Chapter Text
You force yourself to release the death grip you have on König’s hood, your body held up by your thighs across his shoulder. His hands are burning points of contact along your hips, and your back is pressed into the wall while he kneels.
Your brain is still scrambling to compute when you feel his hot breath stir against one leg cocked around his head, because he’s moved to nuzzle into your inner thigh through your tac-pants. His nose traces along the muscle that runs vertical from the crease near your pussy, straining; it’s the one that tightens when you’re about to come around the vibrator you’ve been wishing was his cock for the last month and a half.
It’s like he can read your thoughts, because his shoulders are shaking, almost imperceptible but there, like he’s got a well of pent up energy in his body and you’re dangling something so tempting in front of him: how wet he sees you are for him through the eyeholes of his sniper’s hood, can smell through the layers.
“Gott,” he chokes out. You’ve picked up enough swear words from joint base deployments to know he’s invoking the Almighty after being nearly nose-deep in your covered pussy, and if that’s not an indication of attraction, you really don’t know what is. He pulls away, like you’re offering him something he can’t partake in, and you feel a sudden rush of despondent loss so keenly that you want to screech no, wait.
“Hey—” you rush out, reaching down to fist your hands in the fabric of his sniper’s hood. König halts, and there’s this agonizing second when you think he’s going to put you down and everything is going to return to the status quo once again and you’ll be separated across mess hall tables, staring each other down, circling like a pair of wolves that don’t know how to communicate except through loaded glances and occasional banter (and breaking and entering to commit panty theft).
But then he doesn’t put you down. And, just like you’ve shoved your phone into his hand before and explicitly spelled out instructions for König to put his number in it, you get the message across with clear, concise action. You reach up, unbutton your pants, and slide them a few inches off of your waist. Moonlight illuminates the lacy stretch of black over your hip bone, the third set of panties that hasn’t been the subject of his suspected larceny (yet).
The sound König makes is inhuman.
Wrecked, punched out, almost a whine that makes you flood your panties again, goddamnit, because it’s so needy. It’s the noise you make when you fuck yourself with the vibrator and it’s not enough, biting the meat of your palm, near to tears, overstimulated and not stimulated enough because you want his cock so fucking bad, and you wonder what the other side of that is like if he’s feeling an iota of what you go through on a regular basis—only instead of fantasizing about the things you want to do to him, he’s fantasizing about the things to do to you.
There’s a shift as he moves to stand, and the world tilts a little as you’re lifted bodily up and your head knocks back gently on the plaster wall your back is braced on. You steady yourself with your hands on his head, doing your best to not pull at the hood. He pries your pants down with one fist until they’re around your knees, the thigh holster unstrapped with his deft fingers to put it and your Glock somewhere on the floor.
Then he crouches, puts his head through the vee of your legs so your ankles are somewhere in the zipcode of the middle of his back and he has nothing but your naked thighs bracketed around his head—the fabric of his hood is soft, so fucking soft.
It rubs the crease on the inside of your leg where it joins your hip, and you watch, stunned, as he reaches up to fumble with the bottom and pulls it up to expose the lower part of his face. You catch a brief glimpse of that corded neck, an angular jaw, and his mouth with an imperfect split scarring one corner before you’re not processing sight, sound, or anything else for a white-hot second because he’s kissing your pussy through the wet lace of your panties.
König’s fingers grasp your thighs, levering you up against the wall, and you can feel the uneven plaster digging into the skin of your ass but you are so beyond caring about that right now, because he’s mouthing something against your cunt and you’re pretty sure this is how you die, in some mildew-riddled church near Gdańsk, cardiac arrest because the object of your obsession is kissing your cunt through your panties like he’s fucking starving—
He pulls away long enough to tug the crotch of your underwear to the side of your swollen lips, muttering, “So wet for me already…”
“Constantly,” you thread out, because if the vibe you’re catching from him is any indication, now is primetime to share just how much you want this. How reality is quickly proving different, better than what you’ve conjured up in your mind, because he hitches your hips forward with the rough Kevlar of his gloves digging into the flesh of your ass so you’ve got nowhere to go but fucking yourself against his face.
You don’t know what to do with your hands besides help lift up the bottom of the hood to keep the lower half of his face clear. His tongue starts lapping at your clit.
“Fingers,” you clip out, short, shrill, “want your fingers in me,”—König’s so fucking good at instructions. You do the same when he’s assisting you on mission ops. All he needs is guidelines and he will follow the writ of order to the tee, ‘cause he stops long enough with his mouth to shift one hand to cradle your tailbone, keeping you aloft against the wall with nearly a six foot drop between you and the floor (god he’s so fucking strong that it makes you dizzy).
