Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s become a preoperative ritual the night before a big to-do. You shoot a text out on the group chat consisting of yourself, Hutch, Roze, Horangi, and König to rally in the mess hall.

CULTURAL EXCHANGE HOUR, you type out in all caps. 

The little bubble indicating typing pops up next to Roze’s icon almost immediately. Last time, she’d brought some lighter fluid masquerading as moonshine. The ex-Army Ranger claimed it had seen her through two deployments and was a consumable memento from her great-grandfather who prospected back in Denver and distilled for supplemental income. It came in a clear glass jar (“can’t put it in anything else, it’ll eat through plastic in five minutes flat”) and smelled like absolute death.

Horangi had made everyone chase the ‘shine with his native soju, which, you had to admit, was almost sugar-sweet after Roze’s white lightnin’. You were looking forward to making him sing for his supper for the preferred bottle of liquor you had brought for tonight—got the K-pop song all picked out and everything.

The real sweetness during the last exchange meetup came from Hutch, who had brought Baileys to top off everyone’s late-night coffees as the conversation wore on and the late PM turned into early AM. The buzz from the moonshine and soju had long worn off by the time you said that enough culture had been exchanged and stumbled home to your prefab.

The four of you weren’t simply guzzling down shots during these informal gatherings, though that did happen. But the liquor was just a social lubricant, an excuse to taste a sip from home and talk about everything and nothing before you all deployed into the shit the morning after.

Your phone pings and you see the text from Roze. 

Spinning up pre-flight checks with Horangi, no go for us.

Boo 😿, you text back, but there is no heart or hurt meant in it. Far be it from you to keep a lady from her helicopter rotor blades. Structural integrity is paramount in the precious Sikorsky S-76 Roze babies like a teacup Yorkie, and she’s slated to run night-ops missions with Horangi on a two-on-two-off shift starting tomorrow afternoon. 

You would know. You’d seen her name appended with a curling, pretty rose on the whiteboard in the ops center along with the rest of the team lineup for Codename: Baltic Audit. Horangi’s name was just written out in Hangul—you hadn’t picked up much of the Korean alphabet yet, but since the whole base only boasted a singular Korean mission specialist, you and everyone else knew who it indicated. 

After that had been Hutch, and then right beneath your own name was the blocky, serious König. 

König, your Cultural Exchange wallflower, has only come to two of the meet-ups so far, finally capitulating after a month of aggressive peer pressure from you, Hutch, Roze, and Horangi. He rarely partook, either, which was okay. You’d been told, when you joined KorTac, that “the big guy’s shy” but you weren’t entirely sure that was the case. It seemed more like the Austrian operator just didn’t know what to say outside of mission parameters. 

It wasn’t a surprise that he’d achieved his high rank in his own country’s military while still relatively young. You’d heard (and seen) him operate. Knew his voice on the radio waves as one of stern, sometimes cocky, commanding confidence as he led his firesquad. He was the first to enter and the last to exfil out of an active firefight, always guarding his team’s six with the massive bulk of his ceramic-plated body. Who wouldn’t promote a guy like that? It was like someone cooked him up in some Austrian military lab to be predestined for Colonel by design. Folks in KorTac still referred to him by the title out of respect. 

Rank was a loose concept in a PMC—you left your own hard-won titles at the door when you contracted on for a three-year stint, leaving the auspices of what most would consider ‘normal’ military regs for the fat paychecks only the private sector could provide. You and the new crew now operate outside of the legal trappings of any one country’s banner. 

Your phone’s screen lights up again. Hutch must be watching your group text chatter, ‘cause, sure enough, he’s there with a raincheck: Debrief from Kabul op ran long. Grabbing Zs before tomorrow. See you bright and early, sunshines. 🌞

You let your face fall onto the plastic of the mess hall table, sighing. You’ve been jilted. Abandoned. You’re all dressed up with nowhere to go (well, not really. You’re still in the same fatigues you wear every day you’re in active theater). 

You would say as much in the group chat, but that would make you sound petty and childish, and the person you want to see most wouldn’t respond, anyway.

He never does. König never texts as a rule, and you have yet to pluck up the nerve to text him on the side of the group chat, regardless of your growing obsession with him.

Yes, obsession. 

Like, it wasn’t an actual diagnosis or anything, but that’s only because you haven’t shared the absolutely insane amount of information gathering you’d done on the Austrian operator to your KorTac-mandated shrink. If you had admitted what you’d been up to in the organization’s personnel files, you’re sure Doctor Kathleen, Psy.D., would have fingered her strand of freshwater pearls like you wished König would finger you all while furrowing her brow in that concerned way of hers while jotting down words like unhinged, unhealthy, and, yes, obsessive in her little legal pad. 

Then, if you were lucky, you’d be swiftly reassigned to the ass-end of nowhere, far from the quiet, hulking Austrian you wanted to fuck until one or both of you needed intravenous hydration as an emergency intervention before you wrung out so much bodily fluids from each other during an all-out fuckfest that you were near to death. 

If you weren’t lucky, you’d be shitcanned lickety-split and out on your ass in no time flat.

So, no. You haven’t talked to König and you haven’t talked about him. You’ve just…obsessed since the moment you laid eyes on him.

You’ve done contract work for KorTac for what feels like a billion years, but in all actuality, it’s only been one trip around the sun since you got here, backfilling the role left vacant by some bizarre happenings with their last communications specialist. Rumor was that he'd suffered some kind of mental break during a high-stakes op in Rustaq. Started claiming that his coffee maker was possessed, screaming about how they’re in the walls, they’re in the goddamn walls! 

(The old comms specialist had always been a bit batty, but no one expected such a sudden loss of faculties and accusations of inanimate object possession by the powers of Satan. After getting shipped back stateside and spending a stint in a psychiatric facility, he resigned from fieldwork to go raise rabbits or something in Montana, and good for him. You hear it’s beautiful out there.)

KorTac needed someone to fill the gap pronto, which is where you came in. You excelled at shot calling from day one, bolstered by years of overwatch experience in active theaters as a comms specialist in your old branch. It took single-minded focus to be that firm, controlling voice on the radio letting your people know that they had an eye in the sky, a watcher on the walls or some shit, and you were nothing if not focused.

When it came to König, you are a little too focused. Again, see: obsession.

That’s the only word you’ve come up with to describe this chronic, knee-jerk reaction to always search him out in a room, on base, on the radio, on the drone oversight footage. You can’t even call it a crush anymore. You’ve had this aching need since you first saw him duck under the lintel of a too-low door frame into a conference room for a debrief. You didn’t even know a guy hunching to clear the completely standard, expected height of a doorframe could be labeled as a turn-on, but everything about this new job (from the trials and tribulations of an international team to the ever-shifting climates KorTac kept shipping you to) is a journey of self-discovery. 

Now, it feels as though you are naught but a vessel for the weird fascinations you repress like a Victorian prude. Like, why the hell should the fact that he has to duck through doors be so fucking hot? Why does the cadence of his voice calling out incoming fire in your earpiece make the hairs on the back of your neck stand up? Why does the thick, pulsing column of his exposed throat when he lifts his sniper’s hood to take a drink of water get you wetter than monsoon season in Thailand? 

The first time you’d seen him in full gear, stooping to duck under the metal doorframe into the ops room, you’d almost spat out your apparently-possessed coffee in surprise. The sight of him squeezing himself into the shitty little conference room was more of a shock than the scalding liquid splashing across your knees, and your usually mile-a-minute mouth hung open like a trap door for long enough that Hutch had asked if you needed the defibrillator. 

You’d spent that initial meeting shooting dazed looks at him like someone had stundrove you with a taser (which, in hindsight, was extremely unprofessional). For his part, König avoided your gaze like it was his job. He clearly enjoyed this occupation and continued to excel at avoiding you from then on out. Catching sight of him again wasn’t exactly big game hunting—the KorTac FOB was only so big—but finding him outside of working hours in the weeks that followed felt like chasing down a goddamn unicorn.

Despite your initial jaw-dropping attraction to the man, it wasn’t like you were going to attack him or anything, even if you do still fantasize about leaping onto his tree-trunk torso and climbing him like a spider monkey. You’d already gotten friendly with Hutch, Roze, and Horangi by then, and if König was going to be on your team, you wanted to get to know him. 

All his evasions kind of pissed you off. What, was The Colonel too good to give little old you the time of day? That incensed feeling of injustice had sped your feet to his side when you caught him talking with Horangi and Hutch while Roze took care of the KorTac Huey, Big Bertha, post-op. You bullied them all into joining a group text, and had been surprised to see König’s huge hands tremble a little as you shoved your phone into them and demanded he give you his number.

Now, in the empty mess hall, you sit. Like a spider. Waiting. Because now, everyone else has waved off the gathering that makes it a comfortable group setting and narrowed this down to a twosome. You don’t know whether to stand up and scream jackpot or send out a blanket cancellation and pack it up, hit the showers. You can’t be sure König hasn’t already read the text thread and disappeared into whatever alternate dimension the guy seems to dissolve into when ops aren’t running. 

But something keeps your ass glued to the plastic of your folding chair. Some glimmer of a feeling where you’re beginning to suspect the obsessive feelings are, in fact, not one-sided. 

Mutual, perhaps, because two sets of your nicest, bikini-cut lace panties are missing in action. And as a habit, you’ve guarded your laundry like a dragon laying over a hoard of gold because you’ve been in communal living spaces for most of your adult life through multiple deployments. Wearing nice underwear under fatigues and a well-used rotation of PT wear is a secret pleasure of yours. You don’t get to dress up for work. You have to look within regs, and that extends to the PMC dress code, which is laxer than the actual military but still within the boundaries of looking groomed, professional.

So how in the hell something as sacrosanct and guarded as your underwear suddenly going AWOL when you have to go to the trouble of having new pairs flown in via a C-130 resupply to the ass-end-of-nowhere is suspicious, to say the least. It can't all be chalked up to your own negligence in rounding up laundry from the dryer and washer. 

Someone is targeting your underwear. 

Chapter Text

You’re pretty sure you know who is stealing your panties, because there is a distinct feeling of being tailed from the comms room for the last month and a half since you press ganged König’s number from him. It always lingers until you reach your door in the prefab blocks of housing units on base, jiggling the keys until your lock catches and gives to let you in. 

The typical way the lock catches stopped one day. One afternoon at the conclusion of a long shift in the ops center, you put your keys in and found it was a well-oiled, slick slide and easy open, and you wondered when the maintenance crew came by to fix it if you didn’t put in a request. 

You thought nothing of it, but then the feeling continued anytime you had your blackout curtains popped open. There was a new smell that lingered some days, pine-scented and heavy in your nose when you walked in. It blanketed your bed and you noticed a dip in the crisp, iron-straight sheets you make each morning as a holdover from your halcyon days in OCS. 

So you upped the ante. Whoever is watching you, König or whoever the fuck is interested enough to spy on you, gets a show regularly now. The line of sight from your window is a second-story view on the lovely stacks of concrete that form the curtain wall of the base and a flat, dusty stretch of field between the housing units and the ops center. 

You haven’t been this invested in a nude Sun Salutation routine on your bedroom floor in years. The fact that you’ve got your watcher to thank for picking up the good self-care habit of yoga once more is shoved into the back of your brain with the rest of your repressed, deranged shit running around in there like a demented merry-go-round.

You go deeper. You break out the ergonomically curved, dependable workhorse of a vibrator for nights (and days, if you’ve pulled a night shift) where you’re so keyed up by the now rote and routine fantasies you’ve constructed in your depraved brain that they run like a concise script: 

Mildest, like a nice glass of wine after a hard day at work to unwind, is imagining König’s long body enveloping you, pressing you down into the mattress of your single-sized bed as he fucks you. He’s got you folded up, your knees pressed into your tits. Your ankles are somewhere around his ears, the shape of which you can only sketch in your head, ‘cause to date you’ve only seen the hollow of his throat and that’s as far as your mental recollection of König’s features get on physical sight alone. 

Instead of the silicone-covered pulse of the vibrator, it’s his cock in you, and he’s so fucking hard, filling you up, thumbing your clit with the big, blunt pad of his thumb that notches at the top of your slit, rubbing until you come around him, keening. He doesn’t stop there and keeps drilling into you, groaning “schatz” or some other German endearment into your ear in that thick, guttural accent that fries your brain.

More adventurous, like a cocktail laced with strong whiskey and so fruity that it masks the taste and gets you drunk twice as fast, you fantasize about what you think he’d do if you asked the other operator sweetly, nicely, to get on his knees and be a good boy. 

Kiss your cunt. 

Spread his massive hands over your hips, cup the cheeks of your ass and open your legs like he’s opening the hinge on a precious locket, or peeking into something secret and reserved only for him. Lap up your slick and moan doing it, like it’s the only thing he could want on the tip of his hot tongue as it slides between your lips. 

Riding his face, feeling his nose grind on your clit, sitting on it like a goddamn chair because he wants it that bad.

Or, conversely, getting on your knees in an empty ops room or vacant backseat of a transport and asking him nicely to let you see it, ghosting your hands across his thighs as he’s seated and breathless and wanting it as much as you do. 

In those fantasies, constructed in some hind part of your lizard brain, you can only make out his eyes in the holes of his sniper’s hood as you pull the zipper of his fatigues down, their intensity startling, which is par for course. The guy doesn’t possess a single look where he’s not dialed into the situation in front of him like it holds some invaluable bit of intel, of importance. You’ve only caught him relaxing it a handful of times, once when you made a stupid joke about your Exorcist-impersonating, inherited coffee maker when it got into a fight with Hutch. Those pale eyes had lit up and crinkled at the corners before he had schooled his singular visible feature again.

Another time, you'd woken up after dozing off in the plane after a particularly fraught exfil to find König watching you sleep, eyes soft in a way you'd never seen aimed at a target. His grim focus melted into relaxed creases that stole some of the intensity out of his eyes, softened them. You live for those rare, flashfire glimpses past his impenetrable guard, brief but undeniable evidence that the Colonel is as human as the rest of you under all that intensity.

You wonder if that same focus will smolder if you take his dick in your mouth, if he’ll grab fistfuls of your hair and fuck your face until you cry with how good it feels to gag on his cock. Or if that intensity will melt, his head dropping back, lolling on his neck as he cups your cheek, sweet and soft and whining for it while you suck him off.

Either is good. You hope he does both.

Your last and most dangerous fantasy is this: it's the equivalent of chain shooting Everclear since it’s almost uncomfortable, because you think of all these fantasies, these scenarios, pistoning your toy out of your pussy and playing with your clit, flushed and sweaty, and your phone is only an arm’s reach away from you on your nightstand. Intrusive thoughts fog up your brain, like the ones you get randomly while driving to veer into oncoming traffic or when you’re sitting in a boardroom debriefing brass or clandestine intelligence agents to suddenly say fuck mid-sentence. 

You want to reach across your nightstand, grab your phone, snap a picture of what’s going on between your legs and hit send on it to the only contact labeled COL, or ring him up. Let him listen to the whirr of the vibrator slicking in and out of you, how your voice catches as you spell out for him what you want him to do in place of it. But that’s too much. Unsolicited. Unhinged. Uninvited.

But still, the thrill of taking that risk is as good as the pulse of your vibrator, which you just know doesn’t fill you up like his cock would and leaves you hollow, achy, and unsatisfied even after wringing out an orgasm or two. It becomes a familiar route you take towards climax with fantasies that involve only one guy who happens to be your coworker (and in a sense your superior as a team lead) and a man so powerful that he can break another guy’s back across his knee. You’ve seen him do it.

Invariably after employing one or more of these reveries, you end up in a sweaty, disheveled mess on your narrow bed. You stare at the prefab ceiling with light casting across you, whether it’s the sun or the artificial flood lamp in the field outside, streaming over your body. The thought still lingering that someone is watching. Always watching, like there’s a red dot of a sniper's sights moving over your tits, the curve of your hip, ending up between the wet, sticky mess between your legs and how it shines on your vibrator before you get up and go clean yourself in the tiny bathroom attached to your room.

Come to think of it, the timeline around when you start popping open your blackout curtains track exactly to when your underwear started disappearing. It's like Gremlins are invading your standing wardrobe to make off with the clothes for a ritual sacrifice. 

When you’re doing the rare bit of fieldwork on one of his firesquads, the guy is a silent, looming sentinel constantly watching your six. More than once you’ve caught hostiles misting near you because König has put a shotgun round through their chests (or heads) before they get in range for you to even deal with them. You’re living in the Splash Zone of his killshots ninety percent of the time when you do field ops because he’s tailing you to the extract point, crowding the door while a mission objective is being fulfilled by your expertise with tech, or taking point to use his body like a goddamn shield or battering ram to keep you behind him.

You don’t mind. Chivalry ain’t dead after all. In fact, you feel floaty, carefree to fulfill your objective like a good passenger princess while he drives the kill machine with his imposing form and armaments. 

Carrying through with that protective nature, of course, he always makes sure if you’re the last to exfil, he’s right behind you cradling his HK416, a lovely, German-made gas-powered assault rifle that dwarfs your hands when you hold it.

König let you hold it once when you and the fireteam were milling about near Big Bertha, getting ready to load up and head out. He cleared it and everything, popping the magazine and proffering the emptied chamber for your inspection because he’s a good operator and exercises perfect gun discipline. Only idiots fumble with an assault rifle and he’s been doing this for years. He handed it over and watched you inspect the emptied chamber, looking over the spotless piece for any rust or speck of dirt, finding no fault. Looked at how your hands were dwarfed on the barrel and the upper receiver, so small in comparison to how his hands cradle it and make it seem a toy instead of a deadly weapon.

When you looked back up at him, handing off the rifle, you thought that maybe, possibly, the identity of whoever was watching you on base wasn’t so obscure. That he was there, watching you with as much unfiltered intensity as you probably eyed him with. 

And maybe, just maybe, you think that all of this isn’t a one-sided, unrequited obsession—he only does a better job of hiding it. 

Or, maybe you’re completely fucking wrong and delusional and you’ve been committing exhibitionist acts to a non-audience or a very baffled surveillance team for the past month and a half. 

Chapter Text

You sit there in the mess hall with that stunned, half-dazed feeling which is becoming so familiar to you. 

