"Sacred profane part two" König x female reader
The protagonist grew up in a convent and her mind works only on top of that
In this fanfic the units (141 and Kortac) have a battalion in union with the best soldiers of each unit!
Reader-insert (2nd person POV),Religious themes (Insintion to Catholicism, convent upbringing), Reader daughter of a nun, Military setting (not canon accurate to CoD), Reader being humiliated,Trauma, manipulation, humiliation,Mentions of shame, guilt, and internalized self-criticism,Angst-heavy, dark & biblical tone,König depicted with sacred / divine imagery,Not respectful or accurate to real military structures, a little NSFW, Kortac and 141 are a single battalion, AU, König as semi-God, Fighting, Blood, Religious trauma.
Translated content!, English is not my native language! ‼️🇺🇸
This is part two if you haven't read part one here is the link! Part one
For those who read the first part: I made some changes to plug some holes and connect some things better if you want please read again
୨ৎ: Chapter dedicated to @thesimp2 who was a sommelier of the first chapter giving me five in between! I hope to win an star michelin now.
Saturday morning, March 6, 1999.
You never knew how to explain your life — and now, more than ever, it felt like a divine mystery. Five months ago, you were just a ragged piece of cloth in the desert, half-alive, half-dead, a sinner on the brink of the final judgment. Now, you are a Lieutenant in one of the most crucial special forces units in the world. The grace achieved is a heavier burden than damnation.
Yet, something inside you whispers: now there is something to care about: Your career.
In other battalions, you were just one among many equals; here, it is different. Miracles like you don't usually climb this high, especially not with a rank like that, but you did. The feeling of being the strange rookie wrapped around you again. The uncomfortable heat, the shallow breathing, the buried insecurity returning like a dead man dragging himself out of the earth.
The weight of the elite feels different. It weighs like penitential lashes on your back. Now you deal with real soldiers, decorated fallen angels, tested, respected. Only God would have pity on you in this place.
It was your first day as an "officer," and even before training had begun, everyone expected you to act like one. With your nerves on edge, your reflection in the mirror stares back, revealing that, besides the tired eyes from poor sleep, the skin on your face was also irritated by the new moisturizer. Stubborn strands insisted on escaping your bun, like small rebellions against the order.
You inhale deeply, repeating the same phrase mentally like a mantra: “Competence first.”
The sound of your boots on the floor echoed like solitary steps in an empty cathedral, as if the ground were screaming at the discomfort you were failing to hide. There wasn't much noise in the hallways, just low conversations and the muffled sound of machines running in some distant room. It was the kind of silence that pressed against your ears, that filled your chest with that nameless anxiety, typical of the eve of a sacrifice.
You passed a wall full of framed pictures. It wasn't your habit to stop, but this time... His name was there, followed by “Colonel.” Among rows of medals, missions, and assignments that seemed to belong to another life. Everything so clean and tidy it made you sick. As if those achievements hadn't cost blood.
The one thing you knew was that he would be responsible for your analysis and training; you didn't know exactly what he saw in you. But he would be the one to decide if you were worth anything or if you should be thrown into the mud again, or expunged completely.
You pressed your fingers against the fabric of your uniform, where your hidden pendant lay. A silly old habit you picked up on some mission, must have been in the beginning, when you still believed that amulets could protect sinner women on battlefields.
Two more soldiers walked past. One of them looked at you and quickly looked away, as if they had mistaken you for someone else. The other mumbled something you didn't catch. You preferred not to ask.
The feeling of being in the wrong place returned. The doubt, the fear, and that coldness that slowly trickles down your spine, like holy water that fails to purify you.
You focused on your steps, on the direction, on the mental repetition of your constant mantra.
And then you turned the last corner.
It was like crossing an aether barrier. The noise exploded in your ears. The mess hall was in an uproar, shouting, people piled up, like grandstands packed for a martyrdom. And right in the center, a circle opened up like a cheap movie scene: two men on the floor punching each other like dogs. The one on top hammered the other's face while blood from his nose spilled like wine on the altar, the one on the bottom squeezed the other's eyeballs, almost piercing them.
Wrestling like demon-possessed.
Nothing you hadn't seen before. But being in such a highly-acclaimed place... you didn't think you would see something like this so soon. Their casual uniforms held such prestige that they would incite envy in any regular military personnel. Now stained with blood, "deplorable, like the garments of lepers," you criticized.
Even before you could get a better view amidst the crowd, a guy ran through the door with frightened eyes –They're coming!– he yelled, as if announcing the Apocalypse.
Chaos erupted again in a second. Soldiers jumped off tables as if they were in an actual war zone. One knocked over a tray full of scrambled eggs and orange juice, another tripped over his own boot trying to hide behind the mess hall counter.
