Call of Duty Oneshots (Mostly Ghost)

you. always you. (könig)

You. Always you.

It's always you.

It doesn't matter what you're wearing, a ghillie outfit or workout attire, his gaze always veers to places he couldn't have. That small dip between hip and waist, the indentation you're most subconscious about, drives him crazy. It's where his hands itch to be, you on top, rocking the both of you deeper into sweet nirvana.

Seeing you speaking to people of the opposite sex drives him in a bad mood that lasts the whole day, jealousy palpable and souring the room before he even steps in.

Your perception of atmospheric shifts confuses him. The amount of unbridled empathy you're able to give heals some part of suppressed trauma every time you ask what's wrong. Everything is just the way it's supposed to be when you simply give that questioning look of yours, always sewing up loose emotions for someone else.

It's how selfless you are that really irks him, though. Behind each mission is a story about the kindness you somehow bring to the battlefield. A push in the opposite direction to even sacrificing your own body as a shift, he restlessly anticipates anytime you return to KorTac, hoping you're in one piece.

He admires your strength above all, it's where he strives to be as a person. A resilience that demands respect, it's no wonder you climbed to lieutenant as quickly as you did. As a colonel, he oozes out a similar kind of confidence, but yours... Yours is such a vibrant courage that you could lead the most uncertain into fire.

His protectiveness grows with each mission he's not able to accompany, leaving you to come back to base displaying an array of new scars or bruises that he years to take for himself to suffer through instead.

'Those injuries should be mine to endure,' he berates himself.

The words he wishes to admit hang right by a thin thread tied to his teeth, but his hesitant fingers refuse to cut them loose.

His affection isn't expressed right away.

Small notes are left in your locker. Just small tidbits of his thoughts about you for the day. Sometimes they're heartwarming. Sometimes they're lighthearted, an attempt at flirting, amusing you with a soft chuckle. They never fail at making your day. Your favorites are:

'You are a wild bloom in the midst of war.'

'Your hand looks heavy, I can hold it for you.'

'Losing sleep is worth it as long you stay in my dreams.'

Coffee already sitting on your desk, still steaming hot because he knows your schedule better than he knows his.

A sunflower beside that coffee one day after telling him once that your favorite color is yellow. He waits a while before risking that move – after all, he enjoys the thrill of being a secret admirer.

For someone who kills for a living, he feels almost defenseless around you. Exposed and wired, there is no hiding from you.

Always you.

There is no hesitation when the chance for you and him to be deployed together arises. A small team to extract intel, he'd at least have an opportunity to ensure no stupid decision would be made by you to have a moment of ruthless devotion.

Only two things ignite a certain regret to burn in his throat.

One. How embarrassingly quickly he signs all of the necessary paperwork now tying his name with yours for the next week or so, and don't pretend to hide the fact that you smirk when you find out – he sees it. He just wishes that he hadn't seemed so desperate for your attention.

You're too nervous to admit that you don't mind it, still oblivious to the fact that he's the one leaving you fragments of his adoration in unsuspecting places.

The second is losing sight of you in the field.

Gone around the corner to chase after a lone hostile, his proud smirk fades behind his mask when you're not there. There is a multitude of doors you could have slipped behind, and your recklessness uncharacteristically startles him.

Your reputation precedes you, but it's been forever since you two have been paired together on a mission that a second goes by with thoughts vacating his head, leaving him stumped.

He prompts a response on comms, "Y/N?"

Nothing but silence.

His mouth dries, but he tries again, a bit more forceful this time as he opens the closest door to lead into the building you must have entered to go chasing after the opposing operator. "Y/N!"

While listening for any sort of change on the radio, receiving even more deafening silence, he strains his ears to hear something down either side of the halls. No drops of blood trail to a possible you, and he can't even pick up a waft of your perfume. It's like you vanished in thin air.

"L/N! What is your 20?!"

He doesn't care anymore if someone hears him, his focus is set on finding you, and he will bring down anything and everything just to ensure your safety. Anything and everything for you.

Always you.

Unbeknownst to him, the air is quickly being squeezed right from your throat, two angry green eyes perforating every inch of your face as their gaze intensely watches the life drain, pinning you to the ground.

You can't answer back.

Not when your hands are scrambling at any part of this person's body to get him off. A finger to the eye, fingernails digging into his forearms, you are relentless in your fight to keep living.

You refuse to allow grief to become the reason you're given sunflowers.

You refuse to breathe your last breath when you don't even know who's been giving you those sunflowers in the first place.

You will not let a single petal wilt onto your desk, and those notes will not accumulate any dust.

But stars are beginning to eclipse your vision, dark spots becoming clouds to cover the sensation of awareness.

Your grip on his arms is loosening.

Nothing pulls König's finger back when he squeezes the trigger, not a whisper of a doubt. The bullet rips through the man's temple, König's boot quickly following to shove your attacker off of you before the dead weight could collapse on your gasping frame.

Pulling you up by your vest, he takes a moment to carefully inspect you once you're sat up, fingers gingerly brushing against the bruises already purpling across your neck.

A frustrated 'tsk' clicks between his teeth."God damn you, Schatz," the endearment slips out, but he couldn't care less. "You wild *Blume. What were you thinking?"

You blink once. Twice.

'What did he call me?'

The realization doesn't completely register until that moment, not until he calls you 'Blume', and your mind fills with all the blooming sunflower petals he's left you over the past few months.

"It was you?" You whisper, your throat still a bit sore but the emotion takes hold over you more than the physical restriction. "All of that stuff you- for me?"

A gloved finger affectionately begins to wipe away the splats of crimson from your dumbfounded face. Your two helmets connecting emits a soft 'clunk' when he leans into you, and there just as his finger never hesitates to take a life for you, you don't hold back in shifting your weight back toward him.

"Of course," he breathes, "Always for you."