You’re waiting for König to show up. Hoping, wishing, desperately wanting it. The clock on the wall ticks close to 23:00 and the door opens. You stop breathing for a half-beat, heat blasting in even though it’s dark outside. It shuts again and cool air washes over you once more. KorTac is operating outside of Erbil—it’s a balmy one-hundred degrees Fahrenheit on a regular basis, even in the dead of night.

König is in his typical sniper’s hood, but the rest of him is as dressed down as you’ve seen him get. No flak vest or body armor. Helmet absent. He’s only got his sidearm visible, strapped to his thigh in a holster. Fatigues like you’re wearing, though the shirt is a tired, military-grade drab olive that looks like it’s been with him since his time in his old counterterrorism unit (again, who cooked this guy up? Counterterrorism battering ram, someone needs to sedate you). Said shirt is straining across his pecs like it’s fighting for its life to give him adequate coverage. The sleeves of the tee-shirt are doing similar labors, barely straining over his biceps. 

Christ, you think, faintly, for the millionth time this month as you observe the man. 

You force yourself to exhale and lean back in your folding chair, waving him over, which seems stupid considering the mess is empty.

There’s a Christmas tree in the back between the many rows of folding tables. Being midsummer, it’s free of any holiday specific accoutrement and instead carries at least twenty-two flags to represent the nationalities of all the KorTac contractors on this particular forward operating base. 

(You’ve taken your country’s flag and stuck it next to the only Austrian flag. Like a maniac that doodles in your middle school notebook, putting a crush’s name next to yours so they entwine together in girly bubble-print, thinking of picket fences and two point five kids and a goofy yellow Labrador. 

Only this gesture is representative of more wistful, adult fantasies of him just putting his dick in you, sans the nuclear family daydreaming.

Maybe a little bit of the latter but someone would have to put thumbscrews to you to get a confession that you’ve been thinking that instead of a Labrador, a good Dobermann would suffice. Or whatever the hell they have as common dog breeds out in the Alps. Maybe he’s more of a cat guy?)

This FOB, unlike others you’ve been stationed at, is purely private military contractors. There’s a skeleton crew of vetted, discreet, in-country support staff that feeds everyone and clean everything, but mostly it’s just KorTac operators drifting through the prefabs, metal-shrouded hangers, and concrete structures. 

“Hey,” comes out of your mouth, a natural-like type of greeting, not “did you steal two pairs of my underwear” or “hey, Colonel, totally out of left-field, I know, but can I suck your cock?” 

Your blood pressure is probably through the roof. You can feel your heart running at least one-hundred and twenty beats per minute at an absolute rest, and remind yourself to get a goddamn grip.

You mentally pat yourself on the back for your unflagging professionalism in the face of such pressure (even though it’s crackling like a vase dropped from a two-story building), which has seen many a year of non-fraternization and collected manners, earning you the lionization as one of the best from your old brass.

That’s a reputation you are ready to put on the line, especially now that you’ve contracted with a PMC. You’ve read the KorTac company policy front to back and have yet to see anything about knocking boots being, to use a word from König’s mother tongue, verboten. In the absence of guidelines and guardrails, what is not spelled out as “against the rules” is fair game in your book. 

König doesn’t respond with a verbal greeting. He ducks his head, his paint-rimmed eyes going to the ground then darting back up to you. He holds your eyes for a half-beat before he looks away at that perpetually blinking, stupid, anti-Christmas tree of flags, and fuck if you don’t think he’s pausing and noticing how the Austrian flag is now living in a different zip code than its original placement. But he says nothing and you take stock of the tall bottle of something labeled in German in his big, ungloved hands, cradling it like he holds his assault rifle. 

You kick out the chair on the other side of the table, squeaking it across the linoleum as a way of offering him a seat. 

“Everyone else can’t be bothered to culturally exchange tonight,” you say, ready to explain for your singular attendance in what is normally a very busy, tight-knit social night so he doesn’t spook like a wild deer in headlights and bail. You don’t think he will, because by the look of how he’s standing, König is far more comfortable to be facing down just little old you for a change instead of the full panel of the KorTac Intercultural Booze Committee normally manning the table. His whole posture is more unwound by finding only you in attendance, like he can breathe easier, like he’s walking in on an unexpected surprise. 

König takes your excuse with a muffled grunt, settling down onto the flimsy chair and pulling himself close to the table. He sits off center of you, diagonal so you have to tilt your head to watch him. He puts his back to the wall and every other exit so he can mind the doors. You're mirroring that habit. The chair creaks under his weight and suddenly your immediate proximity is filled with him. You smell greasepaint and some generic, masculine scented soap that’s piney, fresh. You’re trying (operative word: trying) to ignore how wet it gets you. It’s Pavlovian at this point, like when the bell rings and the dog starts drooling because it expects food since that’s what it gets when it hears the sound.

Only your trigger is smell: the artificial scent of greasepaint he uses around his eyes, making the holes in his sniper’s hood seem huge, void-like, and interrupted only with the intense stare that’s locked onto you as you bounce your knee beneath the table. He sets down the tall bottle of clear-colored liquid between you both.  

You think of that same smell in your room in the housing unit. It lingers somedays. The dip in the creases of your sheets, like someone’s been sitting on your bed, but you never find anything more than the indent and the remnant scent of something like pine trees.

You wonder if it’s König. If the smell of that same generic soap is the one he uses in the prefab communal showers to slick his cock, pumping it, hoping, wishing that he thinks of you when he’s jerking off and spilling come all over the shower tiles, wanting your face instead, your tongue held out to catch it, your fingers splayed over the bulging muscles of his straining thighs, your ears filled with the sound of his thick, guttural moans bouncing off the closed-in walls. His hand would squeeze the last drops from his fat cockhead to smear on your tongue, your lips. 

When is your next therapy appointment, actually? You might need to tell someone about this. Derailing, intrusive thoughts of this caliber can’t be healthy, your elevated pulse is telling you that much—

The sound of his throat clearing, gravelly, snaps your attention back to the present and out of the fantasy land of the prefab showers and this guy’s heretofore unexposed body, though your imagination is doing a fantastic fucking job of filling in the gaps as to what’s under those straining fatigues spread across his thighs and obscenely tight shirt. Today you’re treated to the sight of his hands, ungloved, and make a quick study of them. His knuckles are calloused and his short-nailed fingers don’t rest, tapping on the table softly.

There’s a prominence of veins on the broad, flat backs of his hands, a light dusting of fair hair you’ve seen traversing the length of his bared, scarred arms. Those veins run up his thick forearms, his muscled triceps, his sculpted delts that make your brain do the dial up noise from the early days of the internet when it needed to clog up a phone line to make a connection. 

You’re sitting as casually as you can, arms locked behind your head, but belatedly you realize it thrusts your chest out, like you’re offering. Cocky. Overconfident, is what the posture screams. Relaxed and assured in a way that you are most certainly not, because at any point you could scramble across this table and maul him like a goddamn feral cat in heat and you don’t know how he will take that.

“What’d you bring for me?” you ask, trying to keep your tone light, friendly. You drop your arms so your hands knot in your lap, leaning in to look at the bottle he’s brought. There’s a stack of red solo cups close at hand, a staple of any base that’s got red-blooded American men in numbers of two or greater, like how geese are always angry and taxes are an inevitable fact of life.

“Peach obstbrand,” the word, like all the other German ones König speaks amidst the accented English, rolls off his tongue and directly into your central nervous system to make your spine feel like a livewire is running through the length of it. Your ears go hot. 

You wonder if it’s just him or, if you were to walk into a room full of other Austrian guys having normal conversations, you’d be able to flood the Nile in a seven-year drought. You make an appropriately intrigued, appreciative noise to mask what wants to whistle out of your throat as a strangled wheeze.You lean forward to offer a red solo cup so he can pour for you. 

“What’s obstbrand?” you ask, trying to imitate his pronunciation to a tee. He leans forward over the plastic surface of the table, uncorking the bottle and tipping the clear-colored liquid into your cup. At your question about the providence of his show-and-tell booze, his eyes crinkle and he lets out a chuff of air that stirs the part of the hood in front of his mouth.

“Something popular back home. This flavor is good for the summer. Roze’s, how you say, jet fuel reminded me I kept a bottle in my foot locker. This is a smoother type of provincial drink, ja?” 

“I trust Austria’s national sensibility in liquor to not burn the taste buds off my tongue like Roze’s great grandpappy’s ‘shine.”  

You raise the rim of the cup to your nose. It smells, aptly, like peaches. 

“Prost,” you offer, raising the red solo cup to hit against the rim of his with a dull, plastic clunk. It tastes like sipping summer. Bright flavor bursting on your tongue, peach-forward and everything you want to guzzle straight. At least, in moderation, ‘cause any more of this in big quantities is going to make you sick. Too much of a good thing. This is meant to be enjoyed watered, or in small aperitif glasses. 

“Prost,” König replies, throwing back the drink after pushing up the hem of his sniper’s hood to just below the tip of his nose. Over the rim of your cup, you can see the cut of his jaw and the shadowed stubble of a beard he must shave off daily. His lips, which you’ve observed in the microseconds of accumulated observations this past month and a half, are wide, full. There’s a split at the cupid’s bow of his upper lip, a scar that discolors and pulls the flesh lopsided. 

You want to lick it, tracking over each divot and imperfection that you’re so fucking certain makes his mouth one you’d sell your very soul to sit on. Repeatedly. Put out a subprime mortgage on your personhood to the Devil himself if that’s the bargain you have to make to get this guy to eat you out. 

Faintly, you wonder if his habit of walking around masked is giving you a complex.

It’s not abnormal on PMC bases to see people running around in balaclavas or other face-obscuring garments. Horangi barely removes his face covering. Facial recognition has come a long way. Drone surveillance, too—you should damn well know, being a drone operator by licensure. You can zoom in on the pores of some targets during a live feed if you were flying low enough and the cameras were next-gen. 

The reasons for masks vary by wearer. Some people have folks back home to protect by hiding their identities. Some use it as boogeyman scare tactics like that guy who works for SpecGru whose name you shan’t mention, ‘lest you invoke him to appear in the KorTac mess like Blood Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary or the Ghost of Christmas fucking Past if you even think the name Lt. Simon Riley more than three times in a row. 

While the exact reason your Austrian obsession wears a sniper’s hood is still a hotly contested topic amongst the intelligence community and KorTac alike, you imagine it’s adjacent to a scare tactic. He is, in fact, scary dog privileges personified—having him over your shoulder or in front of you during field ops tends to clear hostile targets from the area like painting goddamn lambs blood over a doorway to ward off death.

“Well,” you say, breaking the silence after downing another sip of the brandy. “Here I am bringing in this tired old liquor and you’ve got some sort of magical Austrian schnapps on offer. Lucky me.”

He’s silent for a little bit before he gives a low chuckle, the sound disused, like he’s forgotten how to laugh. It’s muffled by the hood that obscures his entire head, his neck. He pours another sip for you when you push the red solo cup back in a wordless ask for more, his hands dwarfing the bottle and the peeled, yellowed label.

He’s gotten more chatty (or, rather, his version of chatty) in group settings recently, proving once again he’s not shy, but rather uncertain of what to do with you. Like there’s no written script for operating within these parameters. Like he can’t just ad lib social interaction such as this. 

So you help fill the silence that follows the refill he gives you, talking about the operation you’re slated for tomorrow. He’s quick to fill in information as a responsible fireteam leader, making a lovely accompaniment to your mission specialist objectives with helpful notes about the area, the expected targets. 

It is a rather simplistic operation in scope: rig sound and video in a redacted fashion on a redacted location for a redacted reason. His big shoulders unbunch, his posture becoming easier when he’s talking about something work-related, known, safe. He gets out a utility knife from one of his pockets, unfolding and clicking it folded over and over again to keep his hands busy. You get lost talking in the low murmur of surprisingly comfortable conversation, even if you are the main orator. You cut the peach schnapps with a helping of bottled water poured into the solo cup. 

Before long you realize that 23:00 has turned into 02:00 on the mess hall clock. Both of you are due to board the plane to Poznań at 08:00. 

“We’re gonna turn into pumpkins if we stay up any longer, Colonel.” You lean back, stretching the crick out of your neck from leaning over the table, slouching on one elbow and watching the way his mask stirs when he breathes, how his eyes track over your shoulder most of the time, but flit back to your face intermittently.

Especially when you had spilled a drop of your drink and it had trickled down your chin. You'd thumbed up the drop and sucked your skin clean, barely noticing how he stopped unfolding his knife for a few seconds too long and his eyes had tracked down your face to your mouth.

“Ja,” König mumbles, scruffing his hand up the back of his thick, broad neck. He stoppers the bottle, still half-full of the schnapps, and picks it up. When he stands, he sucks up all the space in the mess hall. It brings into sharp focus that this guy’s head nearly brushes the drop-tile ceiling of the room.

Christ, he’s big. 

“Night,” you trill, and he gives you a subdued nod before leaving. As soon as the door shuts on him, you un-crack the top of the favorite liquor sitting dejected off to the side on the table, pour a healthy amount into the red solo cup that smells of peach schnapps residue, and take a protracted sip.

“Fuck,” you sigh to the empty room.

You’ve got it so bad.

Chapter Text

“Ok, but what’s your bet?” Hutch’s voice comes over your earpiece, tinny and static-filled. He’s clear across town in some panel van, holed up with the equipment and one other field tech tuning up for the big day. 

“It’s gotta be that Serbian motherfucker. Your Chechen arms dealer’s allegedly out on the Black Sea snorting ket off some Belarussian model’s tits,” you say, speaking past the zip ties you’re holding between your teeth like you’re hemming a dress and need a mouthful of needles. Instead of fabrics, you’re rigging a very state-of-the-art and even more expensive listening device on top of one of the dusty, rusty organ pipes. Of all places to stash it, you figure it the least obtrusive and biggest pain in the ass to dismantle. Plus all that shit about optimized church acoustics, or whatever. 

“Allegedly, huh?” Hutch snorts. “If that vote of confidence on what Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Fuckface are doing is the difference between an absolute dogshit Chechen prison versus some lameass Serbian detention block if this shit goes south…I’m feeling pretty good,” you can hear the keyboard clicking under Hutch’s fingers. “But I still think you’re wrong.” 

“Oh yeah? What’s your wager?” You take another zip tie to the blocky, matte black device putty-cemented to the inside of the pipe. It’ll take a whopper of a magnitude type of earthquake to dislodge it, but by then this whole heap of stone and timber would fall down too. 

“Your drive of West Wing episodes. TacCom fucked the VPN again and if I have to watch another Welcome Back, Kotter rerun, I am going to kill somebitch.”

You laugh, adjusting your NODs and stowing your zip ties. Your night vision goggles light up everything like a dirty fish tank in front of you, spooky greens and swimmy black voids that throw everything into sharp relief. “Man, I would give you a rip of that for free if I knew you wanted to share the joy of watching C.J. Cregg do The Jackal, but alright. If I win, you owe me two weeks of secretarial services. Fetch my coffee, type my reports, do all that Girl Friday shit for me. The whole nine yards.”

“If you’re gonna Miranda Priestly me, throw in the Chanel boots as a perk. I deserve ‘em for dealing with that fuckin’ percolator of yours. Shit needs an exorcism, Kittycat.” Hutch sounds like he’s got something in his mouth, too. Probably a toothpick. The man picks his teeth obsessively whether it’s sitting in on surveillance, watching drone footage in the comms room, or just leaning back in the folding chair in the mess hall. There’s always an endless supply of toothpicks on him—Hutch has great teeth, glossy white and so straight. You’re envious of that level of dental hygiene.  

“Hutchy,” you throw back your nickname for him, “you’ve got the legs to pull the Chanel boots off. Let's call those a bonus for services rendered.”

“They’ll go to a good cause,” then, more taping from Hutch’s end as you negotiate the staircase down from the gallery to the main level of the church. “Say, why are we doing this and not our besties at the CIA? This should be their fuckin’ circus and their motherfuckin’ monkeys tonight.”

You’ve read the memorandums that the brass slowdrips you and everyone else, reading between the lines. “They’re busy baiting Wagner Group to go drop in on Moscow. Speaking of, when does KorTac get to do a coup d'état? I hope it’s somewhere with a beach.”

You gab back and forth some more, locker room ops talk with ‘shit’ every third word on an encrypted channel that eventually goes dark for the mandated half hour-stint to keep comms traffic irregular as per SOPs. You tell Hutch you’ll check back in at 01:58, “don’t wait up for us, mom” and kill the connection.

Tonight is a two-person job. König watches the door and patrols the other points of entry and egress while your entertainment tonight consists of rigging a seventeenth century abandoned church for sound and lowlight vis. 

It’s practically routine—you’ve done synagogues, mosques, and even a Hindu temple for an operation in Hyderabad, but churches are your specialty. Your dream job would be a proper cathedral, Notre Dame or the Vatican if you’re lucky, but bad guys only met up in cathedrals in action flicks like John Wick and James Bond. KorTac’s hit list are more of the abandoned housing block/derelict church variety. No style or flair.

You round the bannister after coming down from the gallery where the tops of the organ pipes sit. There’s three more points to hit for rigging your video before go-live. Audio bugs are all installed and you go over the mental checklist in your head. After the video system gets installed, it’s a waiting game for the system to boot up. Once comms are back active with Hutch, you’ll test out the angles to make sure Mr. Serbian (or Chechen) Arm’s Dealer gets his closeup. 

You’re not sweating through your BDUs yet, but tonight is balmy for a Polish summer and you’ve got at least twenty pounds of gear on you to include your flak vest. 

There was supposed to be a ladder brought in. Dropped off inside the church at 18:00 by some random overall-wearing workman who was actually a member of the Foreign Intelligence Agency, or the Agencja Wywiadu. The whole intent of that exercise was to prevent you and your six foot ten watchdog having to haul in an A-frame ladder like some Yakety Sax routine in the dead of night and spook anyone watching the clandestine meeting location before the baddies were supposed to have their little sabbath. Alas, some dickhead somewhere on the chain of command dropped the ball or fucked up or decided to re-prioritize their evening soiree and no one bothered to tell little old you. 