–Shit, everyone's screwed– someone yelled further back. –Pretend you didn't see anything!– said another, trying to sneak out the side.
You were still at the door, and everything happened so fast that you didn't even notice when the crowd parted like the Red Sea. The circle of confusion now seemed more exposed: the two men were still rolling on the floor, hitting each other as if the whole world had vanished around them. One tried to apply a headlock, the other responded with a poorly aimed but loud punch. This time, blood ran from both their noses “Let go!” the one on top shouted while the one on the bottom tried to scream something through gritted teeth.
– Is this serious?! Is that Volkov?! – someone whispered near you. –Sergeant Volkov is fighting in the middle of the mess hall?! – Another voice, indignant.
You blinked, trying to figure out if “Sergeant” was indeed the term they had used.
Sergeant? This man bleeding on the floor, with the other almost shoving his fingers into his eyes, was a sergeant?
A tense, forced silence arose when three larger figures strode through the hallway, marching as if in procession. Impeccable uniforms, raised shoulders, and sharp gazes. They were other lieutenants... and one of them, visibly, was in command.
–What in the hell is going on here?!– said the one in the middle wearing ray-ban sunglasses, his voice resonated so loudly that you flinched by reflex, like a sinner hearing the thunder after the sin.
The soldiers started to scatter, like rats running to the corners. Tables were pushed back into place, chairs straightening themselves as if by magic, and even the most lax began to look like model soldiers.
But you? You stood still. Lost, everyone looked at you trying to understand why you were standing in the way.
Your body was locked in the middle of the freshly cooled mess. You could still smell the spilled coffee, you saw an apple rolling across the floor until it stopped at the tip of your boot. And for a moment, it became obvious to you: you didn't know the rite to follow. Whether you should report in. Whether you should run. Whether you should pretend you were just passing by.
One of the older lieutenants looked straight into your eyes and raised an eyebrow.
– Are you the new lieutenant?–
You opened your mouth to answer, but could only nod your head, slowly.
– Great. You’ve arrived home then. – he said as he passed you to then pull one of the fighting soldiers by the collar.
The one on the left grabbed the other, while the one with the glasses headed toward the pair still being separated. One of the fighters was massive. The other had the look of someone who would write down your name and mess up your life later, like an Inquisitor's scribe. And, in that exact moment, you understood that in here, your rank didn't matter... you were still just one more among wolves with blood on their teeth.
Swallowing hard, you took a step back, reflecting while two other soldiers arrived to hold the men and lead them away, and they were soon ushered out of the mess hall, which in turn felt like hell.
As “they” left, like a tide returning to the rough sea, the separation began. Groups formed almost automatically, as if the mess hall were divided by invisible lines that only those who lived there knew. Each corner was taken by soldiers gathering according to their own codes, silent tribes of calculating glances, muffled laughs, and tense whispers.
The territorial dispute was no longer physical, but symbolic. Looks were enough to delineate who sat where. You snapped out of your trance when your stomach rumbled too loudly to ignore. You went straight to the line that was starting to form again, trying to find a decent plate before everything was gone — thirty minutes had already passed since you stepped in.
It would be a long day. Going without food would kill the rest of the sanity you still preserved.
With the tray in your hands, you slid along the side of the counter. The main dish was something that looked like chicken — or at least what someone badly wanted to be chicken. Next to it, under-seasoned rice, lukewarm vegetables, and a salad that had seen better days. But still... it was food.
As you walked the length of the hall, tray held firmly in your hands, your eyes scanned the spaces like someone looking for shelter in enemy territory. The tables were packed, and each one exuded a different energy.
The one on the left, with soldiers in overly starched uniforms and straight backs, was probably dominated by some methodical, overly disciplined lieutenant. The glances there were cold, judgmental — no, not there.
On the right, loud laughter, back-slapping, and water bottles turned into chalices for toasts. Those seemed more relaxed, but carried a tone of sarcasm and arrogance that didn't invite you, only analyzed you like someone choosing where to bite.
Further back, the group speaking lowest, with watchful eyes around, seemed to obey a more reserved lieutenant — possibly calculating, but respected. It was strange how you could sense who the leader was without even needing to see them up close, as if their power flowed through you effortlessly.
You couldn't analyze everyone.
You were lost, but luckily you weren't the center of attention, but a light appeared, and like an angel sent to steal everyone's attention.
–Lieutenant... over here, please.–
You saw him in your periphery. It was one of the men who, minutes before, had broken up the fight. Tall, broad shoulders, well-cut blond hair. His shirt sleeve was still crumpled and stained with blood. His eyes measured you with a mix of curiosity and recognition.
