is a multiple part story about love surviving where nothing else does. Set against the quiet aftermath of war.
It follows König and Y/N — two souls who find peace, not in victory, but in each other’s presence.
It’s a tale of devotion that endures through silence, grief, and time itself — love reborn through letters, memories, and the daughter left behind.
More than a war story, it’s a testament to the quiet power of humanity —
to live gently,
love fiercely,
and remember tenderly.
Part I: Will you still love me
Part II: Like a Stone
Part III: If there is a heaven
*Additions "The Cabin Exhibit"*
Part IV: Pictures
Part V: Curator's note
Part VI: I remember them both
Part VII: Letter from Corporal Lukas Brenner
Part VIII: Letter from Y/N to König
Part IX: Curator's note - Final entry
Part X: Letter of Gratitude - from Lina
✎: Fun fact, part one is on 600+ NOTES??? HOLY SHIT?!? THANK Y’ALL SO MUCH😋!!! (You don’t need to read the other parts to read this one)
🌸Part One
💕Part Two
♡Summary: Wholesome headcanons of dating Ghost PT.3 <3
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷.-*
Bf!Ghost loves seeing you wear his clothes. Although you practically own or have worn at least half of his wardrobe, he still gets that same content feeling that surges throughout his body when he sees you lounging in one of his t-shirts. They looked way baggier on you, but that makes it even better. No matter what you’re wearing, he’ll always do a double take, smile, and say:
“It looks cuter on you, keep it.”
Bf!Ghost never backs down from his light hearted pranks, no matter what day, season or time it is. Halloween was coming up and he remembered that uncannily misplaced skeleton prop in your garage, slowly withering away as other things piled on top of it. Compared to how it was originally bought, it honestly looked ten times scarier. The quality was worn out and old, perfect for the prank he was about to play on you.
He stood at the end of the dimly lit corridor, calling out your name like he needed your help with a favour.
“Y/N?” he said, trying to contain his laughter by clearing his throat.
“Hmm?”
“C’mere for a sec, ‘need yer help with something.”
You turned your corridor’s lights on before making your way to where his voice was, before you made the final turn he held the flimsy skeleton prop out which admittedly scared you half to death.
“Boo.”
“Ahhh,” you replied, trying to mask how genuinely scared you were with his thoughtless prank. He saw how scared you were, even if it was very, very brief.
“The skeleton checks out,” you quipped, rolling your eyes.
Bf!Ghost always ties your shoe laces for you. Always. It’s honestly became a tradition for whenever you guys go out.
“You ready to go?” you asked, kneeling down to slip on your Jordan’s.
“Wait, I forgot something.”
You expected him to make a quick trip upstairs to grab whatever he forgot, but he suddenly knelt down in front of you, catching you off guard for a second until you realised what he was doing.
You stood up, smiling down at him as he effortlessly tied your shoes.
“Aw, such a gentlemen.”
You always tease him for his officious habits, just like how he always keeps them up.
Bf!Ghost is used to solving your unserious petty arguments with pillow fights. Upon hearing a satirical remark from him, you’d grab any nearby pillow and thwack his face with it. He would grab a pillow and use it to shield his face before you guys have a blast with pillows. They always start off with teasing before they gradually grow in competitiveness. He’s fully aware he can easily win each and every single time but he still acts defeated so you can win. But you still are pretty good at beating people with pillows… is that something he should be taking note of?
“That’s it, let it all out.” He teased, still using a pillow as a shield whilst flailing it at you.
Bf!Ghost draws on your arm/thigh when he’s bored.
“Y’know ink poison is a thing, right?” you asked, still closely watching as he draws an intricate flower on your arm.
“Eh… you’ll live, dove.”
The drawings are honestly impressive, you kind of want to keep them on - possibly get them tattooed just to surprise him and catch his reaction. They’ll be worth the ink poisoning, anyways.
Bf!Ghost can’t go to bed knowing you’re upset with him. He will not go to sleep until he’s forgiven or if he sees you smile, literally. He knows you’re unaware of how many nights he’s kept himself up just because you wouldn’t talk to him and he plans on keeping it that way. He doesn’t even know why he does it, it’s just his guilty consciousness gnawing at him.
Bf!Ghost tickles you just so hear you laugh - it’s always out of nowhere, too. You could be in bed together as he’s resting his head on your stomach and out of nowhere he’d turn to face you. You curiously peer at him. His fingers make way to your stomach and start mercilessly tickling you and you’re suddenly dying from all the giggles and laughter,
“Simon!” you exclaimed through chuckles, trying to clutch onto your stomach whilst floundering his hands off.