You told Hutch to forget about having another dropped off. What sort of work crew drives into a desolate, post-Bloc neighborhood at two in the goddamn morning to ditch a ladder and leave? 

Muttering under your breath about Polish incompetence (they deserve to lose the semi-finals this year for the World Cup for ruining your carefully planned camera angles) you jog (noisily) across the transept towards the nave. The floor is cluttered with the detritus of an abandoned structure in a crumbling, urban area: used needles, food wrappers, cigarette butts, dried leaves, the odd condom yellowed with age (and god knows what else). 

You move a strap so your SMG nests at the small of your back, an IWI X95 you picked up while you were stationed in Tel Aviv and never let go of. The amount of paperwork tied to the gun to get its stamp changed over to your name was an act of love, of labor, and tedious bureaucracy, but you love your gun so much that it had been so worth it. Hell, you’d practically thrown it an international adoption welcome party to its new forever home when you brought it back to base and stowed it in your footlocker. 

The Glock living in your thigh holster is a newer addition, a classy little lady’s weapon with your initials stamped on the grip. You’re so lame, dropping your old SIG Sauer in favor of the Austrian-manufactured pistol about the same time you started obsessively checking flight manifests and key card swipes associated with a certain someone. 

Speaking of Austrian-made.

You really will never get over how absolutely massive König is. If he makes the mess hall feel small with his presence, it’s amplified in the low lit interior of the abandoned church. He tracks out of the dark, completely silent despite walking on all the same debris piled on the stone floors, his hands cocked over the barrel of his assault rifle as it dangles from his shoulder strap. It’s like he’s some kind of leviathan that comes up to the surface of the dark water, barely visible until suddenly it’s there.

“Hey, Oberst,” you say, keeping your voice down so it doesn’t bounce all over the bare stone walls. His head tilts at the nickname, since you are, again, lame and had Googled what Colonel translated to in his native tongue. You can’t tell if it’s one of his more smiley-crinkle-eyed tilts of the head or that considering-you-solemnly movements since the NODs don’t pick that up and his eye holes are covered by his own goggles. 

“Ja, Kätzchen?” he rumbles, faint amusement in his low voice. Well that is a new one, and you didn’t need one year of elective German language classes to translate the context clues that he’s taken Hutch’s nickname for you and repurposed it for his own diminutive in German. Until now it had been only your last name with the occasional KorTac callsign for overwatch (“Nadzirati”) thrown in there.

You try to play it cool with this unexpected windfall of König feeling easy enough to nickname you. “Can you spot me? You’re about the size of a standard A-frame from a hardware store. Stack me on top and I can get us out of here in thirty.” 

Much better, way more professional than “can I mount you” which was a near thing coming out of your mouth as a spectacular, once-in-a-generation Freudian slip. 

He hesitates, towering form freezing before giving you another “ja” of assent. As he unclips his helmet and sets it aside on the altar, you do the same (definitely not setting yours beside and facing his, definitely not) and blink in the low ambient light. A full moon tonight shines in through a couple of holes in the roof, white light drenching the worn down pews that are strewn throughout the nave of the church. It gives you just enough visibility to function, and there’s always the tiny little pocket flashlight you carry if you need to fine tune any placement. 

In addition to your helmet, you drop your flak vest, duty belt, and other miscellaneous heavy-weight items so you won’t break this guy’s back. It’s already gotta be straining under the massive weight of his own skeleton, the metaphorical burden of rotating fireteams as a de facto lead, and now compensating for the incompetence of the Polish intelligence agency to let you squirrel up his body like a small mountain. Really, who made this guy? They deserve a note of thanks, whoever the fuck they are.

Your SMG is nestled up against your vest all snug and tucked in, but you keep your Glock holstered on your thigh. It’s a routine sort of night, with no expected surprise visitors, but you’ve seen some pretty logic-defying shit that has threatened operational security before.

Ascending to König’s shoulders is not a challenge, because he ducks down onto one knee and offers out his cupped, gloved hands as a lift up. Just over his shoulder, a mural of a stern, Slavic-flavored Jesus stares you down, judging you for every impure thought of the explicitly detailed scenarios you have stowed in your brain like a filing cabinet where this operator gets down on his knees for you over and over and over again. 

You step into his cupped hands, trying to ignore how he can wrap his whole fist around it, and boosts you so you stand on one leg. He handles you like you weigh as much as a feather. You will not swoon. You will not swoon,you coach yourself. 

The first installation is a quick one—the camera is about the size of a keyfob battery, niched perfectly into the eyehole of a growling gargoyle that squats on a corner frieze. You work silently, trying your damnedest to ignore how his other hand spans the back of your thighs to keep you balanced as you do a one-legged stand on his palm. Your knees are about even with his shoulders and you tell your brain to shut up when it draws the inevitable conclusion that his line of sight is level with the crotch of your tac-pants.

Coming down is simple. You signal him with an “okay” and he uses the hand against the back of your thighs as a brace while he gingerly crouches back down and you step out of his hand. 

“Down that way,” you direct him by waving the flashlight down the aisle. There’s another corner you want to get rigged for video. The both of you walk over to the spot, his big strides eating up the distance so you jog to keep pace. Classy? No. Sexy? Definitely not, but it’s authentic and practical and you just gotta hope that he’s into that. The next task is an easy rinse and repeat of the first way you squirreled up—he offers his hands out, you step, he lifts. 

Bada-bing, bada-boom, second device goes in without a hitch as you juggle a tube of industrial strength adhesive and find the surveillance camera a nice hidey-hole in the fold of the Holy Virgin’s robes, which are painted a blue so dark that it matches the tiny disc camera you slap on the wall. 

Despite being industrious and getting the job done without a hitch in your voice, you’re in goddamn agony. Just along the back of your thigh where your hamstrings run into your glutes, you can feel the heat of his hand, even through the thick tactical gloves. When he helps you down this time, his hand slides up just a few inches too high, and you bite back on yelp because having his palm cup at least one cheek of your ass is better than anything you’ve ever fantasized about. 

His palm is warm, big, all encompassing, and he draws back almost immediately. Instead of dropping you, like you occasionally deserve, he corrects his grip to your hips, and you don’t know which is worse—how he can one-hand your asscheek or how his fingertips almost touch when he grabs you around the hips to save you from going splat on the floor. 

You wave him off with a strained “s’alright” before you overplay your hand and ask him to do that again, which is threatening to come right off your tongue and into the awkward silence stretching between you two. You flash the light you’re carrying up the steps nearby that lead to the gallery, your third and final destination for the piece de resistance—an angle that catches the other exits near the transept of the church and overall layout high above the choir.

The third camera mount is more of a complicated angle of approach and overall exercise. You’re still distracted, your mind having glutted itself on the partial body contact the tasks have given you, actually having his hands on your body. There might as well be a burning brand on your ass in the shape of his long, thick fingers with how the skin there tingles, or at your hips where he caught you. You want him to put something permanent there, not phantom reminders your brain is rerunning out of pure fucking desperation. 

Your ideas of König marking you up goes a little bit like this: 

His hand wrapping around your throat, airflow completely at his mercy as his hips snap into your ass from behind. You want that dizzy, falling adrenaline to narrow your world down to the points of contact, and the deep, hard fuck you dream he’d give you. Then, you want to have to cover the leftover fingerprints for an entire fucking week, hide them from the rest of the team, and see them in the mirror every morning and night. 

Or maybe it would be more fun if it was his hands coming down on your ass so hard that it leaves welts, and you feel it burn whenever you sit or change position on your office chair or the plastic seats in the mess hall; or marks from his tac-belt doubled up and cinched around your wrists so hard that it leaves ligature marks.

You want him to bite all over your skin, hot tongue and teeth bruising your thighs, your ass, and your tits, and then slap (gently) between your legs, chuckling at the filthy wet sounds. You’re always such a mess for him.

And in your dreams, you’ll give him payback a dozen times over:

Bloody furrows in his back from your nails. 

Hickeys sucked on his neck, purple and livid.

Lipstick, your favorite shade and rarely used, smeared over his cock.

Welts on his wrists from tying him up to whatever the fuck will hold him so you can play with his pecs, twist his nipples, worry them red and raw. Edge him until his cock is drooling but you won’t let him come for hours after you start. 

Some latent sixth sense of yours is broadcasting to you that he’s the type of guy that loves to have that control turned on him, and the thought of making this operator get on his knees for you and be a good boy and beg you with a half-whined “bitte” is driving you absolutely batshit insane. 

Case in point: see above list composed in detail over the course of a month and a half without ever having seen his goddamn face.

This mental pornography plays across your inner eye in a fugue state as he trails you up the steps to the gallery. You lead him to a dusty corner piled with crates and other detritus of it being used as communal storage since 1986. There’s another frieze about midway up the wall, but it’s set so high that your leg-ups he’s been giving you aren’t going to cut it. Maybe he could stand on the boxes and you could get a boost up again like you’ve been doing to just stand on his hand, but that is asking an awful lot of a cardboard box, and you’d like to continue your streak of not getting dropped on your head. Or his head. 

“Gonna need to stand on your shoulders. Think you can handle that, Oberst?” you ask, readying yourself to do a quick job of inserting the camera on a cherub’s eye that’s carved into the frieze high over both your heads.

Your stomach swoops again when he kneels down. He puts his back to the wall so you can lean forward and catch yourself with your hands on the plaster as he straightens up. König’s grip is firm on your ankles as you slowly rise to that impossible height of the frieze. It’s a minute of work before the final camera is set, and you look down below at the black hood between your feet. It’s not a bad view, and damn sure its a rare one that deserves a moment of appreciation, before you get back to work and get the fuck out of here before the party starts.

“Alright,” you say, the universal signal that it is, tragically, time to wrap this shit up, as fun as it’s been. One giant palm comes up from your ankle to support the back of your knee, and that feels fantastic—albeit not as nice as him actually groping your ass—but neither of those observations are particularly enlightening about how to actually get your boots back on the ground. Fine, no problem, there’s got to be at least three brain cells between the two of you. You’ll figure something out. 

König steps back towards the wall just as you pivot forward and the tread of your boot, so good for tromping through mud and gravel and other shit, slips against the Kevlar coating on his shoulder. The scenery pitches wildly and you hiss out a litany of every curse you know, and several custom made on the spot that would make the plaster angles blush (if their ears could hear and they understood both English and the contextual arrangement of your vocabulary). 

There’s a thud of something hitting the pitted wooden floor, but somehow it isn’t your skull. Your ears want to pop, and your fingers have practically welded themselves to the dark material covering König's head, knees hooked over his shoulders, and his hands have come up to cradle your back. 

“Fuck me, sorry—” The heavily accented apology puffs warm air against the insensate material of your BDUs. 

“Um,” you say, very professionally. Like you’re not about to spontaneously combust cause you’re so goddamn turned on by his proximity and how König is literally back on his knees, what the fuck, and during your fall somehow scooped your legs over his shoulders so he’s more or less gently shoving his face between your legs (sweet baby Jesus, thank you).  

You almost don’t care if you get out of this alive. He moves you around so easily, like you’re a doll, and it makes you think of how it would be trivial for him to him hold you in a half-headlock, folding your torso over his arm while bouncing you on his cock, treating your cunt like a wet, sucking sleeve while he stays standing and you really don’t need to talk to your therapist (or anyone else, ever) about these intrusive fantasies, right? 

If you’re not making a damp patch on the crotch of your pants, let alone soaking through the gusset of your panties, you’d be shocked. And from how König goes so, so still, it’s all too evident and that is exactly the case.   

Embarrassment floods you. What kind of maniac are you, losing your professional cool with this guy and shoving your crotch in his face (albeit unintentionally, and to be fair he was the one who caught you, thanks to gravity and bad footing), but shame is soon replaced with absolute fucking shock when his hands tighten on your hips. 

König doesn’t move you. 

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.

Chapter Text

Somewhere over Romania on the six hour and twenty-seven minutes long flight back to the KorTac FOB in Iraq, you are completely, absolutely, painfully certain that if you don’t fuck König before your boots touch dirt again, the only course of reasonable action will be to jump out of this goddamn plane and into the Black Sea to keep your shit together. 

The exfil team is a skeleton crew, even by KorTac’s lean standard: Hutch pilots the C-17 while Declan O’Conor, KorTac’s token Irish representation, co-pilots. Are they that good or are you all just that expendable to the top brass? The world may never know.

Dec is mouthing off about something cartoonishly stereotypical (“Mother o'divine, these headwinds are stronger than the stout at Finnegan's back home! We'll be lucky t'make it back in time for supper at this rate! Hutch, m’lad, turn up the heat, it’s colder than an old marmie’s tit in here.") to drown out the choice of Hutch’s music selection. 

A perpetual point of contention, Hutch had won the most recent battle for control over the bluetooth speaker. Today, he was flaunting his victory by blasting some controversial alternative rock, winning out against Dec’s insistence that they play the entire discography of the Cranberries. Again. 

You have to haul back on the urge to lean up and whisper into the beret-wearing, ginger man’s ear that he’s a walking stereotype. You’re close enough, sitting right behind Dec while König sits directly behind Hutch as designated passenger princesses. Neither of you are rated to fly manned aircraft. Mostly, it suits you. Getting to the landing strip on time is more than enough for your tastes—let literally anyone else handle the preparation and flight pre-checks and whatever other shit is required. You just show up and get flown by whoever’s competent enough to get you to the next place intact.

You have barely let König out of your line of sight, and he seems to be reciprocating. It’s a wonder you’ve both gotten away from each other long enough to piss since the operation got its surveillance phase underway and concluded only a few hours ago. The team had packed it up, loaded out, and departed the same way you all came, which was moving around in the dark of night on some airstrip in Poznań. 

The bad news is in: You owe Hutch one stick drive of your West Wing stash and tragically must write your own reports and wage war on the coffee machine all alone. The not-so-friendly neighborhood arms dealer had been the Chechen, not the Serb. Apparently, Svetlana’s custom built, coke-dusted titties had not been enough to keep KorTac’s second most wanted away from the call of 200 million USD. The more you know, or something. At least the mission had been a technical success, and the information your bugs collected is now in the hands of command and whatever they want to do about is not (yet) your problem.

Never let it be said you were a sore loser, though. You had shaken Hutch’s hand on boarding the plane and done a halfway passable job of pretending to act like a normal, reasonable comms operator like you have for the last ten hour stretch of time since the event you’re beginning to refer to as the The Church Thing internally. 

The polyester of the seat grinds the inseam of your BDUs against your bare slit with the slightest movement. There is no fucking way to distract from the way it chafes in all the ways you don’t want it to with each turbulent bump, and the vivid, perpetual reminders it inflicts as a unique self-torture. You might as well be sitting in the shallow end of the goddamn pool for how wet you are; like you’ve gone on a binge of chasing smut books with even smuttier fanfiction without even a shred of relief. 

Your flesh is still tender from the assault of his tongue and fingers, and the object of your obsession is so close your knees are almost touching. What’s left of your panties are in one of König’s pockets, and you wonder if he can still smell you on his mask. Those thoughts burn a red-hot hole through your brain like a piece of lava on very thin ice.

The Colonel has to spread his legs because his knees just won’t fucking fit in the space allotted behind Hutch’s seat. It’s a constant problem, one you are aware of due to your casual observation skills and are no way related to your insane, though completely justified obsession. It’s how he sits in the conference chairs and in the humvee, as well as in the variety of aviation jump seats this kind of business forces him into on a fairly regular cadence. This is a more reasonable excuse than the other manspreading KorTac assholes, but this line of sight to his lap is too fucking much for you. 

His strong thighs splay wide, stretching the charcoal fabric obscenely.

Maybe you should write a letter to management, advising them that tac-pants need to be by regulation more baggy because if you stare hard enough, his dick is going to stare back. 

Not like, looking at you in the literal sense. It’s just that now you’ve gotten a (tragically obscured) view of what’s underneath, you can't think about anything else if your life depends on it. You force yourself to stare at spots on the horizon to keep your eyes to yourself, or at least something that you can pretend to be subtle about. Your discipline kind of sucks right now, though. 

Despite your efforts, your gaze keeps drifting back, running along his body from the tips of his combat boots (and damn it, after a night in the field [and your shared extra-curricular activity in the church] he’s still got his pants bloused in the tops of his boots with a razor fine precision that would make your old CO go absolutely feral) and the top of his head with the dark material that drapes all the way to the shoulders. You’d be down for a couple more mostly-clothed fuckfests, but then you want to peel it all off him like an onion. Slowly, respectfully, and without crying.

Not helpful thoughts. 

You take a deep breath to focus, but the air carries his smell into your nose and lungs, clean and piney and just a bit of man-sweat, drowning out the shitty cologne cloud hovering in the front of the cockpit.

You imagine if you were to step off a gondola, high up a mountainside, it would smell just like him. Crisp, resinous. Forget the Alps, you want to bury your face in the mountains of his broad, sculpted chest and drown in all the smells and sensations there. It’s natural, musky—and you’re so, so close right now.

God, you probably stink. Maybe König is into the smell of sweaty comms operators, greasepaint, epoxy, and soap. 

If you could smack your brain, you would.

The biggest problem right now is that everything you try to focus on slides back to the big man at your side in the space of heartbeats, like pushing a boulder up a greased hill. He’s in your periphery, in your space, in your head. Fucking hell, you can feel the heat radiating off him through his tactical gear, and even the smallest movements feel like they’re jostling your knee. Your thoughts are as loud as the buzzing engines of the plane.

They’re not, you know they’re not, that this is all hyperawareness, or some new, exciting evolution of your own internal horny-ass insanity. All in all, you give yourself a gold star for not handling this even worse. You haven’t gnawed the internal plating of the cockpit walls. You’re keeping your hands to yourself like a good girl, even if the gnashing, boiling sexual frustration makes you shift in your seat and uncross, recross your legs every few minutes. You are mostly restraining yourself from staring at him like a starving dog looking into a butcher shop's window, even if there’s room to improve on that area. 

You’re familiar with the ‘look with your eyes, not with your hands’ mantra, but not being able to look and not touch after the man has been tonsils deep in your pussy is a new, deeply unpleasant sort of hell. 