You had to abandon your poor tray and follow the soldier; he said nothing and didn't even look at your face after calling you. You weren't worried, it was your first day, it was probably some paperwork to sign or basic information, but the walk felt too long.
Where were we going? You fought to control your legs, which almost turned back, after going down a flight of stairs, crossing the entire north wing, you were now in the south, where silence reigned more than any sacred place.
Crossing that narrow corridor was like walking toward hell.
The steps echoed heavily on the waxed floor, each one seeming louder than it should. The cold light from the corridors flickered slightly, as if the building itself wanted to warn you that it wasn't too late to confess. That there was time to turn back, invent an excuse, but you followed because retreating was also a sentence.
But his name was written on the board you read earlier. And now, engraved on the door ahead, printed with military seriousness: Colonel König. "The kind of man who didn't bother to raise his voice, because the world already understood what he wanted with a single look." You remembered what you had heard about him, especially the part where he decides if you have what it takes to stay there… or if you would be sent away before even proving your worth, once again your heart skipped a beat.
And you feared him for it, even without knowing him. You detested the fact that a single conversation with him could dismantle the little you had built so far. You detested how your chest tightened as if there was something wrong with you, a rotten, dirty part that didn't want to be exposed before him, not without reason. In that moment full of doubts, you felt like you were going to present yourself to someone who, somehow, knew all your sins.
The closer you got, the more something inside you twisted. And upon standing in front of that door, that part began to thrash. A different side of you, battered by life, whispering that this wasn't your place. That:
"People like you didn't enter rooms like that."
"People like you weren't saved, and you would indeed return to the mud."
But, at the same time, there was something else. A faint spark — small, but alive. A voice that didn't scream, only observed. A distant echo saying: “What if he's not as cruel as they say?” “What if it's different with you?” “What if it's good news?”
You took a deep breath, sweat gently running down your neck, but it wasn't from the heat. It was from the absurd sensation that you were about to be stripped bare — not physically, but by the soul. Because inside there, a man awaited you who held in his hands your name, your life, and the decision whether it would be remembered or forgotten like a thousand others who didn't even get their surname on a tombstone.
You trembled one last time. Your fingers brushed against the cold doorknob, and you held your breath. For a second, you thought you might faint.
The idea that this man was not just a superior, but an unyielding wall between you and your destiny, that made your soul scream in silence. And he wouldn't request your presence on a Saturday without reason.
Something must have happened.
And waited for hell to answer.
And, drawing out the syllable with a heavy accent, you heard muffled:
The sound made your spine chill — but not from fear. From a premonition that made you wish you hadn't knocked... and at the same time wish you would never leave that presence. The man beside you gave you one last look; he also seemed to want to run from there as soon as possible. You looked at him, and his eyes answered with a "good luck," and as soon as you touched the door, he was gone.
You turned the doorknob slowly, as if any sudden movement could trigger a divine trap. The heavy door yielded with a low creak, opening the way to a room that didn't seem to belong to the same world as the rest of the base.
Colonel König's office was too large to be just an office. The walls were covered in dark, cold wood, as if they had been there forever, marked by wars you had never heard of. Military paintings with aged frames, medals displayed in a reinforced glass case, and a bookshelf packed with books, some with German covers, others with symbols you didn't even know how to name. The light from the window was filtered by heavy curtains, leaving everything bathed in an amber tone of authority, almost celestial.
The carpet beneath your feet muffled the sound of your entry, but even that didn't hide how your legs were trembling.
König was sitting behind the desk. Or rather — reigning behind it. Too tall even when seated, rigid, with broad shoulders and hands clasped, as if time worked for him. The black mask covered his face like a veil, a constant reminder that you would never know what he thought, only what he decided.
The room was silent. Too silent. The kind of silence that reminds you of your own breathing, your racing heart, the sweat running down your back. In front of the desk, two soldiers already occupied the chairs — Dev and Volkov, as written on their uniforms, you could read as their bodies turned towards you, bringing with them faces as stunned as you were by the scene.
As the door closed behind your body, the gazes of the two men shifted. Dev kept his eyes low, as if he'd rather be in hell all at once than in this purgatory. Volkov, however, gave you a look up and down, out of the corner of his eye, before letting out a muffled, acidic grumble:
–That one? My lieutenant?– You were now underestimated with words, in an imaginary flash you saw yourself making his nose bleed, but fortunately there was a greater force preventing you from dwelling on that vision, the only one that was still staring at you. Analyzing you.
You pretended that didn't stab something into you, but something in you burned. Maybe it was pride, maybe it was the realization that no one here truly saw you as an equal… much less respected you.