Bf!Ghost has only one collection: his beloved teacup collection, of course. You decided to ironically gift him a skeleton cup you saw when you were shopping. God, if you only knew how much that flimsy cup with that cute little chibi cartoon style skeleton waving a British flag around meant to him.
It’s his go to cup each time he drinks tea, which is everyday. If any of his lads comes over and he’s casually sipping his tea, he never fails to mention how you got it.
“The misses got me this,” or something along those lines. He completely abandoned his other ones, this was just his signature cup.
Bf!Ghost has his occasional late night cravings, some weird, some not. But he’s just continually found himself having them and each time it’s at night. He’s not one to typically participate in British stereotypes, well… sometimes. But the urge for a good ol’ beans on toast was starting to get irrepressible. You were willing to try some, too. It honestly wasn’t even bad - in fact, it was good. You added some cheese on yours for the sake of the exquisiteness, so did he. You guys also mix any drinks you have together like odd scientists taking ‘shots’.
Bf!Ghost was trying his very hardest to keep quiet as you took a nap on him. He was a light sleeper, it was only natural to assume everyone else was. He’d inherently hold his breath every now and then whilst keeping his body meticulously still. When he felt faint and dizzy, that’s when he knew about his involuntary breath holding. Little did he know, you were deep in sleep. There could be a boisterous, off-beat 80s band playing and you would still be knocked out.
Bf!Ghost had a long, dreadful day - so did you. You were both burned out and feeling so overstimulated from the lingering buzz of people and their loud conversations and the dizziness from somehow feeling faint. When you have days like this, you’d silently endure in each other’s company, laying with each other in bed with a comfortable tranquility. You’d just appreciate each other being there as his warm hands are wrapped around you. You were both feeling unbothered. but the only person you could both bare seeing at the moment was each other.
König x reader
Fandom: Call of Duty
Words: 588
*Trigger warning* actually? none ... I think
The nights come quieter now, though the war never truly sleeps.
You hear it in the way the wind moves — like it carries the ghosts of every man who didn’t come back. The camp smells of gun oil and wet earth, a metallic perfume that clings to your clothes no matter how many times you wash them. And still, somehow, there’s something sacred in the silence that follows the chaos.
He finds you there. König.
Tall and shadowed, the fabric of his hood damp with mist, his breath soft behind the mask. He doesn’t say your name — he never does — but you feel it, somewhere between your ribs, like the echo of a church bell.
“Du solltest schlafen,” he murmurs, voice heavy with exhaustion, yet gentle.
And maybe you should. But the way he looks at you — like you are the only unbroken thing left in a world made of ruins — keeps you awake.
You smile faintly, eyes catching the faint gleam of his in the dark. “And you?”
He doesn’t answer, not really. König never answers questions that reach too close. He just sits beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, the weight of him grounding you to the present. You feel the tremor in his hands as he takes off his gloves — pale skin scarred and raw from the cold — and you wonder if it’s from the battle or from holding too much.
You’ve seen him fight. You’ve seen what he becomes when the world demands a monster.
But here, under the thin light of the moon, he’s only a man — one who looks at you like he’s memorizing something he knows he’ll lose.
“Do you ever think,” you whisper, “that when it’s over, we won’t recognize ourselves?”
His eyes shift toward the horizon — endless and gray. “Maybe. But I will recognize you.”
And that’s the kind of sentence that breaks something open in your chest.
The days bleed into one another, and the war keeps taking. But König stays. He stays in the quiet moments — when he patches your sleeve with calloused fingers, when his hand lingers a second too long as he passes you your weapon, when he looks at you like you are not part of the battlefield, but part of the reason he survives it.
He tells you, once, in a low voice, that he fears growing old.
Not for the reason most men do — not the wrinkles or the weight of years. But because he fears the world won’t remember what it meant to be human, and that one day you’ll look at him and see only the war left behind in his bones.
And you say — maybe foolishly, maybe truthfully — “Even if the world forgets, I won’t.”
Later, when the fighting is over, when the smoke has thinned and the air smells almost clean again, König finds you sitting in the quiet of dawn. His hood is gone, his face shadowed by the soft gold of sunrise. You see the lines, the wear, the grief carved deep.
You think of the song you used to hum under your breath — Will you still love me when I’m no longer young and beautiful?
And you know the answer before you even ask it.
Because love, the kind born in the ruins, doesn’t fade. It doesn’t need beauty to survive — it only needs memory.
He touches your cheek, softly, reverently, like a man afraid to wake from a dream.
Masterlist