More than anything, you want to unbuckle yourself and crawl into König’s lap, straddle his hips and rub yourself against his erection until he’s as stupid and feral and ready to climb out of his own skin as you are. It only seems fair. 

Your last reasonable brain cell makes a fairly compelling argument that just because he’s eaten you out like a three-star Michelin banquet doesn’t mean he wants you in his lap, and that it might cause a scene if Declan and Hutch look behind them and see you necking with the Colonel. At the very least it would be a deeply unappreciated interruption, and probably some additional paperwork and supplementary training on aviation safety, sexual harassment, or (most likely) both. There’s probably some global aviation rule about no fucking in the cockpit, just to ruin all your fun. 

There comes a point, in the mostly silent cockpit, where you just decide fuck it. Full send. You’re going to actually die if you just keep stewing here.

You get out your phone, open the notes app, and tap out in all caps: CARGO BAY. MAKE SOMETHING UP. 

You shove the phone into König’s hand about the same time you lean forward between the pilot and copilot chairs, and announce you’re going to take a nap in the back. Hutch makes a stupid cat nap joke that you don’t really process, but you lean forward into his line of sight and flip him off as a reflex all the same. Judging by his laugh, he doesn’t seem to catch on that Something is Amiss.

König glances down and then presses the phone back into your hand without any sort of reaction at all. You’re not sure if it’s better or worse than how he leaves you on read in every group text. He’s looking directly over Hutch’s other shoulder, stoic, hands fisted over his knees. 

You try not to take it personally. This guy doesn't exactly operate on conventional social cues. You don’t look at him either as you exit into the bay. 

Outside of the cockpit, the aircraft is just a huge, open space with the center aisle cluttered with miscellaneous gear from past, current, and maybe some future ops. The fuselage walls are unfinished, exposing the guts of an aircraft—pipes, wires, and other stuff that would probably get the engineers back on the base all frothy, but it just looks like junk to you. There’s a couple of wrapped pallets coming back with the crew from Poland: goodies for the minor black-ops cells KorTac supports globally. The humvee, a twin sister to the others parked at KorTac’s HQ in Bucharest, sits closest to the front of the plane.

A little Austrian flag hangs from the rearview mirror: that’s König’s humvee. Fender had christened it with the tchotchke, if Roze’s story is to be believed.

No one drives that humvee but the Colonel himself, with the little red and white flag jiggling on every pothole along the way. You get that—control. Leadership. Supreme command of the aux cord, not that he’s huge into song selections—that’s usually delegated to Fender or Aksel. You’ve heard them fighting like a pair of rabid street dogs over the playlist selections during the ‘hurry up and wait’ part of some low-stakes extraction missions. 

Maybe it’s a bad thing that you’re not more into the whole ‘truth, justice, and the First World way’ part of the job, but the best part of field missions for you is sitting shotgun or riding behind König in his element, watching his knuckles flex over the steering wheel while Fender bitches about the shrieking Scandinavian Death Metal or, the inverse, Aksel whines about Hungarian folk tunes. You stay out of it—a girl’s music selection is private and nobody’s business but your own.

Somehow, König makes playing referee for his firesquad’s squabbles over musical selections look more dangerous and higher stakes than recovering from a mission gone to shit. It made wholesale slaughter of hostile targets look like a little kid’s birthday party.

You lived for those moments when he’d turn his head to snap something at his team. Punishment was always yanking the aux cord out and forcing all of the passengers to enjoy dead silence, save for the rumble of the totally-not-a-tank bouncing down a rutted road in some war-torn shithole. 

Maybe you like those times the best—watching over his shoulder, his hands in his tac-gloves steady and calm on the wheel, the sight of his masked face as he checks his blind spots on his left, then his right. Zero distractions, just the diesel engine and the man you are fucking obsessed with so close you could reach out and touch his shoulder if you wanted to.

You’re pretty sure your next run is Kosovo or Bamako. You hope it’s the latter. The last time you were in Africa, it was a shitshow firefight in Libya. There had been no time to kick back and enjoy the local attractions with the crew. 

Thinking about the future operations helps to distract you from the sinking pit in your stomach as you pause at the ladder that drops into the bay. The demon of bullshit second-guessing yourself chitters that you've read the signage all wrong, are going about this all the wrong way, fucked up whatever slender chance you might have had with your favorite Austrian murder man. 

That the Church Thing was an anomaly, a one time thing, and you’re back to status quo with König. Or worse, since now he’s given you one of the hardest orgasms of your fucking life, the status quo is dead and buried in a shitty little Polish church and you can’t be normal about this thing any more.

You didn’t even have a whole lot of normal to start with.

Those humvee rides and field ops that you like so much are about to get a whole lot more awkward. It is, as the kids say, a real fuckin’ bummer. 

The interior of the cavernous cargo bay is lit a soft, glowing red. Red lights keep all of you from going goddamn blind when you’re gearing up with active NODs if it’s a mission that requires the tactical stealth during night ops, or touching down on the landing strip, slow rolling long enough to dump out the humvee at 3 AM, and then take back off again. 

After maybe a minute of lingering on the crosswalk that’s outside of the cockpit, you take the ladder down, resolved to wait it out down there and go directly to moping, do not pass go, if he doesn’t show but—

—you’re barely clear of the bottom rung before you feel the air shift behind you. The hairs stand up on the nape of your neck. There isn’t time to react, only a momentary sense that someone huge has dropped down the ladder with more stealth than he should possess, rattling the flooring you’re standing on. 

Chapter Text

Everything happens in the span of a breath. 

You try to turn, but König’s thick arms band around your sides, pinning your arms. There’s a breeze that makes your hair fall into your eyes as he hauls you back against a strong, broad chest, your boots dangling in the air. His hand goes across your throat, and your head is spinning at the rate at which he’s moved you against him, again, for the second time in less than sixteen hours. 

You’ve had enough defensive training that some reflexes trigger by being grabbed up like a chew toy, but your hands stay locked in place by the thick arm encircling you. 

That training had been a little light on the areas of ‘what to do if your arms are pinned and your feet are kicking wind’, but in these particular circumstances that feels like less of a problem and a lot more of a thrill. 

Is there even anything you could do? The thought intoxicates you, like two shots of tequila on an empty stomach. The idea of being overpowered by him doesn’t even seem to apply here. 

He has the power. 

You don’t. 

It’s exactly the way you’ve been wanting, needing for what feels like forever.

The pressure of his fingers around your neck is more exploratory than choking. He strokes the hollow of your throat, follows the tendons on either side of your windpipe to your jaw. He hitches you higher, the arm around your ribs tightening to just the right side of pain as it takes your full weight. His palm cradles your jaw and pushes your head back so you’re looking at him upside down.

König’s hands are bare. The both of you are, again, as casually dressed as if you were off-duty back at base. Unarmed. Gear stowed. Technically against regs since you’re still on the clock, but what kind of firefight is going to break out at cruising altitude on a practically empty airplane?  

The heat of his palms burns where it touches your skin and the wire-lined ceiling spins overhead as calloused fingers flex around the column of your windpipe. It’s a little bit gentle and a lot of control, like a big wolf mouthing at something before it decides to bite. 

Curious. Exploratory. Your ass presses against his hips, and his cock, tucked into the waistband of his tac-pants, twitches against you.

Fuck, he’s so goddamn hard. Your lips part; however much you had thought you wanted him inside you up in the cockpit is fucking nothing compared to this. Locking your gaze on his pale blue eyes, you drag your tongue across your teeth and smile up at him. The mask shows you nothing, but the hand on your throat flexes, catching your breath and holding it in his palm for half a heartbeat. 

God fucking willing, someday you’ll be able to tell the ‘partial loss of control’ choke from the ‘putting you in your place for being a dirty little tease’ chokes. 

Electric arousal crackles across your skin, sparking in your veins and burning everything else away. He can’t hold your stare for more than a moment, eyes fixed instead on your tongue laving against your lips and teeth and your heaving chest. Bent backwards against his chest, even suspended a god damned meter in the air, you still have this strength, this leverage that König can’t overpower. 

Just like when he had knelt in front of you, put his hands under your thighs and lifted you to put his mouth over your cunt, you feel a million miles tall, like you could push and push this man, goad him into breaking both of you into a million crystal shards of something so much better than what you’ve ever been before.  

His chest rises and falls against the crown of your head, heavy breaths stirring the fabric of his hood, like he’s the one fighting for air. You fucking love it. If there’s any justice in the world, let his dick ache as much as your neck does in this pulled back arch. Let him be as desperate and helpless and rapacious for more as you are.  

“Du machst mich wahnsinnig, Kätzchen,” he groans, accent slurring into his mother tongue. You want to hear it more, this flange it picks up when he’s turned on. Like his brain shorts out because the bridge from his tongue to his mind narrows until all that can march across it is the language he grew up speaking. 

You make KorTac’s greatest tactical genius so stupid he can’t even speak English, observes a single brain cell not currently drowning in your own arousal. You deserve a high five for that.

German sometimes slips out of him in firefights, too, barked into the radio when lives teeter in the balance. In those moments under the bright, fluorescent lights in the comms room, it’s easy to wonder if the abrupt language switching interferes with the team’s ability to run an op. Harsh, foreign words mash together with the English, streaming out around the radio distortions and chatter, divorced from the context within the moment. 

What a dumb fucking thing to be wondering about right now.

You don’t need to know a lick of German to get the subtext of his raw, needy tone. The hand against your throat trembles, and his eyes are back on yours, wide and so, so dark in the red-lit gloam. He doesn’t blink and he barely breathes. 

In position. Awaiting next orders.

Just like in any other high stakes engagement, König needs an opening like the one you offered him at the church where you rolled your hips against his mouth, and the implicit order you had given when you pulled your pants down and rode his face halfway to hell. 

You have all the time in the world, and the cargo bay all to yourselves.

Your smile promises him anything and everything if he keeps up this rough shit. You trace the swell of your parted lips with the tip of your tongue, staring up, up, up at the wide eyes set in the shadowy mask; not quite a green light to proceed, but a tease, a challenge, an experiment to see what he will do next with you caught like a bird in his hands. His gaze drops to your mouth again, and his shirt slides against your hair as he drops your body a few inches to rub your ass against the trapped erection in his tac-pants.

“Nuh, uh,” you click your tongue just loud enough for him to hear over the ambient roar of the engines, as though you’re not dripping down your leg at the press of his cock against your ass, like you haven’t spent the last couple of hours fantasizing about getting violently, thoroughly fucked by him in every hole. “You gotta practice that English, babe.”

König’s hand tightens at the pet name and you’re dizzy with both the power and the lack of air. His eyelids flutter before he focuses on you again, and oh he likes it. He may hide his face behind the sniper’s hood, but his rapid breathing gives him away. His palm, swallowing up your throat, is burning hot and sweaty, and the pulse in his thumb hammers in time with your own heartbeat. Feeling extra evil, you twist your hips back against his cock and it jumps to meet you. Konig exhales raggedly around a soft, strangled sound.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear that.” You taunt him, hot and reckless, horny and helpless. “C’mon. Tell me what you want.” 

Sure, ‘babe’ing a six foot ten mercenary colloquially known as a human battering ram is a little unconventional, but nothing about this is conventional. It might be a little bit past unconventional into a more dangerous no-man’s land devoid of guidelines, expectations, or boundaries. Somehow, knowing that you’re being a bit stupid about this makes it an even bigger turn on. You just want him, need this, that fucking bad.

He lets out a chuff of air. It stirs the hood in front of his mouth, that same mouth that had been moaning against your clit until you came so hard you forgot your own goddamn name. It seems using his words is not the order of the day. Instead , he carries you over to one of the tied down cargo crates and presses you, face down, against the surface. 

The room tilts on its axis and cold metal, dyed red in the low light, fills your view. The tie-down straps are rough nylon and one of them scrapes against your cheek as you turn your head to protect your nose from squishing. You can’t see him at all from this angle, which kind of sucks, but you can feel him hard and hot and present against your ass and the backs of your thighs. As much fun as mouthing off to the Colonel is, you stay quiet. For now.

“Not scared of anything, are you, Kätzchen? Could take your neck like this,” he says, capturing both of your arms in a single fist, pulling you back until your abdominals and shoulders protest. As interestingly intense as the pain is, it's the easy demonstration of strength that makes you squirm, seeking friction against the unyielding metal edge supporting your hips. His other hand comes up around the back of your neck, catching your throat. 

Your entire life fits so neatly in his palm. Just a little extra turbulence and it would be the world’s most awkward funeral service back at base in the morning. If you had to pick, this is how you’d want to go. Embarrassing Hutch and the rest of the crew would be just a bonus. 

He won’t let that happen, though. You know he won’t. 

Still, this definitely falls under the list of things you should talk to your fucking therapist about—even though you won’t. Sane, well adjusted people probably don’t get high off the thought of their crush snapping them like a goddamn twig. That he could do it to you is almost enough to make you come without him getting in your pants at all.

There’s so much to feel, even if you can’t see shit. His rough palm scrapes your throat as you swallow, trying to bring moisture back to your desert-dry mouth. Your ass bumps so lightly against the juts of his hip bones as you squirm and kick your feet against the air, and how hot he is, crowding closer between your legs to make you stop.

His cock slots against your clothed cunt. A thin, high sound escapes your clenched teeth as he ruts against you, slow and deliberate. Every inch of his covered cock rubs the seam of your BDUs further into the sopping mess of your pussy and into the crack of your ass. There’s so fucking much of him, and the calculated way that he moves against you, up and then down, almost brings you to tears in anticipation. 

Your mind empties, goes quiet for once in your fucking life. All you can think about is this heavy heat, sliding the zipper down and finally, finally getting your hands and mouth around his cock, notching it against your slick hole and letting him fill you until there’s nothing but König. 

Maybe it's kind of sick to be this turned-on while some huge Austrian operator handles your neck and waxes about how he could break you. Or maybe you should have seen this coming, considering what you’ve been up to this past month and a half. 

You’re one of the smart ones. 

Allegedly. 

You are also a hot mess 90% of the time. 

Then again, that doesn’t make you unique here. Everyone at KorTac has their own fucked up shit going on, and their own coping mechanisms to get through the daily grind of a PMC. That yours manifests as thrill seeking and dangerous men (in particular, the one who currently has you by the throat) to fill that ever-present void in you, is, in the grand scheme of things, really about average. 

“Just a bit of pressure. Could break it, break you. You’re not scared of me, are you, Kleines Kätzchen?” His thumb presses into the hollow of your throat, skimming up to a familiar, debilitating pressure point. The lightest squeeze makes bright colors dance behind your eyes and short circuits the rat’s nest of neurons residing in your skull. Maybe this is what dying feels like, just a little.

You grunt the negative, low in your throat, too constricted and contorted to answer coherently. No shit that he’s big and scary. Intimidation is one of his primary tactics out on the field. Hell, being a bigger, meaner motherfucker than the bad guys is a practical job requirement for a military operator. Maybe it is a little baffling that, so far, there’s not a shred of evidence that you possess any sort of self-preservation instinct. Instead you’re unhinged, running him down, always looking at him, fixating. 

Maybe that’s the unnerving part: to see your own intensity flipped back on you. 

You love it.

Your arms burn from how he’s got you pinned against the crate. He can probably feel your pulse skipping where his index and middle finger circle your wrists. His thumb rubs your skin so tenderly in contrast to the handcuff grip he’s got on your arms. You’re going to bruise there, will have to cover up his big print marks with long sleeves for at least a week. You send up a silent, unholy prayer that he’ll give you matching ones around your throat, your legs, your hips. 

The material of your sports bra abrades against your nipples. They’re hard, poking against the dirty, sweaty nylon. The cold from the crate’s metal surface leeches into your skin. All together, it’s overstimulating, bordering on overwhelming. You squirm again, not even sure if it's to seek more or less or to just move, and find yourself in your own skin again.

“Shall I stop, Kätzchen?” 

His voice is low, as serious as you’ve ever heard the Colonel, almost lost amidst the noise of the engines. 

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” you grit out, and then, in case manners count for anything, whine, “please.” 

He seems to get the message forced out around your animalistic panting for air. His body tenses up as you beg, and the hand on your throat disappears. You free fall forward onto the surface of the crate, gasping, and the burning grip on your arm compensates, hikes them higher up, and settles like a tremulous anvil over your spine. König is breathing heavy too, and yanks your tac-pants down to your ankles. 

Cool air tingles against your skin, stings your wet, sensitive slit. Rough, work-roughened fingers follow the breeze a heartbeat later. The mess between your legs lubricates his calluses before they flick over the hood of your clit. Your body responds like he’s pulled the trigger on a .50 cal—tight and spring-loaded, then firing off in all directions to make one hell of a mess. 

It’s the same sort of kickback as one too, a jolt of electricity that makes you shake under the hand pinning you flat. Two fingers ghost over the puffy lips of your cunt—he parts them and stretches your legs that much wider. You feel him move against you before fabric flutters against your inner thigh. He’s just there, looking, holding you open for his admiration. Your walls clench on nothing at the thought, and you’re as helpless to close your legs and rub them together as you are to stretch them wider and invite his cock inside you.

“Don’t look, Kätzchen,” König rasps out, pulling his wet fingers away from your pussy. His hand shifts and you feel him come out of a crouch, pressure on your back increasing as his elbow replaces his stranglehold on your crossed wrists. He grips you by the scruff of your neck. 

You couldn’t disobey him if you tried—it's like being trapped under a mountain in the best way possible. As soon as you relax into his hold, the sniper’s hood drops into a pile of fabric just inches from your head. Maybe you died on that stupid mission after all, because this must be what heaven feels like.

It kinda makes you crazy, knowing that he’s unmasked behind you, that his face is just out in the air and you don’t get to see, all while he’s looking down at you in the most depraved state of partially dressed that you can imagine. 

You don’t get to see, and you don’t get to touch, but holy shit you kind of love that you’re just stretched out for his use, whatever that entails. Your inner brat wants to sneak a look so fuckin’ bad, just a quick peek, over the shoulder just to see what happens, and you don’t usually go for the Daddy’s Good Girl roleplay, but you also might actually die of horny if you fuck this up and he stops now. Squeezing your eyes shut, your whole body shakes with anticipation.