He pulls the glove off by biting the fingertips, drops it, and gives you what you want with one thick finger sinking into your wet heat. It’s so easy, and your cunt grasps, sucks and pulls like a wet mouth and you hear his breathing get even more uneven, wild. Like he’s panting. You see his mouth part with it, slick with you. You can tell he's watching how his finger stretches out your hole, tight and fluttering as he sinks into you to the first knuckle, then the second. “More, baby,” you’re near to begging, cooing with your nails scraping at his scalp through the hood. He kisses your clit again, making this whimpering sound that hums against your folds, flicking his tongue in a way that makes you squirm against the plaster, knocking flakes of it off that fall snow-like and silent to the floor between his spread boots. You can feel him walk his stance wider as his shoulders shift under your straining legs. He sinks another finger in you.
“F-fuck…” you sigh, part-relief, part-agony—he fills you up better than anything you’ve had before, and this isn’t even his cock. It’s just two fingers, thick and calloused, the same that manage the trigger of his assault rifle. And now they’re in you, and you don’t even have to tell him to crook them forward and rub at that spongy spot that builds something in you so sharp and swift that you realize you’re not in this for a long ride.
He’s going to make you come so goddamn fast like this, because there is no way in heaven or hell this drags out with what he’s doing to you with his mouth, sucking at your clit like it’s hard candy, almost too much pressure that makes you squirm, and his fingers are fucking in and out of you, a gentle counterpoint to what he’s doing with his mouth, like he’s afraid of making a misstep stretching you out with them, like he hasn’t done this in a while, if at all. But his mouth and tongue are firm, restless, desperate, like he can't get enough of how you taste.
König presses you further back into the wall, and it takes you an angled look down and a half-beat of your brain processing before you realize how goddamn hard and thick he is cause you can see the outline of his cock, and you want to coo “poor thing” and have him drop you right on it, or pull the zipper down on his tac-pants so he can fuck your face in turn.
But you’re greedy, and you can do that later, and you will make the goddamn time to squeeze in a sloppy, quick blowjob to help take his edge off, because he’s being so good to you, and what he’s doing right now is just right. Let him eat you out and make you come first, humping his hips almost instinctively because he’s desperate for relief. Can he come just like this, without even a puff of air across the drooling tip of his cock, just comes in his pants from tasting your pussy?
Tangent to that, a fun little thought crosses your absolutely blissed out brain: Getting eaten out in a church is probably sacrilegious. He’s Austrian. Isn’t Austria a Catholic country? Are you corrupting a good Catholic boy?
You sure fucking hope so.
“Oh my f-fucking god—” you rasp. There is nothing controlled or artful about how he’s going about this—it’s hungry, his free hand shaking as it kneads your thigh, then cups your ass. He keeps you pinned against the wall with his body between your legs draped over his big shoulders. The sounds coming from between them are obscene. Sucking, wet.
By how far the hood has shoved up his face, König’s doing this blind and by feeling alone with the fabric hiked up over his eyeholes. Fortunately, this is not a visualization exercise, even though it would be so fucking nice to see his eyes while he eats you out.
Later, you tell yourself.
There’s probably some serious trust exercise as a prerequisite to gain access to König’s uncovered face. For now you can get by on the sight of his strong jaw, the stubble raking against your inner thighs, and how that imperfectly healed split on his mouth has a different texture than the rest of his lips as they suck and play with your clit.
You are no longer the loudest one in this exchange—he’s giving you all sorts of noises that make your toes curl in your boots, but it’s near to levels you’re supposed to not reach on this op. It’s not like you’re expected to creep around like church mice, but how he’s moaning into your pussy is about the same decibel as throwing pots down a flight of metal stairs when it comes to op-sec.
“Shh-h—uh-h,” urging him to hush fumbles out of your mouth, tongue leaden.
When you look down, there’s the vague shape of his nose under the hood, but when he buries his face between your legs, the hood shoves up again, gets wet with your mess, and you think about how even when this is over, he’s going to smell you all over the fabric he breathes through.
König’s fingers hook into the waist of your underwear, pulling hard until you feel it dig into the crease of your thigh where he's pushed it aside. It doesn't take much force from him. The fabric tears off of you. Your panties dangle off his fingers before he drops his hand out of sight and you’re left bucking your hips against his face, fucking it like he’s fucking you with his fingers, his tongue.
You try to focus on not letting your hands drop his hood, desperate to keep his mouth clear so he can keep doing what he’s doing, which is rapidly driving you insane, because artless is quickly turning technical ‘cause this guy is a fast learner and seems to key in on your whines, your sighs like reading a terrain map or a particularly informative bit of intel. The blunt pads of his fingers rub, putting pressure on the front wall of your cunt that’s building something absolutely cataclysmic in you.