But what truly froze you was him.
Even without saying a word, his presence seemed to occupy every inch of the room; he always occupied everything. You felt small, invisible, and utterly exposed all at once. A part of you felt apprehension about him — for being the type of man everyone listens to before he even speaks, for having the power to reduce you to that weakness. The other... well, the other felt something you couldn't name.
It was as if, suddenly, you were sin in the flesh, being forced to face an altar. And he was the priest. Cold, relentless, and against all logic, almost sacred.
But there was nothing merciful about König…
–Come– he said, cutting through your imagination, his voice low but firm, like a command written in stone.
You obeyed, stepping forward, even against your will. Even resenting how quickly your legs moved.
– Mikhail Volkov, Dev Qassem, this is the lieutenant for the team you have been transplanted to.
"This means the two men who were punching each other like animals in front of the whole battalion are members of my team?" You questioned.
A team you hadn't even had the chance to receive the personal files for yet? Yes, it was true, it came from his mouth, the man who hadn't taken his eyes off your face since the exact moment you entered this damned room.
You diverted your eyes from him, only to find the two men staring at you like a polar bear and a hungry tiger, predators about to tear you apart without ceremony. It was then that his voice cut the air again, dry as a sentence:
–The two of you will follow her orders.–
No complaints. No grumbles. Not even a sideways glance. The two, who almost set the mess hall on fire minutes before, reacted like well-behaved boys before their severe father. They sat up straight, silent, as if that simple phrase had tied their wills to a leash.
Once again you fell into his eyes, eyes that had never stopped staring at you, and seemed like they never would. You felt the cold that emanated almost made you cover your arms with your hands. Their penetrating color was almost unreal, and if it weren't for the dark rim of the irises, you wouldn't be able to distinguish it from the sclera, "so white, almost like the eyes of a marble statue."
You snapped back, but hadn't paid attention to what he had said, you could only nod as if it had been engraved into your brain like a new prayer. You blinked a few times, even shaking your head slightly. The two left the room, heads down, one behind the other. You were still coming out of the trance when you heard his voice again, cold and precise like steel being sharpened:
–You may sit, Lieutenant–
You obeyed. The sound the chair made when you dragged it was the only thing you registered clearly. He didn't look directly at you this time, but you felt that he knew exactly where your eyes were, where your heart was beating faster.
One of his hands, large, gloved, with visible veins even beneath the thick fabric, pushed a brown envelope toward you. There were stamps, seals, fingerprints, and smudges that weren't his.
–This is the updated file for your team. Psychological profile, latest results, behavioral history. Study this before tomorrow. Your first training time has been rescheduled for six tomorrow. Sharp.–
You tried to reply, but your voice barely came out.
He continued as if you were just another folder on the altar of his work.
–Your team's function will be varied. Reconnaissance. Containment. Internal control. And when necessary… discipline.–
Discipline... The word sounded stronger than the others. Almost as if it had been spoken for you.
– If there are problems, I expect you to bring them directly to me. No intermediaries. – He then returned his eyes to you, direct, deep, as if he were reading your flaws aloud. –I trust you will know how to keep your men in line.–
You didn't say anything. You didn't need to. It was already difficult to keep your own thoughts in line. You picked up the envelope with an almost automatic movement, feeling its weight as if you were carrying more than just papers, as if you were carrying destinies. Your legs obeyed you as if they belonged to someone else, and when you realized it, you were already outside the room, facing the long, cold, silent corridor.
But the silence didn't last long.
Leaning against the wall next to the door, Dev and Volkov were waiting for you like impatient dogs. Volkov kicked the floor with the tip of his boot, and Dev spun something between his fingers, bored.
– Our new leader is finally back from the golden throne– Volkov grumbled, with the same contempt as before, but now... there was something more restrained.
You didn't even have time to react. A man ran past you, almost knocking over your tray of ill-balanced emotions.
– Whoops, sorry, sorry! – he said, without stopping. Right behind him, other soldiers hurried through the corridor, talking about “platoon reorganization” and “weapon preparations.”
Dev and Volkov exchanged glances.
– Looks like we'll be working earlier than expected – muttered Dev, his brown eyes analyzing you with more calm now.
And then, as if an invisible signal had sounded, the two started walking. Volkov brushed past you, his shoulder almost touching yours.
– I hope you know how to give orders, Lieutenant.
– And I hope you know how to obey, Mikhail Volkov.
They walked ahead, exuding mockery, and you felt completely demoralized, and like a mother who can't control her own children, a sigh escaped without your permission. The pressure still burned under your skin, but you buried it deep, along with any insecurity. Shoulders straight. Neutral face. Firm steps. If you were going to be a lieutenant, let the baptism be now.