He doesn’t make you wait for long. 

He’s rough, filling you up with one huge, thick finger, then two. Overeager, almost too much, he fucks you open as you writhe against his hand. You kick your pants down to tangle around your boots dangling above the floor. Hiking up your knees, you spread your legs even wider, an incoherent invitation to press deeper inside and fill you all the way up. 

A cold breeze brushes against your asshole and your cheeks burn as you imagine the view he must have. All your holes on humiliating, exhilarating display, the swollen folds of your cunt sucking around his fingers as he drags them in and out, thorough and torturously slow.

You can’t see shit beyond the piled fabric inches from your nose, but you can hear every filthy sound he coaxes out of your body. His knuckles slap against your ass, and your pussy drips and squelches as he fucks you with his fingers.

König doesn’t shut up once he’s knuckle-deep inside you —it’s always the quiet ones that are full of surprises. His voice is rough and unsteady, unobstructed by the sniper’s hood.

“Like this, Kätzchen, hm? I will give you more, if you can take it.”

“Fuck,” you sigh, rocking back on his fingers. He steps in closer, massive thighs pinning your legs to spread you open for him. He still hasn’t released your arms, but doing all of this with one hand doesn’t seem to trouble him in the slightest. God damn the man, in the best possible way. 

This is different—he is so different—from how he was back in the church. Soft, reverent, like he’d never been so lucky in his life and couldn’t quite believe it was happening. 

Here in the cargo bay, neutral territory for you both, he bullies you towards rapture, rough and coarse, demanding reactions from your body. You give him everything, and more.   

“Look at you, spread out all pretty for me—” 

His words shoot straight from your ears to your soaked pussy. His thumb slides over your clit again and again, each push and drag unraveling your train of consciousness like he’s field stripping your brain. You whine into the discarded hood as he slides his fingers out just enough to fit a third in. The stretch pops behind your eyes as he crooks all three up against your G-spot, and your veins fill with static. 

Your body clenches desperately around the intrusion, too much and nowhere near enough. Your cunt burns from taking so much of his fingers, swallowing everything he works in and out of you, and soaking down his arm with how fucking badly you need this. How fucking worse you need all of him.

“Knew you would be all soft and sweet, so much better than fucking my fist when you let me watch.”

You were right the whole fucking time. The vindication that König was the watcher you had suspected, had wanted, is almost as hot as the mental image of him perched on a roof somewhere, looking at you through a scope, jerking off to the sight of you on display, playing with your vibrator. 

The little voice in the back of your head that can’t ever shut the fuck up and enjoy a nice thing for five seconds has a million stupid questions about what sort of insane angle he was holding to get line of sight to your room’s window and if he was using a scope to sight in on you, but none of that is as important or as interesting as what he’s doing to your body right fucking now.

“Such a fucking cocktease, meine Kätzchen,” he groans. He withdraws his fingers from the hot, tight grip of your pussy and slaps your ass hard enough that your lower half jumps at the sound and the sting. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep quiet, but the gasp still escapes out your nose, high and needy. 

The streak of come from his fingers is hot and wet on your skin, and then cools rapidly. You squirm as his fingers slot home inside you again, and something hot and wet—the tip of his tongue—traces the line of the slap. Rough stubble scrapes so fucking good against your skin, and you squeal as teeth dig into the soft muscle there before receding. 

He’s so fucking good with his mouth that it’s not fucking fair, and that’s not where you want him using that particular array of talents, but you’ve got little choice and less room to complain about it. The demanding rhythm of his fingers has your mouth hinging open, panting, drooling for his cock. You need him so fucking bad, and you’d kill to be able to turn around and look back at his face, devour the expressions that must be there on full fucking display behind your back.

“Only for me, Schatzi, ja? This tight little cunt?”

Fucking hell. Your body clenches down hard enough on his fingers that he gives an encouraging little curse, a softly whispered “fuck” in plain English that makes your head swim. You could probably come just from his dirty talk alone. File that idea aside for later, like for sometime when König isn’t already knuckle deep in you, and your arousal isn’t soaking his hand to the wrist. 

“Yours,” you agree, barely aware of the words tumbling out of your mouth. “Fuc-k— please—” 

The sounds you’re making are becoming unmanageably loud, and you have to clench down on a pathetic noise when you feel yourself close to just coming on his hand and giving him what he wants without getting what you want. 

The man is about to be 2 and 0 for orgasms today, and while you will take all he’s giving and more, this also means that you’ll be 0 and 2. It’s totally not a competition for who can give the most orgasms except that if it was, you’d be losing. Maybe you’re a little competitive, but you’re also a giver. He should be as desperate and needy and messy babbling fucking nonsense like you are now.

Maybe there’s also a little bit of a power thing in there.

Who knows.

“F-fuck me, I want your cock,” you whine. “Let me see.”

Chapter Text

Foreplay had been left behind somewhere over the Black Sea, and you have no fucking clue where you are now, literally or metaphorically. The cargo bay must exist as some uncharted, erotic part of the astral plane where you’re face down, ass up, being finger-fucked stupid on a nondescript piece of black ops cargo. 

You’re so wet—there’s no resistance at all as König’s fingers glide over your pussy, trailing your arousal all over your sensitive inner thighs. You’re so overwrought, overstimulated, that your brain skips like an old turntable, alternating between barely sensate and overwhelmingly so. 

The sounds coming out of your mouth are barely human, groans punching out from somewhere so deep that they’re almost sobs for more—relief, release, his dick, all of the above. Drool streaks from a corner of your parted lips, dragging along your cheek to puddle on the crate, and tears squeeze out of the corners of your eyes as that sharp ache burns hot in your pelvis. 

König crooks his fingers and liquid surges out of you, pattering down onto his boots. Your lower half shakes, helplessly kicking air, as he wrings a mind-melting orgasm from the hollowness inside of you.

Okay. 

Maybe you are 0 for 2 at the moment. 

But you’re not so let down. You have plenty of time to stack the scoreboard back in your favor. Maybe wring out a couple more from him until he’s so cuntdrunk he can only say your name.

A more logical part of your brain reminds you that this is not a competition as König’s breathing stutters, easing his fingers out of your cunt. The vice grip on your arms releases and there’s a prickly, hot feeling as blood rushes back into your numb fingers. 

Still, you don’t move them, not much, from where your wrists are crossed over the small of your back, and you don’t open your eyes. You are, for the moment, a good girl. You’re also not sure that you could move if you wanted to, can’t feel much of anything except how awfully empty your pussy is, clenching down on nothing, aching with it and the aftershocks of something you’ve only been able to do on your own steam. Let alone a guy that just made you ejaculate all over his wrist.

There’s a rustle of fabric, and the cloth skims your nose as he retrieves his hood.  Two fingers stroke the line of your shoulder, and you take it as a reward.

“Look at me, Schatz.” It doesn’t sound like a command—it’s a plea, ragged and desperate, like if you don’t look at him, he’s going to die on the spot. You’re a fucking mess after the warmup he just put you through, dazed and not so certain that your neck is still connected to the rest of you, but there’s nothing your hindbrain wouldn’t do if he asks it in that tone. 

Your skull weighs about a hundred pounds as you lift it out of the damp smear on the crate and crane your neck to look over your shoulder at him. That hurts in a not-very-sexy way, so you push up with your hands. The movement forces a tiny grunt of exertion out of your lungs, but then his hands are back on you, taking the weight off your arms in a not-at-all gentlemanly fashion.

One huge hand circles around your shoulders, palming both of your tits, and he uses a bruising grip on your hip to roll you onto your bare ass. He holds you tight, desperate, like if he loosens his hold on, you’ll go up in smoke. 

An illusion. 

You’ve never felt more grounded, more real, in your life than you do in this moment.

It’s so dark in the cargo bay, harsh shadows cut through with a spooky, blood red glow. The hand on your chest drags, ensorcelled, up your neck to the back of your head, tangles in your hair. Air hisses between your teeth as he pulls, hard enough to force your face up to look at his. His other hand releases your hip in order to traverse the bridge of your nose, touching the crest of your cheek, moving down to the swell of your lips. 

It’s too tender, too intimate for what this is, and you’re wild enough to bite him—nothing too hard, just an attention-getting snap of teeth that catch the tips of his fingers. You grin around your prize, kicking off your pants where they’re tangled around your boots, and his eyes widen in the void-dark mask he’s donned once more. His breathing quickens when you run the tip of your tongue over the rough texture of his fingertips and taste König. 

Steel, nitrocellulose, sweat.  

It’s almost like licking the trigger on his HK416, but intermingled with all the standard firearm components is the musk of your own fluids. 

Definitely not standard issue.

It’s not a taste you’d seek out at the local fro-yo, but on his fingers, in this moment, it’s indisputably the hottest fucking thing ever. 

You moan, licking his index finger into your mouth. When you start sucking, he shudders between your legs. The movement starts at the base of his spine and travels along his arms, unspooling the rigid set of his shoulders. He whimpers, desperate, pleading and he tangles his fingers in your hair, holding on like you’re the only thing keeping him from total collapse.

He pulls his fingers free with a soft pop of your lips as you release the suction. 

König’s eyes are wide and flit between your legs to your face like he doesn’t know what he wants to look at more. His shoulders are hunched, and he’s crowding between your legs as he fumbles with his belt. Every move is clumsy in his hurry. 

It’s kind of cute, in the most frustrating way possible. His balls must be so fucking heavy from his lack of release. How much his poor, deprived cock must ache from neglect as he ate your cunt against the wall of the church, then made you squirt all over his fingers. 

For a moment, you watch König fumble and contemplate sliding to your knees and asking him to fuck your face. Get him off quick, sloppy. Shoot his load down your throat or across your exposed tits, let his cock drag down your face and feel how hot his skin is, let the smell of him fill up your senses like he fills up your mouth, then more.

Luckily for your gag reflexes, you’re a little selfish and in dire fucking need of his dick inside your aching, empty cunt. Sometimes a girl needs to keep her priorities straight.  

“Someone’s having a hard time there, babe,” you murmur with a sly smile, trying to wrench your one-track mind from the thought of sucking him off. 

“Something is fucking hard,” he growls, yanking at his belt with one hand until the nylon creaks from the abuse. 

You’d kill a man to be able to see him blush under that mask, all the little expressions of arousal and frustrations from your smart mouth and the devious machinations of oversized tactical gear. Still, since you’re trying to get him out of those too-tight tac-pants, a strategic pivot is in order.

“Here, stop, let me—” 

There’s a chuff of air that stirs König’s hood and he eases up the grip on your hair so you can lean forward and help him out. You’re not in much better shape. Your fingers shake as your body hits the afterburner from its adrenaline-fueled high of coming so hard you gushed all over him.

You triumph over his belt buckle and scrape down his clothes, fighting his black briefs to give you his fucking cock and god, it’s so worth it when it fills your hand. You can barely close your fingers around it. König makes a sound like all the air is punched out of his chest, then moans softly when you twist your wrist to slide his foreskin back. You’re a practical girl—you rub your fingers against your soaked pussy to slick them, giving him some lubrication to fuck into as you grip his cock again.

“Scheiße,” he hisses, pulling up his shirt. It provides an unimpeded view down his stomach, and god, the red light cuts sharp shadows around the outline of muscle on his thick waist. They jump and tense with every slide of your fist down his cock. 

“Thought about this,” König babbles around his accent, confessing helplessly to your upturned face. “Every night, when you fucked yourself with your toys—every night, in the mornings, fucking yourself. How little your hands would look—”

Beads of precome gleam on the tip of his swollen, fat glans and saliva floods your mouth as some latent primordial reflex. You’re even more wet, sopping on your perch, as desperate and ready for him as he is for you. You don’t get half as much time as you want getting to learn his cock, and even that is less than he deserves after melting your brain out your ears via orgasm, but that doesn’t feel like a problem for long, because he’s wrapping his hand over yours and guiding you both to rub the thick head of his cock against your pussy. 

He pulls you forward by your hips, and you swear to fucking hell that he still has to bend his knees because he’s so tall that you almost don’t line up even with this elevated seat. You relinquish your hold of his dick to pull yourself up on his shoulders, digging your nails into the material of his shirt, holding it up so the bare skin of his chest drags against your front.

The head of his cock nudges your hypersensitive clit and you buck against it, pressing it into your body at long fucking last. A sound wrenches out of your throat, muffled by two huge, heavy fingers in your mouth, pressing your tongue down. 

"Shh–hh,” he groans, squeezing your ass where he’s holding you with one arm. It’s hard to feel particularly chastened while his cock moves off your clit and slowly presses inside you. He’s gazing rapturously down at your face. Of course he knows how loud you get when you penetrate yourself with your toy, and now he’s employing that tactical recon. 

König’s eyes are intent on your face, drinking in the way your mouth parts open in an “oh”, how your brows furrow because it’s so fucking much of him—

When he’s satisfied that you’re not going to start screaming again, he takes his fingers back and cradles you at the base of your spine. A step away from the crate leans you back, balancing on the rim with your elbows and providing him an obscene view of your wet inner thighs and how he fits in between them. Your cunt stretches to take him all in, clutching around his cock until your mind empties of everything but him.

You think he likes looking at how you stretch around him—he barely fits into you, and has to go slow, even as wet and ready as you are. Maybe the fascination with size runs both ways—he’s fixated on how you’re so small in comparison to everything about him. How your waist fits in his grip, your ass in his hands. How your hole is so tight, fluttering, straining to fit him and you whine with it, bracketing his hips with your thighs as the heels of your boots dig into his ass. 

Your nipples are standing out through your sports bra and your tac-shirt, and he pulls his hands up the lines of your body as it hangs halfway off the cargo crate. Your legs twine tighter around his naked hips, the dip of your waist and the indentations of your ribs smoothed under his hot palms until he catches your shirt. 

König shoves the layers of sweaty polyester up to stare unapologetically at your tits while he drives you insane with his cock. He palms them, teasing and twisting your nipples until they’re peaked and achy. There’s a sound coming from somewhere, and it doesn’t register in your cock-addled brain that it’s your own voice, high and thin on a “fuck” as he bottoms out inside you.

You feel like a tripwire. Everything is still so, so sensitive from your earlier orgasms. And now this, stretching around the most perfect cock you’ve ever had? You’re on the express train to becoming even more of a brainless, gibbering mess. 

Eventually, he leaves your tits alone, though they stay pointed up, silently begging for his mouth. Instead of reading your mind, he catches your knees in his big palms and pushes you back on the crate some more, folding your legs into your chest as he drills into you, splitting you open on his cock. 

You fix on his eyes, how they’re boring into you, the sounds he’s making as he fucks you. If you press down flat on your stomach, could you feel the ridge of his cock thrusting into you? Your head knocks back against the cargo crate, jostled by the momentum of his hips thudding into yours. 

If this isn’t wish fulfillment, nothing is. König’s got you folded in half so hard you might crease, so goddamn tall that he’s bent his knees to fuck you, and still has to hold your hips up to meet his cock. The red gloaming shows just enough of his cock disappearing into your cunt, the upward planes of your body past the rise of your breasts, and he’s watching like you’re the target, the mission. Like you’re everything, the only thing that matters in the world.

It is extremely flattering, the way König’s eyes drift over you. Instead of being completely fixed on how slick his cock looks going in and out of you, they climb up your hips, your stomach cording with the effort to keep the perfect angle, your bouncing tits, then your face. His gaze penetrates even deeper than his cock or fingers have, and you have no fucking idea what he’s looking for, or what he really sees.

The intensity changes when König ducks down, his breath hot against your neck through the fabric of his hood. It spreads over the side of your face and his nose brushes over your cheekbone, like he’d kiss you, if he could. If your tongue was properly synched to your brain, you’d beg him to take it off. He might refuse, and that would suck, but there’s a chance he’d comply. 

Plus, it’s fucking wild that this guy’s cockhead is grinding on your cervix and you don’t know his fucking face or his first name (not for lack of trying, but KorTac’s internal security teams earn their keep). If this isn’t the sluttiest, most desperate thing you’ve done, it’s in the top three at least, and that’s enough to make you laugh. Or you would, if the breath wasn’t being punched out of your lungs through his pistoning cock. 

“F-fuck that’s good—fuckfuckfuckfuck—” you gabble, letting your head knock back against the crate, as incoherent and fucked out as he is. This is so stupid, but it feels so good. He’s so deep and you’re too full of him to care about anything else. You funnel your energy into raising your hips to fuck back against him. Your ass recoils from the impact of each thrust, and the friction is indescribable. 

“Gutes Mädchen,” he groans, leaning over you to put his elbow on the crate by your head. His big hand sifts through your hair, deceptively gentle, cushioning your skull from the hard surface you’re dangling off of while he fucks you like he’s carrying a personal grudge against your pelvis. His body covers yours with extra to spare, blotting out the murky roof of the cargo bay, and if he wasn’t holding your weight and his, well, you’re not sure what that would feel like, but you hope like hell you get a chance to find out when you’re not halfway suspended off a sharp metal edge.

“That's it—good girl.” 

König’s so sweet when he’s moaning these encouragements for you. 

You could come just by him rasping a good girl in your ear. You bite down on the fabric of his hood to muffle another involuntary cry as your next orgasm rushes up your spine. You smell his soap, his sweat—maybe a little bit of you from earlier, and you fucking love it.

A voice comes from the overhead gangway just outside of the cockpit. “Everyone alive back there?” 

It’s Hutch. 

You grind the corner of the hood between your teeth to keep from cursing. This fucking god damn interruption doesn’t stop König for an instant. Your thighs quiver as the frenetic thrusting slows, becoming quieter, but more deliberate. More controlled, less wet sucking sounds from your cunt or the slap of his balls against your ass, a criminal loss of his uncontrolled moans and endearments. He compensates for it with intensity: grinding your pubic bone against his body so you feel his sweat-slicked skin drag against your thighs. His hand drops to where his cock disappears inside you to play with your clit. 

What a fucker. 

