing gunfire and the static aftershock of a frag grenade. You can hear the screams of the hostages now, rising and pitching high to the wind. Gaz barks rapidly in Arabic, and his voice overlaps your wavering tone that they don’t seem to hear.

So instead you level your scope at him, at this man who is your enemy despite the fact he’s saved your life more times than you care to remember. There, in the crosshairs, you see the details of him, of his hood streaked with bleach tears, the whites of his eyes behind the coal dark stain, the planes of his shoulders as he turns away from you. He’s armed, just with a knife that glints in the dying light. 

You’ve seen it before, seen it drip red onto the cracked, dry earth as one of his comrades gurgled wetly at his feet, dead by his hand. He had tried to hurt you, but it had not been you that had killed him. Even now you can remember that hood, the fabric shifting as he had turned for you- reached out to where your hand hovered over your radio. 

Don’t. 

He hadn’t hurt you, and yet-

It would only take a single shot. 

All this time you’ve been chasing each other. He’s tried to kill the others, nearly succeeded in killing Gaz. He’s pursued you, only to let you go. It’s a dangerous, imbalanced game of cat and mouse where he stalks your nighttime dreams, only to appear in daylight with stunning clarity. He’s taken you, has rescued you, has watched you from the shadows, has touched you, let his hand feel your racing heartbeat. He’s your enemy. He’s your fascination. He could kill you. He’s saved you. 

He could be dead by your hand if you just…

You blink, and there’s movement behind him.

An AQ fighter who limps from a side door, escaping the chaos inside. Smoke trails after him, evidence of one of Soap’s thrown grenades. He turns as he coughs and splutters, clutching a wound on his thigh. Then he spots König, and in his hand you see the flash of a muzzle.

König stops, begins to turn.

The man takes aim with trembling hands.

You fire.

The round forces the air from your lungs, shot as you sucked in a gasp and hissing as it escapes. Like a crack of thunder it rings out against the sky, deafening the world and leaving an unsettled stillness in its wake. Almost instantly the head of the AQ fighter erupts in a grotesque spume of red, and his body tilts backwards, off balance, before he slumps at König’s feet.

He stills.

It takes König a moment to register what just happened. You can see his head tilt down to the fighter’s corpse, entire body drawn taut like a bow as he watches scarlet pool at his boots. Yet faster than you anticipated his eyes flash, turn to seek you like a homing missile, eyes wide and searching. They settle on you, perched one hundred meters away at the top of an empty building, stomach flat against the rooftop where rubble digs into your skin.

You look past your scope to where he stands, hands clenched at his sides, eyes bright, shoulder stiff and coiled. He doesn’t move from where he stands, doesn’t even flinch.

You could kill him. 

He’s wide open.

Yet then König tilts his head at you, blinking slowly like a lazy cat in the sun. It’s as if he realizes exactly where he is, how a single pull of the trigger could end him where he stands. A sensible soldier would dive for cover, would raise his own weapon and fire back to buy time for an escape. 

König does neither.

Instead he raises the hand not holding his blade to his face, lets his fingers graze his chin before lowering his open palm in front of him. It feels like a gesture, an entreaty, one offered to you with something akin to reverence. You recognize the hand signal instantly.

Thank you.

You blink, lips parting in wonder, and all at once the air in your chest feels too warm, too light, unfurling like a delicate, pale thing with soft downy wings.

“Rookie.” Price barks in your ear, and you flinch at his sudden voice. “How are we looking? ready for ex-fil?”

You pause, hand hovering over your comms. König sees the gesture from where he stands, all the way below. Even though he pauses for a moment, he eventually locks eyes with you, nods once-

And vanishes back into the shadows. 

“Rookie, how copy?”

“Clear.” You tell your captain, even if you don’t believe your own voice, shaking as it is. “One straggler on the south side of the building, eliminated. Your route is clear.”

“Copy that.”

Yet then Price pauses, the comms crackling with wordless chatter beyond him as Gaz and the others sort the hostages, until at last his voice resumes. 

“Did you see him?”

The warm air in your chest feels caught, stifled. Yet when you look all you see is shadows, and even the aftereffect seems to have evaporated, as if he was never there at all.

“No.” You reply softly, and the lie tastes sour on your lips. 

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