Inside you, there was no more room for pointless questions; it was time to take a stance, even if it meant punching a knife's edge.
There was no one ahead of you anymore, but you deduced that if those two hadn't gone in opposite directions, they would still be nearby. You quickened your pace, mentally organizing what you would say.
You didn't intend to give a lecture, but you would make it clear where the boundaries began and where patience ended.
But your plans crumbled as you climbed the first step.
Up high, Volkov pointed a firm finger at Dev's face, who, in turn, pushed his chest hard enough to make him take a step back. “What a beautiful beginning to my epic.”
You didn't scream. You didn't run.
You just kept climbing with firm, regular steps, the sound of your boots echoing between the metal and the concrete.
The two stopped the exact moment they saw you.
Silence settled like a blade.
– Anyone who forces me to yell to stop a useless fight like this can be sure I'll make them drink each other's own blood – you said, without raising your voice, but with a clarity that cut the air. – I hope I don't have to watch soldiers from my squad putting on another ridiculous scene like this–
Volkov opened his mouth, perhaps to retort, but your gaze hit him first, as if daring him to answer you and taste your venom. Dev said nothing, his jaw locked.
– I don't know you yet, and you don't know me either. But let me make one thing clear right now: this type of conflict... – you looked at the two, as you climbed the stairs – ...will not be repeated. Here, under my leadership, you no longer have the option to hate each other. Only the obligation to survive and obey.
– If either of you wants to test the hierarchy, I can arrange a training field tomorrow.
Your eyes were now cold, but your posture was firm, like fresh concrete about to harden.
– Until then... maintain civility. Or pretend to. I don't care. But in front of others, you will walk as a team. You said as you broke the two men's personal space.
Volkov let out a muffled grunt.
Dev merely nodded his head dryly. You passed between them, climbing the last steps, as if cutting their rivalry in half.
– Follow me. And try not to kill each other until we get there –
And, without waiting for an answer, you walked ahead without looking back.
Silent, your first aligned lambs. Almost as if they had never torn pieces off each other.
You walked ahead with firm steps, even though your body still felt the weight of what had happened minutes before. The heat of König's presence still burned the back of your neck, as if his gaze were still branded on you, like a stigma, even though he was no longer there. Drawing another sigh from you.
They were there, side by side, a little behind you, but they seemed made of atoms born in different universes.
Volkov had his eyes narrowed as if he saw danger even in his own shadow. The blond hair shaved on the sides denoted a barracks life from the cradle, a military upbringing. The scruffy beard, the marked veins in his neck, and the locked jaw gave the impression that, if someone shouted "war," he would be the first to run, not to protect, but to shatter skulls with gunfire.
That wide build, the impossible-to-ignore shoulders, the arms covered in pale scars… everything about him screamed brutality. A living version of a Soviet poster, but with less ideology and more rage. An Aryan Russian carved by blows, who seemed to carry an entire winter on his back.
"Combat beast. Acts first, thinks later. Probably respects no one until forced to."
You immediately noticed the discreet scars that cut across his forearm. Old stories he would never tell, but which were there, signed as a mark.
"But at least he survives. That counts."
Dev, on the other hand, was sharp as a scalpel. He kept his back straight as a spear, and his eyes... his eyes resembled a desert storm. Dark, messy hair as if the wind passed through him more than it should. There was something elegantly wild about him, like an animal that disguises itself in the foliage to attack you.
His fair, almost translucent brown skin under the dim light made the bluish dark circles even more evident, the kind of look that seemed to carry sleepless nights and more thoughts than his age allowed.
"Looks too clean. Too rigid. I bet he was born on a military base, or something like that."
The way he held his hands, firm and restrained, revealed a mind that preferred to explode inside than to show it. And the way he analyzed the environment without turning his head... unsettling.
"Observer. Rational. Probably analyzed me completely three times since I arrived."
You subtly tilted your head to the side, wanting to see them from another perspective, just an old habit of observing targets from different angles. And there they were: raw instinct and cold brain. Force and calculation.
Two soldiers. Two problems.
Two pieces of a mechanism that now... were parts of your machine.
The corridors seemed too long. The sound of their boots behind you sounded like hammering on your subconscious. Passing a group of soldiers, you felt their stares cling to your uniform. Whispers drifted through the air, muffled, but not enough.
– Think she can handle them?
– One of them is Volkov...
You didn't look away. You couldn't.
Being seen as fragile here would be your end. Now you truly had something to care about.
This publication has no intention of attacking any religion or faith, it is just my way of expressing a fictitious admiration.
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