God, you need to bite him so bad, sink your teeth into his muscled bicep or the side of his neck while he fumbles over the hood of your clit before circling the swollen, distended nub. His cock throbs inside you, pushing against your straining cunt, stuffing you full of him and he’s going to make you come just like this, isn’t he? He’s going to make you come while Hutch is checking on the pair of you, and you don’t know how the fuck you’re going to handle this—

Feeling a little vindictive, you bite down the inside of his bicep, just above the elbow. It’s the only piece of him in easy reach and the nylon sleeve tastes like dust and sweat. He jumps at the unexpected sting, his finger skipping over your clit to dig into your inner thigh. You’re going to get a bruise the exact shape of his spread hand. 

Fair trade, since he’ll be carrying the crescents of teeth marks for a couple of days, at least. 

“Come, Schatz,” he whines in your ear. You press your mouth against the hood, kissing over where his mouth should be through the fabric. It’s wet. Whether it’s his drool, yours, or the tears pouring down your cheeks because you’re so goddamn overstimulated from how your body is screaming with sensations, you really don’t know. 

You don’t fucking care, either.

This is too good. 

The way it hurts is so fucking good. 

It’s too much. 

But it’s not enough. 

You need it all and so, so much more.

“...y’all alright?” Hutch asks again, closer. Like he’s standing right over you both on the gangway overhead, looking out over the cargo bay.

“Tell him,” König hisses, and if you weren’t so fuckdrunk on his cock, you’d explain to him in emphatic detail how fucking ridiculous his expectations are. He’s not exactly volunteering to clear that high bar he’s setting while fucking you like a gas-operated piston. 

There’s no justice, but you’ll make damn sure that there’s karmic payback for this.

You rally like a goddamn hero to sound like someone rudely roused from a nap and not like you’re getting fucked by the entire Fifth Army, which is just one guy who everyone says is shy. Shy must be KorTac code for unholy sex demon because your body’s reactions should be astrally impossible in this plane of existence. Your arms circle his thick neck, your hands clamping onto his shoulders as his cock rearranges your insides like it's taking up permanent residence.

“T-trying to grab some s-shut eye, dude,” you shout over the engines, the slick sounds of his cock breaking you open. Your voice only quavers a little, and you hope to God, Jesus, and the Holy fucking Ghost that Hutch takes your word for it and toddles off to the lav or whatever the fuck he needs to do up there and not come down here. You’re pretty damn sure that König is exactly your kind of crazy, which means he’ll probably tell Hutch to take five until he’s finished. 

“Cool. Call up if you need anything,” Hutch says like you’re staying at some civilian hotel before he blessedly fucks off. The odds aren’t great that your pilot is as ignorant as he’s acting, but his decorum is impeccable, and he minds his own damn business for once.

“That was mean,” you say once the cockpit door hisses shut. He grunts at that, maybe the Austrian equivalent of a laugh, straightening up to let his hips roll lazily into yours in a way that makes the fuselage ceiling spin. You dig your nails into his exposed chest, scoring down to his abdominals as you sit up. He shudders, jerking into you, and you trace the pads of your fingers over the hot, raised welts left behind.

“I’m serious,” your voice rasps, unrecognizable to your own ears, and you lock your ankles around his back, trapping him inside you. You raise your chin and capture his gaze again; his eyes are huge and dark, and he stills immediately, waiting. You’re going to be sore as shit tomorrow, bruises are already blooming on your hips, your wrists, your thighs from where he keeps squeezing them to watch the flesh spill between his fingers. “Someone needs to teach you some manners, Colonel.”

You reach under the hem of his sniper’s hood to grip his throat. His eyes go wide and his Adam's apple moves under your hand when he swallows hard.

It’s a tactical takedown, meant to fold guys his size like lawn chairs. You’ve employed it a few times where dirty tricks were all you had. This is your first time deploying it with someone’s dick inside you , but the technique is the same. You grip your thumb on a pressure point and close off some of his airway, choking him.

His hand wraps around your wrist, and oh fuck you might be falling in love, just a little bit, aren’t you? The pressure on your wrist while you’re choking him, the way he could snap your bird-thin bones like a strand of spaghetti, but he doesn’t. 

He leans into your hand and how you’re gripping him, and you know from earlier experience how it feels to have the edges of your vision browning out as oxygen deprivation sets in. The fear and trust and exhilaration burning through your mutually short supply of common sense, the way every touch becomes so much greater the closer you get to that edge. 

His thrusts slow, he wheezes, and you pick up the pace. You brace one hand on his shoulder, coming off the crate entirely to ride him standing as you keep the other on his throat as leverage, fucking your hips against his. He can only hold onto you, his hands spread under your thighs to keep you up.

If heaven doesn’t include mind melting orgasms while you choke König out, riding his cock, you’re not sure it’s worth going. 

“C’mon, baby,” your voice comes out breathy, unsteady. Your words are a taunt, a challenge. You can see his eyes roll back and his breathing speeds up until he’s almost hyperventilating against your palm. “Come for me like my good boy, h-hm? Fill me up with this perfect cock.” 

You choke him hard for a few seconds. His pulse fights against the press of your fingers, faster and faster and faster. He moans, the sound drawn out like a thread, and you release his throat all at once. His fingers clench down just as hard on your wrist, keeping your open palm against his throat. 

Yeah, you’re definitely going to be stuck in long-sleeved tac-shirts for the next few weeks.

Guys who moan like that deserve their tax returns first. 

If Austria even has a tax return.

An incredible heat fills you up as his cock twitches inside you. Hot come leaks out around the seal of your cunt stretched around him, dripping down his length to spatter somewhere that isn’t your problem. König’s knees buckle and he seizes your hips, trying to slow you down, whining something in German that you don’t process, but know in your soul you must hear again as soon as possible with a translation. 

He holds as still as a statue while you finish yourself off with a few practiced flicks of your fingers. This is so fucking hot, you barely need to touch yourself before you’re riding out your own orgasm on his trapped cock.

“F-fuck,” you’re cursing nonsense again, a litany of fucks and holy shits and Jesus fuckin’ Christs strung together with gasps and pants and moans until you bite down on his shoulder, folding your arms around his neck. He hisses, but keeps so, so still and trembling as you use him relentlessly until your body locks up around him. You’re coming so hard, cockdrunk, and the force of it takes him by surprise too, because he stutters out a practically incoherent “fuck” in English to echo your own.

Your thighs hold his hips steady, and you fuck back onto his cock despite every nerve-ending in your pussy screaming from overstimulation as you ride out the last tingles of your climax. How much worse it must be for him, judging by how his fingers are embedded into your hips. Your hands skim down to where his shirt is hiked up, feeling the muscles of his stomach jump and tense. Everything goes still for a moment. 

It’s enough just to listen to your mingled, labored breathing and the steady roar of the engines.

Then, still inside you, König carefully, slowly, almost gracefully, collapses to his knees. He sags forward until his forehead presses into the crate and you’re wedged between him and the object, held tight in his arms.

Chapter Text

Of all the outcomes that stage three of Operation: Baltic Audit could have resulted in, your current situation hadn’t registered as even remotely possible: thirty-thousand feet in the air, in the bay of a C-17, having your brains fucked out over a black ops supply crate by the guy you’ve been hunting for sport for the past six weeks.

There was a moment after you’d shared a seismic, mind-altering climax where König had teetered on a retreat. He’d wrapped around you in the immediate aftermath, pressing your face into his chest as you trembled through the comedown, arms entwined around his neck and your thighs cinched around his hips, like if you just held on fucking tight enough, this moment could last forever. 

His come leaked out of your pussy onto his half-hard cock, and he breathed, hot and ragged, against your hair. When he finally pulled out of you with a groan, you’d mumbled a soft complaint at the sudden emptiness.

For a moment, he stayed frozen just like that, curled over you like a fucked up and fucked out guardian angel on a frieze. His hands had eased their grip on the bruises on your waist, and his jaw bumped against the crown of your head. 

His heart thundered twice in your ear, and then the moment was over. 

König had straightened up from his fucked out slump, tension pulling his shoulders in. The muscles in his huge thighs under you had flexed, not dislodging you yet, but presenting the entirely unwelcome idea.

Instinctively, you tighten your grip on him, fingernails digging into his wide back. It couldn’t have held him an instant if he wanted to go, but your clenched hands banished any doubt or shame or whatever was running around in his giant brain. All it took was the smallest, and maybe slightly desperate “nuh-uh” and he acquiesced so fucking fast to your incoherent demand. 

There was zero transition between his reservation and scooping you up to abscond to the nearby humvee tied down in the cargo bay. König closed the distance to the side door with amazing alacrity for a man balancing a grownass woman in one arm and hobbled by BDUs tangled around his thick thighs. 

It will always be a mystery to you of how he navigated the both of you through the cab of the humvee to the back of it. The vehicle is big, but it wasn’t designed for this, whatever the fuck this is. König maneuvered you over the front bench with just a little friction burn from the stained felt that covers the steel and aluminum frames underneath. 

Still, it’s the best cover available and out of line of sight for any wandering pilots. 

Something about Hutch tripping over you mid-fuck is definitely crossing a boundary for you both and a potential hostile work environment complaint. 

It’s pretty fucking clear which of you is responsible for thinking of this shit, and that it sure isn’t König. 

Really, Hutch could dance the cha-cha over his head and the Colonel probably wouldn’t notice. 

He acts like a man who has been crawling through the Sahara for decades and your body is an oasis hosting an all you can eat buffet. 

Or, he’s as fucked up and touch starved as you are. That works too. 

Back to the present state of things: the two of you collapse on the floor of the humvee, sweat-slick and breathing heavily. König’s hands wander up and down your sides, dragging, grasping, kneading. You’re putty at this point, malleable and ready to bend whatever way he wants. He’s earned it—fucking your brain out with his incredible fucking cock merits an all-season pass to do whatever the fuck he wants for at least an hour or four. 

Maybe normal people would have used this interlude to, who knows, talk about feelings or boundaries or first names. Not you two though, no pillows or pillow talk, not even a quick post-sex cigarette. 

International aviation safety regulations, spoiling life’s small pleasures once again. 

Then again, you’re in no position to conduct an accurate risk analysis of a little nicotine hotboxing in a supersonic metal tube which may be carrying significant tonnage of live ordinance.

Your pants have disappeared, maybe never to be seen again, and your shirt and bra are still tangled up by your clavicle where your dog tags rest. The twisted elastic bands constrict above your tits, thrusting them out.

The Colonel is some sort of secret sex genius; he’s come up with an inventive way to alternate sucking your nipples and licking the mess between your legs, proving once more he is as much of a “necessity is the mother of invention” freak about this as you are. 

The man had gone straight from forcibly relocating you to holding up your hips and pressing your feet against his pectorals (again, god bless him), as he kneels on the empty bed of the humvee. 

You’re robbed of the sight of him eating you out this time, though. At some point, while you were distracted by all this man-handling, he whipped his hood off and dropped it over your head, faster than you could glimpse what was beneath. The darkness had been instantaneous and total, leaving you only with sensation and sound and the smell of him— pine, greasepaint, coffee, and musk. 

You stretch so fucking far to get your hands on his head, raking your nails across the stubble on his scalp. Your fingers glide over the shape of his ears, then across his furrowed brow, following the lines down to the uneven bridge of his nose and an old, healed break. 

Would it give him that same sexy crookedness that hockey or rugby players have? You’d just about die to find out for yourself. 

Topographically you know he’s cute. Touch paints a very flattering mental picture as his tongue swipes broad strokes across your cunt. You’re dying to pull the hood off and see what he looks like with his mouth sealed around your clit, but you don’t. 

There’s an invisible barricade that you won’t jump until he disarms the livewire running between the two of you and lets you in. 

You’re not the most virtuous bitch in a thousand kilometer radius, but you know how to be patient. 

You can wait for the things worth waiting for.

Especially if that thing keeps flicking your clit with the tip of his tongue to help pass the time. He cups your tailbone, holding your hips almost vertical so he can keep eating out your messy cunt.

“König,” you thread out, definitely not whimpering around the overstimulation that’s choking out your senses as ruthlessly as you had squeezed his throat and his cock. You squeak, grinding your hips against his face. He moans into you, and the vibrations curl your toes so fucking hard that your foot cramps. His fingers fill you up again, driving away the empty ache that lingered after the (hopefully temporary) loss of his cock. 

Who is this motherfucker that he’s got a fucking cheat code to making you come so goddamn fast? 

Of course König is as good with his hands as he is with his dick. He’s learning you like your body is a new firearm, stripping you down to your base components, thick fingers deft as they press and drag along your G-spot. His weird, tactical genius works as well in discovering new ways to get you off as it does in live fire exercises. It doesn’t seem fair somehow, but it's so egregiously unfair in your favor that you really, really don’t mind.  

You’re on fire with the idea that he can taste himself when he’s kissing your cunt, that each suck and pull of his mouth is a swallow of both of you, and he’s desperate to eat all of his come out of you.

Fumbling, you fit one hand between your legs, spreading yourself further open for him. The air is cool but his breath is hot against your soaked pussy and it fucking sucks that you can’t see his expression, can’t see jack shit like this. 

He better fucking enjoy it enough for you both. You dip your fingers into the wet, sloppy mess between your legs—your fingers are so small after his, narrow and utterly unsatisfying, even as your cunt sucks against them up to the knuckle. He hasn’t completely cleaned you out, and you can feel the sticky wetness that isn’t yours slipping under your fingertips when you arch your back, reaching your wet hand for his face. 

You smear the musky mix across his rough, unshaven jaw, until your fingers slide in between his lips. They're thin, and you can feel the uneven scar in an entirely new way as he licks your fingers into his mouth.

A good soldier, he sucks them clean as you rub along his tongue and over his teeth, dragging them free with a pop and trailing saliva down his chin before you push his head back between your legs. His fingers fill up your cunt again, giving you that stretch which you can't satisfy with your own two hands.

This must be what dividing by zero feels like. 

Your mind is fragmented. Raw nerves tangle around each other and in the absolute dark of the skewed hood, you might not be made of anything more than sensations. 

König pulls out his fingers with a wet, soft sound and replaces it with his tongue. His nose nudges up against the hood of your clit and you fuck yourself against the friction there. His tongue dips that much deeper and you’re coming again, incoherent and muffled, and a million miles past giving a shit about anything else. 

He groans as you soak his face again, holding you in position as your body shakes helplessly through the aftershocks. Can he breathe like this? Do either of you give a shit if he drowns in your pussy right here and now? 

That would be hot as fuck, but probably not a great long term strategy to get his tongue almost tickling your cervix again. 

You bite down on the sniper’s hood blinding you as he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks hard, resetting the comedown with brutal efficiency. You scream around the impromptu gag and thrash, split evenly between the animal need for moremoremore and too much while your nails scrape into the felt-lining of the humvee’s floorboards.

When he finally stops, there’s a beat of silence, punctuated only by the sounds of your breathing and his. 

“Such a mess you’ve made, Schatzi,” König’s voice is as raw as your throat feels. 

The noise you make is barely human. You’re not much more than two brain cells duct taped together masquerading as a complex, multi-cellular organism. 

Multi-cellular is a pretty good word. You’re kind of proud that you can still think in compound words, given the circumstances.

There’s a wet slap of skin as he taps your throbbing cunt and your back twinges as your entire body spasms, whited out with shock and startled stimulation. König drags three broad fingers across the mess between your legs more gently, coating his hand and making you squirm. Then he reaches beneath the hood and pushes three huge fingers between your lips, stretching your mouth wide. 

One of your unused braincells is grateful that the hood hides how fucking dumb you probably look like this, but is immediately overwritten by the horny bitch controlling all your awesome decisions these last…hours? Weeks? Months? 

Whatever. 

A heady rush of want, lust, sex makes you stupid—and you fucking love it. You suck on them, laving your tongue over and between his index, middle and ring fingers, salt and the almost slimy texture of his come mingled with yours filling up your mouth. The Colonel moans again, deep and guttural, like this is heaven and hell for him and he can’t tell which. He pulls his fingers out with a pop and you lift your head to chase. 

His laugh gusts out over your wet cunt, denying you another taste, and you shudder. He undoes you so easily, like he could go on forever, insatiable and unrelenting for hours on hours. Maybe he’d be amenable to trying it the next time you’re both off the same day, marathon cunnilingus and see who collapses of exhaustion first (or so says your ego, writing checks it can’t cash), but you’re on a timetable this time. 

Holy fuck, please don’t let this be the last time.  

You nudge his spine with your heel a little harder than is strictly necessary. Not a tap out, definitely not. No way, José, is this your swollen, electrified flesh begging for a reprieve. 

That would be for quitters, and Mama maybe raised a fool but she sure as shit didn’t raise a quitter.

An intermission, that’s all this is. A variation on the carnal theme that’s evolving between the two of you. 

König eases your thighs off of his shoulders, gently lowering your hips down to spread on the bed of the humvee. Your lumbar region reminds you sharply that you’re not twenty years old anymore, and being upside down, folded like a love letter, has consequences beyond a deep, satisfying fuck. You wiggle your toes against the ratty old felt lining and shift your hips around, hunting for an angle that won’t pit your tailbone against the barely covered steel flooring. It mostly doesn’t work, but whatever. A hand the size of a catcher’s mitt presses down on your sternum, and you go still.  

“Eyes closed, Kätzchen,” König rumbles.  

You give a lazy (and only semi-reluctant) thumbs up and shut your eyes. Your lashes flutter against the soft material of the hood. Then he pulls it off, and you don’t open them until he says “clear”. Overhead, the view is filled up with the drab olive paint of the humvee’s roof, lit by the dull red lights in the cargo bay beyond. Of all places you’ve ever fucked (and there have been some real contenders in your very storied life), this is in the top five for unconventional. And maybe in the top three for most uncomfortable.

König leans back against the wheel well, adjusting his briefs and spreading his legs. His slightest movement jostles the strapped down demi-tank you’ve made your temporary hookup sanctuary. Hopefully the humvee is outside the periphery of the cameras in the cockpit, but neither Hutch nor Dec have smooshed their faces against the fogged up windows yet, so it's probably fine. 

And your last lieutenant had accused you of being an incurable pessimist. Who’d have thought?

When he stretches out his legs (god he is all limbs, really) his boots prop comfortably on the opposite wheel well. Somehow, his tac-pants are still impeccably bloused into the tops of his boots. He’s managed to pull them up around his hips, his fly undone. It’s the most disheveled you’ve ever seen him. 