“G-good boy,” you gasp, “fuck, such a good boy for me—” You buck your hips against his face. You’re riding his tongue, his nose, his chin as you grind your cunt into him, and he’s moaning, desperate, needing that contact. You can tell he wants that slick wetness all over his face, wants more praise out of your mouth, petting his head through the sniper’s hood, telling him how good he is, how good this feels.
You’re fucking his face like he would yours. Using him to get off. You can see when you look down his hips rutting against nothing, and when he drops the hand that’s still got your ruined panties hanging like a spiderweb of black lace between his fingers, he’s palming his cock through his pants, using only his shoulders and the sheer leverage of them to hold you against the wall while he keeps going with his fingers, his mouth.
It’s insane—you’re going to come like this, ass scraping against some seventeenth century plasterwork with your body six feet off the floor while König fucks you with his fingers, sucking on your clit until more of that dial-up noise rockets through your brain and everything whites out, tingling. You just say “oh” and come against his mouth.
You buck, your thighs locked up around his head, likely squeezing sound out because you’re clamping over his ears, and you hear him whine. It’s a close thing to just strangling him with your legs because you’re panting, winded, and holy shit it’s still all tingling, shocks up your spine and that delicious unwinding of pressure furling out from your center, thighs tense, calves aching, muscles tight until they slacken and you’re just left shaking with it.
When König keeps going, lapping up your wetness, you have to rasp out a short “uh-uh, baby” and he eases back, pulls his fingers out of you, but that’s noted down in your rapidly expanding list of to dos—letting him keep on, tonguing your overstimulated pussy until you cry.
You unclench your fingers from the hood to let it drape across his face again, sliding down the wall. He ducks out of the vee of your legs so you can put both feet on the floor when you hit it, but you never do. His arms catch you just below the ass so your feet are dangling. Your pants are still hobbling your ankles, but you don’t care—you just want his mouth, and he wants yours. You help him pull up part of the hood just to expose his mouth again, respectful-like, and taste yourself all over his lips, and as far as first kisses go, it’s not like anyone you’ve ever had.
Nor one you’ve had after the guy’s technical first kiss was on a completely different part of your anatomy. Or a kiss given when you still can’t see his full face. He bears you back into the plaster wall so there’s not enough space between you both to fit a needle through.
Your arms drape over his shoulders and you sneak a hand up to feel the heat of the back of his neck, hopefully not violating any one unspoken rule he has about touching him under the hood. There’s no hint of hair back there—does he buzz his head? He leans into it like a big cat, groaning into your mouth.
The kiss turns about as messy and detailed as how he ate you out, tongue, heat, lips. Soft fabric brushes against your nose, your cheeks, and there’s this sense of him enveloping you completely with his body, holding you tight to him like a joint of metal welded sidelong to a bigger beam, like he can’t let you go.
You’re about to upgrade your just-earned merit badge of “eaten out against a church wall” to “fucked against a church wall”, because if you don’t get his dick out and in you in the next twenty seconds, you’re going to actually die. From how he’s sounding, he’s of one mind, pulling away with just a thin string of spit connecting your lips.
Without your hands holding it up or your mouth against his, the drape of König’s hood falls back in place. He’s muttering “muss in dir sein, Kätzchen” which, from how he’s reaching between you both and fumbling with his belt buckle has you nodding stupidly and understanding exactly what he’s saying even though you don’t speak a lick of conversational German. You’re scrambling to “step” out of your BDUs while still being pinned by his body against the wall, which amounts to just flailing and kicking your booted feet out of bunched-up tac-pants.
But then the comm line sizzles in both your ears and you freeze like someone has just shot liquid nitrogen into your veins instead of Hutch keying up. Where you've got your hand through an opening in his flak vest, you can feel König's pounding heartbeat and imagine he can see yours jumping through the material of your shirt.
“Thirty minute blackout is up, kids—got video booting up here in sixty seconds for a test feed. How’s the weather?”
Your voice only shakes a little bit as you answer “sunny” instead of “god you motherfucker” and if Hutch notices, he doesn’t needle you about it. König eases you down to the floor and draws away from you.
His eyes track you through the holes of his mask, inscrutable, but his chest is heaving, like he’s just ran a marathon. You can’t look lower than his covered face, because if you look at the perfect outline of his cock sitting heavy against his leg through his tac-pants, you’ll ruin operational security and cave in to fuck him, probably get both of you canned or shot or worse.
“Raincheck,” you shoot at König, trying to keep your dignity intact as you wrestle with your pants and button them, now commando with a wet mess between your legs that rubs uncomfortably on the inseam of your BDUs.
König says nothing, pocketing the ruined scrap of your lace underwear.
Yeah, you have a pretty good idea of who has been stealing your panties.