Fucking unreal. 

König’s shirt had come off at some point and you’re treated to the unobstructed view of his massive chest and the dull shine of his dog tags. Even his hood drapes off center. It’s the most rumpled you’ve ever seen the Colonel. Long red lines abrade his chest, arms, shoulders, and abdominals, and even exhausted and fucked out, you still preen—just a bit.

You did that: clawed the shit out of KorTac’s most infamous operative. Hopefully they last a good, long time. It would be fucking hysterical (for you and probably no one else) if someone tried to make him explain those. 

You swallow a burble of completely inappropriate laughter as you sit up. Blatant and unashamed, you take this rare and priceless opportunity to ogle. No more side glances and wondering for you—this visual memory is going to live rent free in your head forever. You could live the rest of your short, stupid life with your face buried in his chest. Sculpted, massive, with dark hair dusting across it and tapering into a soft line disappearing into the waistband of his boxers. Cute, pink pebbled nipples and the faint sheen of sweat gleaming on his skin. 

You want to lick them, bite them, twist them. Make him whine until his cock jerks and leaks from the torture.

Put that on your to do list for later, with a couple exclamation points, and maybe some doodled hearts and stars.

For now, you’re leaning more towards dazed and hazy, your sole surviving neuron is drowning in oxytocin and serotonin. It’s steaming in here–the complete lack of airflow fogs up the windows of the humvee and everything smells like gun oil, musk, and sex. It’s hot as fuck (thermically and sexually), but not in a ‘sit on his dick again’ way, which is weird, but not bad.

It feels more like an irresistible desire to crawl into his lap and drape yourself over his chest like a too small, completely ineffective, singlet.

So you do just that. 

Fuck it, you always knew you were a freak for the soft shit.

You shuffle over his legs, shucking your shirt and bra over your head and letting them fall wherever down by his knee. There’s not a stitch on you save for your dog tags, field boots, and socks crumpled low on your calves. 

It’s a look. 

His eyes rove down your naked body, and you get the sense that he’s into the aesthetic. König doesn’t say anything (it is König after all) but his arms fold around you and drag you bodily on his lap.

It is everything you’ve imagined and a fuckload more. 

König’s thighs shift under you, sliding you just that much closer, until your hips press against his abdomen. There’s a hesitation to his movements that’s at odds with how free he was with you a minute before, as if intimacy is something that’s even less familiar than using his cock, his tongue, his fingers. Maybe he’s spooked, or trying not to spook you. It’s a coinflip as to which is the more ridiculous premise—or the most likely. 

You’re not a damn Disney princess (which one comes with the bad attitude and trauma-induced hypersexuality, again?) and you’re not the cute forest animal either, and while you sure as shit like playing the fuckdoll part, you lead just as well as you  follow. 

The smell of gun oil lingers around both your hands as you lift one of his broad palms to your face and nuzzle into his lifeline. His tac-pants are riding low, and you might be falling in love with the dusting of fair hair on his chest and abs, darkening in a trail that disappears into the top of his undone fly. 

This man’s waist is fucking ridiculous. 

Can a dude’s waist be slutty? 

He classifies. König’s torso narrows at his midsection. Not thin, everything about this man is thick, and padded with muscle. Defined by hard, repeated use and good ole PT. Nothing involving the word “PT” should ever be sexy, but here you fucking are. Off the deep end and swimming down to a whole new level of hell, shovel at the ready to dig.

His eyes flicker over your face, and they’re so damned earnest and needy that your heart hitches a little in your chest as he strokes his fingers down your cheek, to your neck, to your clavicle. 

Gun-roughened fingertips ghost over one breast, drawing a sharp inhale from you as they brush against your nipple, but keeps going, ending up further south at a puckered scar distorting the skin under your last rib. 

“Who did this?” König asks slowly. 

Heat coils in your stomach. Hot, anticipatory. His voice is dangerous, familiar from the airwaves of the radio or in the confines of a firefight. Much softer in the private interior of the humvee than when he’s leading a mission or keeping his crew in some sort of order.

Deadly serious, and just plain deadly.

Chapter Text

You’re so, so very certain that if your answer indicates that the source of that scar is a living, breathing person, König’s going to break a whole lot of regs and make it a priority to hunt them down, Tom Clancy style. It’s easy to imagine him breaking a couple of necks for you (not his own, duh) and maybe pulling their guts out through their navels like a tangle of very squashy Christmas lights.

“Some stupid to-do in Tabriz a few years back,” you answer, covering his hand with yours. You trace slow, reassuring circles over his scarred skin, trying to sound breezy, soothing, like it wasn’t one of the worst shit shows in your extremely volatile career. “You should see the other guy.”

There’s no way they got all the brainmatter out of that Persian rug. Some art collecting bozo had said it was priceless, a trophy from a raid on one of the Shah’s old palaces. Historically significant. Irreplaceable.

Probably a lot less priceless after soaking in a gallon of human-trafficker insides-turned-outsides. A fair trade, in your totally uncultured opinion.

And the power vacuum left behind had been totally not your problem.

“This?” König asks, tracing up your arm to a jagged scar running the length to your inner elbow with his other hand. 

“Rusty jungle gym. Third grade,” you say gravely, as if the scar holds your deepest, darkest battle story, the cause of all of your night terrors and company-mandated  therapy sessions.

He laughs, a rusty, disused sound that startles out of him at your cheeky reply, and lifts up his arm. There’s an indentation in the flesh near his elbow, a shadow in the low, red light. 

“I was nine.” The faintest tremor stirs through him as your fingertips graze the scar. You feel it more than see it—his thighs tense, his mask stirring where he inhales sharply,  as if every touch on his body makes him pause, re-evaluate, and arch like a feral cat receiving a particularly welcome scratch.

Like this is as unbelievable as it is wonderful. 

Like he hasn’t been touched like this in a very, very long time. 

His voice is thick as he continues his story. “I thought it would be fun to climb up into Oma’s hayloft. Floor was rotten, stupid. I fell through and found a nail with my arm.”

“If I was your Oma, I’d have kicked your ass. Twice.” He snorts at that, and you laugh enough for you both. Weirder and weirder, but nice. 

Easy. Nothing good is ever this fucking easy for you. 

“I bet you were a little...” you pause. Can’t call him a bastard, or a son of a bitch. 

Cultural sensitivity, or some shit. Not your area of expertise—or something you’d even give a shit about—but there had been so many stupid corporate training webinars about this; why risk accidentally insulting his mom when you don’t particularly want to be dumped on the floor. 

Or thrown out the back of a C-17. 

Not that you think he would. 

But still.

“Bet you were a little hellion.” You adjust your phrasing pretty neatly on the fly and poke König in the center of his chest, framing his face with your hands like you’re taking a camera snapshot. His torso expands with what can only be amusement by the way his eyes crinkle and a short, chuffed laugh escapes, his thighs shifting under you. 

You’re up for three—or maybe two and a half—in making him laugh, at least. That power fills you with a bubbly, tingly giddiness that demands you keep going, push the envelope. Like all your blood has transmuted into champagne, and you are, for just a moment, fucking awesome. 

“In the summer, a perfect angel. Plenty to do outside. In the wintertime? A hellion, ja,” he admits as an afterthought. You giggle at the slightly rueful tone, and then he continues. “I wouldn’t sit quietly and read with her. Wouldn’t play nice with her puzzles.”

Your life is so damn weird sometimes. 

A post in Command & Control grants access to team personnel files: FBI, CIA, MI5, Interpol—if a military or security agency has notes on KorTac personnel, KorTac has that report, guaranteed. It might be locked in a cabinet with the key dropped behind a haunted coffee pot, but they’ve got it. All of König’s histories (pages and pages) have been redacted to four full lines. 

And now he’s post-coitally cuddling you in the back of a C-17 and telling you stories about his granny?

You’ve lived every second of it, firsthand, and you’re still not quite sure how you got here from gluing surveillance bugs onto walls in a derelict Polish church. 

“What’d she do?”

“Hn?” The sniper hood ripples as König shakes his head slightly, like he’d lost the thread of conversation as much as you had. Maybe you weren’t the only one engaging in some good old fashioned rumination.

“Your Oma, when you wouldn’t play nice?” Your mind paints a vivid and unhelpful picture of the gangliest nine year old, all ears and elbows and feet, running as wild as a wolf under a summer sky and already too big for a little farmhouse; too impatient for the books or puzzles that he’d done once already. 

“Ah.” You’d give any and everything to see his face under the hood right about now. Were these fond memories? Painful? “Tell me stories about when she used to wrestle bears, back where she came from. Those were…those were good.”

Well, that wasn’t the most surprising thing about today, but it sure was making a serious bid as a contender. “Did she really?”

“Tell stories? Ja. Wrestle the bears?” König shrugs, a massive motion that rolls through your body like a wave. You tighten your hand on his, and he strokes the side of your thumb in response. “Possible.” A pause, and the muscles around his eyes soften slightly. “She could do anything.”

The hero-worship in his voice is as clear as blinking neon signs. You think of the boy that could not sit still gazing rapturously at a weathered old bat spinning tales in front of a wood fireplace while it snows outside, growing into a man as still and quiet as the trees he used to climb, bigger than his granny’s bears and more lonely than a mountain. 

You don’t even know his name. His callsign is his name, and there’s no other identification to dispute it. And you’ve checked. It could be an alias, perhaps? King.

His dog tags clink as you lift them off of his chest and examine them. This isn’t the army; KorTac doesn’t require that personnel wear ID out in the field (though on base they’re a little more insistent about operational security and all that blah blah blah)–and this isn’t the 50s, so anyone who cares about postmortem identification can get something way more effective than a 1x2 rectangle of stamped aluminum. 

The metal in your palm is stamped simplistically and contains just the essentials: everything you’d need to save a body. 

Or bury it.

KÖNIG

9986482117

O NEG

CATHOLIC

“So you are a good Catholic boy,” you tease, thumbing over the embossed details of his life.

“Eh,” he says, his voice faintly colored with amusement. “Not a good one.” 

“Good enough, I’d say.” Your theological opinion probably shouldn’t mean jack shit—you’ve both committed at least three cardinal sins in the last twelve hours, but even with this first, and hopefully only, trace of Catholic-guilt-bullshit, you can’t not leap to his defense.

He’s always on your six when you’re out in the field. Doesn’t argue about your presence, and respects your expertise when it comes to tech and subterfuge, and old primetime television shows. Enemies shooting in your vicinity turn to red mist almost immediately. And you know, with the same stupid and unjustified certainty that the sun will rise in the east again tomorrow, that he’d rip through a whole battalion to keep you safe. He’s killed for you. Multiple times. And you want every iota of that bloody focus and commitment on you like you give him. 

It’s wrong. 

It’s unhealthy. 

It’s awesome.

A soft rumble of dissent vibrates through his chest, against your cheek, and you tweak his thick, callused finger with a tut. “Don’t argue with me on this one, soldier. You’re alright.”

He nods mutely, though you’re not really sure it's in agreement, his eyes fixed on how your fingers smooth over the metal indentation of KÖNIG. His breath hitches in his chest as your exploration continues beyond his dog tags. A pink discoloration of scar tissue near his broad, heavy clavicle distracts you from spiraling thoughts that threaten to run soft. He tenses under your touch, but you don’t draw away at the flinch.

“What’s this one?” you ask.

“Terror cell in Frankfurt,” König rasps. “We– I thought the door was reinforced. Made the call to breach using standard protocol. It went…poorly. KorTac picked me up, after.” 

Maybe it’s not so different from the shit that pushed you out of your old life and into this: 

Staring at emptied detainee cages, trying not to puke from the smell. 

Listening on headset as your team bled out from IED shrapnel. 

Civilian compounds obliterated, and the trapped children inside burning. 

Endless parades of collateral damage where you were told just push the button and live with the consequences. 

Someday the statute of limitations will expire on all your classified operations and then you’ll have your own Wikipedia article. With your fucking luck, you’ll be just a reference on “War Crimes (Middle East)”. Hopefully not in the top five, but probably top ten.

Not that KorTac’s missions have any great moral purity, either. Corporate overlords mainly pick the missions instead of government suits, but it’s still a bunch of old, white assholes. Your job hasn’t changed, either: find the target, push the button, wake up from screaming nightmares later. Still, the intel and the food are a step up, and the pay helps. KorTac’s numbers have you on track to retire from all this shit before you’re 40 (and better odds of surviving long enough to collect it) and get yourself a cute little house somewhere quiet. 

Quiet and warm, by a beach or in the mountains. Or, fuck it, you could spring for two houses. One to rotate out for the winter and fall, another for the summer and spring. Unbidden, your extremely unhelpful brain offers a mental image of König on the beach, or in a porch chair, drinking coffee and watching mist disperse over the mountains. You smother that thought mercilessly; it doesn’t belong anywhere in the vicinity of this reality.

Chill, bitch.

“Think you’d ever go back to extractions?” you ask in an effort to drown the inner alter ego that is packing her U-Haul for date number two. 

But this isn’t a date. 

It’s a fuck. 

Multiple fucks, all top quality, punctuated by talking…which does not, by the definition, constitute a date. “Or more of a nine-to-fiver, closer to home? I bet you look hot in a uniform.”

“No,” he answers, short. Terse. Then, softens it, “This job suits me more.”

Not as abrupt, maybe, but no more informative than the flat negation. Still, it gives you something to work with.

“Why’s that?” You lean into his body. You rest your elbows on the slabs of his shoulders, pulling yourself up to peer into his eyes. You’re crowding him,  nose brushing against the soft black material of his hood. The eye contact, so close and inescapable, catches him off guard, and his eyes dart around, looking for something to rest on that isn’t you. When he can’t find it, he accepts the discomfort with a very European stoicism and looks straight into your gaze like a goddamn car crash. 

It’s so stupid. You know the psychology of silence, how saying nothing prompts other people to fill the void. If only knowing that made you immune to it. Like an idiot, you babble to fill it, casting about for stupid explanations to get this stupid conversation somewhere better than your maximum awkward edition. “Hard to find a desk that fits you, maybe? You really are more of a doing than a sayer; going to exotic places, killing interesting people. Holding onto hope for the occasional operation that gives you more than five minutes with the all-you-can-eat Cambodian fish curry.” 

Better to embrace the crazy, than run from it. You rub your nose against his hood again and grin with too many teeth. “Am I getting closer?”

You feel König’s hands shift up your naked back, see his eyes lid heavy in the holes of his mask. Maybe crazy is okay, when it’s with him. Maybe it’s okay that you talk enough for both of you. His hands shift up your back to cup your neck, cradling the base of your skull like a baby bird as he holds your gaze, as serious as a heart attack. 

"Overwatch in KorTac is world class,” he says, like it’s just that easy, like your heart isn’t exploding into your guts and into space at the implication. “No one guards my team like you do."

His sincerity makes your heart flutter like a billion little coked-up butterflies. "Really?” you ask, dumbfounded. “My overwatch is a factor in you picking KorTac over the whole Austrian army?"

"The army is for children," he snorts, his arms banding around you. "Entry level. I pick you over Jagdkommando, over Aegis, over Wagner.” 

You’re pretty sure he means KorTac as a whole and not you personally, but still. A girl can dream. 

And he’s not even fucking done gilding your lily, metaphorically. “No one reads out tac-maps or relays combat traffic like you. Your voice protects my people, protects me. Does not falter. Nothing, no place, compares to that."

Okay, now you’re sunk.

You duck down. Looking into König’s eyes is way too fucking much after that declaration, and kiss the rough, discolored scar across his clavical, your head swimming with the weight of fucking everything. The scar peeks out just below the fabric of his mask where it drapes over his shoulders, across his chest.

“What else would you miss, if I rotated out, besides overwatch going to shit?” You pause contemplatively, then make a soft, sly noise of understanding. You drag your mouth lower, painting a wet trail with lips and tongue over his pectoral to lick one of his nipples, scraping it raw with your teeth. He groans, squirming under the contact before you draw back and ‘ahhh’ out a realization. “I know: Hutch doesn’t have my radio voice,” you tease, drawing back. His whole body trembles against you.

Are you fishing for compliments? Absolutely and shamelessly. But if the dude wants to talk, you’ll give him an easy target. 

“I would miss…h-how you move,” he starts, his voice hitching as you trace around his pink, wet nipple with your thumbnail. “Watching you in the field. Your eyes on me in the rearview mirror when you ride with us. In your room. Across the table during those nights you get everyone drunk on your terrible liquor.”

“I know you’re not talking shit about my Fireball,” you drawl, intermingling kisses and bites over his abraded, scarred collarbone. “Keep going.”

“Y-your hands, on my gun.” It sounds like it’s forced through his clenched jaw.

“Would you just listen to that romance,” you purr. “You like my hands on your gun?”

“Schatz…” 

If you get ‘treasure’d one more time with one of his knee-jerk German diminutives, you’re going to melt into the goddamn floorboard.

So many scars, more than a match for your own wartorn body. You’ve ridden a desk for years and his MOS is dedicated fully to tactical ops, but this job, this life, marks you both the same. 

He lifts his mask up just a bit when you reach the edge of his sniper’s hood, and you crystallize that sight in your memory forever as one that is probably the most intimate, erotic moment of your life.

You just know he’s so fucking hot under there as a whole face. A whole man. You’re already in lust (love?) with the visible half of it, for fuck’s sake. His lips are pressed thin, pulse beating quick and hot and vulnerable in a point under his jaw, and the faintest shiver of uncertainty. You kiss it all away, clutching the back of his neck in your hand, working against his lips until he opens his mouth and gives you his tongue. 

“That’s so good, baby,” you pull away long enough to whisper. His mouth parts and his whole body just melts into you.

Chapter Text

There’s no way that König can see you like this—the opaque black fabric drapes like a bridal veil over his eyes, which is a weird comparison to make for approximately a billion reasons, but here you are. 

Your idiot brain, unbidden, briefly paints a vivid, explicit picture of him in a matching black lingerie set, his ridiculous chest and cute little nipples spilling out of a black bustier. 

That’s normally not your vibe, you prefer to be the one in the sexy bra and panty combinations, but it’s just…fucking König. 

Everything about him inexplicably works for you, no matter the specifics.

You sit back, and König instinctively tilts his face up. His lips are red and swollen, standing out in the shadow of two days of beard growth, and sweat drips down the thick cords of his neck to pool in the hollows around his clavicle. 

Fucked up, fucked out, and beautiful. 

You lick a wide stripe up his neck, chasing the gleam of perspiration to where it disappears into his stubble and go back to kissing him like it is your one and only purpose in this life. You nip the scar on his lip as your fingers drag over his undone fly. His hips arch up, needy and unashamed, to thrust against the friction of your palm. 

Then your hand drags lower, pressing against his pubic bone until his concealed, half-hard cock fills up your hand and spills over the top of your fist. You duck down, your teeth scraping his pecs—God bless but Michelangelo could have learned a thing or two from them. 

You’re totally biased, but he could model with this physique. Not like bodybuilder models, all veiny and dehydrated, but like, the centerfold of Lumberjacked Weekly (is that a thing? It should totally be a thing, and you make a mental note—which you will forget about in five seconds—to Google this once you’re back at base and have incognito internet searches again). 

He’s pure muscle, all goddamn seven feet (plus or minus a couple of inches), abdominals, pectorals, deltoids, fucking all of it prominent. No surprise that you absolutely cannot keep your shit together around him for more than thirty consecutive seconds. 

Your hand cups his soft cock, stroking the perfect, smooth length as your teeth abrade his areola. He whimpers, whining through clenched teeth as his dick jumps in your fist. Smiling against his skin, you lick a drip of sweat from his chest and then suck his nipple into your mouth, and pull. 

König makes a sound that would wake the dead, throwing his head back with the violent arch of his back, slapping a hand over his face to keep the fabric of his mask in place. 

What a fucking thrill this is. 

It’s better than any high you’ve had in your life. 

You’ve reduced a perfect killing machine to squirming like he’s getting his first handjob in the backseat of his parents’ car. You twist his other nipple with your free hand, until his cock jerks and leaks around your fingers with each flick. 

“You gonna be sweet for me, hm?” you whisper, and König nods vigorously, so overly enthusiastic that his hood falls back in place over his parted mouth, slick with your spit. His eyes glaze over as your hand pumps his cock slowly, pulling it out so you can look at it in the dim red light. 

He deserves to be reduced to the same sort of gibbering, senseless, fucked-out mess like he made you for hours. It only seems fair. And, as good as he was at being the big tough manly top, the way he needed your approval (even if you were practically in tears begging for more) and the way he whines now, with your nails teasing his foreskin, well, it's a bankable fact that he’s going to be an even better follower.

Like a good soldier executing your orders. 

That this is how to make you happy.

“C’mon baby,” you coo, “I want you again. In here, just like this.” 

You hitch your hips up, sliding the underside of him against your pussy, his glans hot where it presses against the hood of your clit. Luxuriating, you drag his cock against your cunt, not quite able to stop your hips from rolling into the sensation, the friction, the pleasure of using him like this. 

You repeat the movement, once, twice and he makes a pure, unholy noise as you adjust him, letting his cockhead press against your entrance. You lean back, one hand braced against the roof of the humvee, and take him in so…damn…slowly. 

It’s not easy. You’re still wet with countless orgasms, but you’re also swollen and bruised and your insides ache as they stretch around his cock.

“Scheiße, ” König pants, skimming his hands up your hips, cupping your tits. He rolls your nipples between the flat of his thumb and his pointer fingers until they’re peaked and distended. “I can’t think when you talk like that.”

“I don’t need you to think, soldier.” You brace your knees on either side of his hips, and leverage your body a little further down. He slides another inch in, thick, and whines, high and involuntary, at the drag of skin on skin. His eyelids flutter behind the holes of his sniper’s hood, and his head falls back against the glass of the windowpane behind him as you ride his lap. “Just fuck me, fill me up with this cock.”

“Schatz,” he cries out, and oh. 

You are so into this. 

It’s so stupid hot. 

There’s no drug, no high, no triumph that can compare to splitting yourself open on him. 

König shakes like it’s too much. Like he’s helpless in your thrall, submitting to your decisions with a delicious subservience that turns you on even more.

You know it’s too much for him. He’s come, and come, and come again, emptying his balls into your pussy, and now he can barely get it up and yet you’re still using his half-hard cock to get yourself off again.

“Keep your hands here,” you tell him, covering his huge hands with yours and moving them to encircle your waist. His fingertips  meet at the small of your back, curling around the bony column of your spine. You’re so small next to König, and it’s a heady rush that you’re calling the shots with a guy that could easily flip you over and pound you until you’re raw and drooling (again). 

“T-that’s it—fuck,” you punch out. Even in this state, his cock is so much. Something twinges inside you, a reminder that you’d been stretched to the limit earlier and hadn’t had any real time to recover, either. 

It’s a trade you’re more than willing to make.

You try not to roll your hips, even though a million years of evolution is telling your cavewoman brain to do it now. Consequences later. Sex now. You gnaw your lower lip between your teeth, sinking your nails into his slab-like shoulders. 

König’s head thuds back the glass again and he chants a cadence of “fuck, fuck, fuck” in stuttered English, rolling his hips into you, any notion of ‘too much’ be damned. You meet him halfway, digging your knees into the felted floorboard to fuck him properly.

The humvee fills up with the slap of your ass against his hips, his thighs. 

You ride his cock, feeling his legs bunch and strain as you fuck him back to hardness. There’s an inevitability to it, the physics and biology and a bunch of other stuff that you can’t be made to give a shit about when he feels like this inside you, under you. König whines again, a whimper for mercy, like it’s too much, but you keep fucking him through it. 

Is this a bitch move? 

Are you, maybe, being a little bit mean to him in this, forcing him to get hard again for you to use him for your own gratification?

Absolutely, and you love it. 

There’s no kindness in this for either of you, this isn’t some (highly immoral) charity for busted-ass motherfuckers with triple digit body counts and communication issues. He used you raw and aching out in the cargo bay, and now it’s your turn to put the Colonel in his place. 

His fingers tighten on your waist, trembling, but he keeps them there. Not moving his grip because you told him to, because he’s a good boy and listens to what you say. 

“You’re gonna think about this every time you l-load out,” you hiss between clenched teeth, pulling the fabric of his hood taut around his jaw. It gives you a feel for his lips through the mask, and you kiss him through the soft material. 

His mouth opens for you, tongue offered like he’s ready for whatever sacrament you’re doling out, but instead of the holy eucharist all you’re doing is swapping spit through a bit of grubby cloth. 

You absolutely refuse to whimper—this is his turn to whine and beg and take whatever you give him, however you choose to. Your arms drape across his shoulders, clawing the wide, flexing span of his delts. 

You mark red furrows in his flesh, scoring across his back because it feels so goddamn good. He’s matching your movements, fucking his hips into you from where he’s sitting under your slight weight.

“Scheisse, Kätzchen.” 

It sounds like a Herculean effort for König to say that much. He’s shaking with pent-up, barely repressed energy (or maybe just sheer, stupid overstimulation, who are you to say), and you think he’s caught his second wind with how he’s throbbing in you.

“T-think about this every day already. About your lips, how sweet you’d sound, how tight—” he breaks off, gasping, like he can’t finish the thought. 

“C’mon, hon,” you urge, and he makes this noise, and you’re one-hundred and twenty-five percent certain that you need to fill up a whole book of pet names for him. He melts into them, mentally, bodily, completely. 

You hope he can’t get in this fucking humvee without remembering this moment: the tight fit of your cunt, how you sound when he goes deeper than he ever has, let alone anyone you’ve ever fucked. Like you’re too full of him, but can’t get enough of this.  

There’s a full minute of nothing but the sound of your hips smacking his lap as you fuck every last moan and whine out of this man, the fleshy sounds ricocheting around the metal confines of the humvee like someone’s shot off a round. His hands don’t move from where he’s got them cinched around your waist, a full-body tremor wracking his big frame. 

“What’ve you been doing with my u-underwear, hm?” your voice almost hisses out, like you’re demanding an explanation out of him, and with how hard you’re fucking his cock, it feels like a punishment, making him whine. 

You’re fucking an answer out of him, and you will get it. 

“Es tut mir Leid, Kätzchen,” König says, his voice strangled. Whining. “I’ll buy you more.”

“Uh-h-huh, but what’re you doing with ‘em, hmm? C’mon, sweetheart, you can tell me,” you coax, the hiss turning into something sweet, breathy, sugary. 

Something that promises him good things if he just fesses up like a good boy. 

He hesitates, but only for a half heartbeat that’s filled with the sounds of your heavy breathing, how wet you sound while you fuck him through it. 

“T-they smell like you,” he stutters. You can feel him shaking from strain, or shame. Or something tangent to all of that as you wring a confession out of him.

“Mhmm,” you hum, encouraging. 

“When I watch you, it feels so good to touch them, smell you,” he gasps as your hips pick up the pace. There’s a steady cadence of flesh smacking into his solid hips, but he doesn’t move. He sits there beneath you so very still, trembling, letting you use his cock like a favorite toy. 

The thought of König fucking his fist with your panties wadded up in his face, draping them over that thick shaft with that vein throbbing on the underside, using them to pump his dick wet with his spit as he covertly watches you fuck yourself silly with you vibrator is…doing a lot of things for you right now. 

When you think about him coming into the crotch of them, thick ropes of semen staining the lace where he’s been smelling your pussy, you clench up. He cries out, way, way too fucking loud. But you’re past caring if Hutch or Dec come down here to check up on you both, look into the fogged up interior of the humvee, and put it all together.

“Gott, Kätzchen.” You’re cockdrunk. Riding that high of how it feels to make him freeze up and blabber in his mother tongue, giving you the control to let you keep doing this to his body. Holding him on that keen edge where everything is too much, but not enough. 

A wild idea steals into your head.

Your CO always did say you were the crazy one.

Chapter Text

You tug on König's shoulders, reeling him forward with you as you rise off of his cock and flip onto your knees, because if you don’t get König to fuck you from behind (and this goddamn plane crashes somewhere over Azerbaijani airspace because Declan is too busy trying to cue up the Cranberries and isn’t checking the altitude gauges while Hutch is in the lav), you’re going to your grave having lived only a half life. 

He is, as usual, so compliant and follows your moves like this is some sort of Viennese waltz. He slots his big frame behind you, hunching over you, and yeah. You are probably in love with this guy with how he gropes your hips, fits his cock against your slit, and glides in like he belongs there with a broken, wrecked noise coming deep from his chest. 

Maybe he does. 

König grabs up a fistful of your hair, the other hand poises at its favorite spot on your waist. Favorite, ‘cause the guy’s right hand is drifting there on instinct now. 

It’s the perfect leverage to bring you back on his cock, the noises of wet, slapping flesh filling up the humvee that he drives. The humvee you sit either shotgun or right behind him in on field ops. 

You rock forward on your elbows, letting your head hang so you can look between your tits and down the planes of your body and how his dick is disappearing into you.

“Gimme your phone.” 

You’re slurring your words, like you are drunk on this. It sure as fuck feels like it—your head is swimming, inhibitions lowered to the ground so low that if they were a limbo bar, an ant couldn’t fit under it.  

“Häh?" comes out like the German-speaking version of huh? You don’t even need a translation. You fumble, reaching back into König’s pocket from where his pants hang loose around his straining thighs, snag his phone, and pull it out. 

This man doesn’t have a fucking passcode (maybe on the preconception that no one is going to get close to his phone) and possesses no sort of wallpaper—just a black screen. 

You can fix that.

It’s easy to flick the screen and bring up his camera. Hit video and record, and shove it back into his shaking hand when you tell him to grab it.

“Keep moving, baby,” you hum, “you’re being so good for me.”

You elongate yourself, stretching out on your elbows, rocking back onto him so your spine accordions. You bite your lip, because König’s so fucking big that everything almost doesn’t fit, but he does. You can feel his balls press against your swollen cunt, tightening up against his body when you rock back.

Your hips start moving. He stays still for a half-beat, but you can feel him shaking with the need to move, to fuck you back. You have no set pace, only that it’s a maddening one. How it must feel to have your wetness stretch and flutter and clench around him. 

Sure, the angle is going to be absolute shit, but you get the sense that the video will be one for the history books and maybe more than a little encouragement to get either of you through a cold, lonely night—you’re hoping you can add more to an encrypted folder that just says BURN IN EVENT OF MY DEATH because it’s just full of things like this: 

The dimly, red-lit interior of the bed of the humvee. Your hips, illuminated by that same cherry-tinged glow, one of his hands dwarfing your waist as it climbs up to clench and use the leverage to pull your back on his cock. König’s breath catches as he finally starts moving his hips. 

Slick, wet sounds coming from the audio as he picks up the pace, pounding into you. The audio is dominated by his noises—whines, whimpers, begging. 

His breathing is rapid, and he’s moaning in time with you and there’s bits of garbled German mixed in, indistinguishable from whatever litany you’re cussing. His hesitation melts away as you’ve promoted him to amateur videographer and he looks at your body, then his body, through the perspective of the camera.

Garbled sounds that whinge into whimpers when he presses down on your shoulder blades to pin your front half to the felt-lined interior of the humvee. He holds you down by the neck and tells you to stay still with a rasping, “Bitte, Kätzchen.”

The camera tilting wildly because he has to pull his free hand back up to your hips, holding them up with one arm under them to keep you even with him because he’s still so fucking tall, even when he’s on his knees for you. There’s got to be a thirty second span where you can tell he’s adjusting to this, that what you have him doing is definitely not something he’s ever done before (and to be honest, neither have you, but when the spirit moves you and all that). 

But inspiration is found in all forms, because the camera scans up from catching the gleam of his cock splitting you open to the knobs of your spine mid-back, further up, until it’s focused on your face. 

Your hair snagging in his hand as he reaches for it, tenderly pushing it back from your face. Then his hand comes back down to roughly palm your neck, making you cry out as he keeps thrusting into you at a punishing pace, reeling you back to make your spine arc as he holds you by the throat.

“Whose cunt is this, hm? Tell me, Schatzi,” he clips out. It’s a switch in his tone from the earlier one of whining, desperate need to instead the voice he uses on the radio. The voice of the former officer that commands his fireteam with iron-fisted precision. And now he’s using it on you. 

The angle changing again to your face, tipped up, because he’s gripping your jaw with his thick, long fingers to force you to look directly in the camera.

"Yours,” you choke.

He makes this sort of labored groan, and you will no doubt scan over that part of the vid and remember how much harder his cock got at hearing that out of your wet, pink mouth.

“Fuck, I’mgonnacome,” you warble, words stringing together, and the video cuts out when he presses his fingers into your mouth, garbling your words, your moans.

The phone drops out of his hand like a goddamn brick by your spread fingers. He’s too busy focusing on you to film anymore, and you get it—you totally get it. But that footage is no doubt going to be something when you organize the logistics of him sending it over to you in a private text.

König must want you to come so much that you go practically insensate while he keeps roughly fucking you, the pounding of his hips turning you into some kind of gibbering mess. You wish you had the luxury of time to turn this into an all night thing, but you’re both living in that liminal space between takeoff and landing, hovering in some no-mans-land of time slippage before the wheels touch down and the both of you are back to reality again on the KorTac FOB.

So you get greedy—you suck up every sensation in the moment, your ears droning with the sound of the engine, his fingers in your mouth, how you’re drooling senselessly around them. You realize he’s pulled his hood up to expose his face, trusting you enough to not look back at him, because his mouth is hot on the line of your scapula, mapping out another scar that some narco-lord put there when you were in Honduras. 

You need him to kiss you. You shut your eyes, turn your face so he sees you in profile, and he pulls his fingers out to lean in over your hunched shoulder to kiss your mouth, and you know he needs it just as much with how he moans desperately when you give him your tongue. 

You’re riding the edge of your orgasm, and then, like all the others he’s given you, it’s seismic when it happens. Life changing. You keen into his mouth as that sweet tension in you unwinds explosively, and he makes this broken grunt as you feel his cock jerk inside your cunt, coming with you like this is something out of a goddamn smut novel. 

For a half-beat your lashes flutter, and you can make out the vague outline of his face. But then you shut them again, because you’re a good girl, and you want him to know you won’t push a boundary he’s not ready to relax yet. 

You are fucked out, drool running down your chin and not one cogent thought in your skull. Your last brain cell has checked out and gone somewhere sunny, you hope. 

You wish it well. 

It’s the closest to a religious experience you’ve felt in ages. You’re telling yourself, enforcing yourself to not catch feelings, because dick shouldn’t be this good. 

There’s got to be a catch. Maybe the catch is simple—that what you’re getting into with him is the deep end of the pool. Sweat cools on your bodies, the interior of the humvee smelling like sex. 

You can feel his come dripping out of you, so much despite him filling you up earlier. He drapes over the back of you, and you wish he would just fuse into your skin. That this couple of stolen moments would stretch on into infinity, and that how he’s pulsing into you, making such soft sounds against your throat, isn’t a passing thing. 

There’s no willpower in your body to break apart from him. He braces his arms beside your head, trying not to crush you with his weight, although you wish he would. If that’s how you go out, that’s how you go out—you can think of worse ways to die than post-orgasm, crushed by his thick, perfect body. 

And you probably say as much, the reasoning part of your brain disconnected from the pure id that’s controlling you now. He makes a chuffing sort of laugh at the nape of your neck at what is no doubt drowsy, nonsensical bullshit, and you can feel him settle his hips against you without laying his chest down. 

König can probably plank his upper half, his whole body, for untold number of hours, but he flips you onto his front when he rolls you both, and he’s such a nice fucking temporary mattress that you make this sort of cooing sigh and melt back into him. Ass to hips. Your back is flat against his wide, hard chest. 

His cock is still in you. You could sleep like this, honestly, and contemplate a cat nap like Hutch joked about before you came down to the cargo bay. Or you could fuck him again. 

The body is raw, but the spirit is willing. Though you know better—it’s about time to tap out, as you’ve come so hard and so much that you’ve lost spatial recognition and the ability to tell time. When you sit up, his cock slipping out of you to leave you achy and empty and a noise of protest grumbling out of his throat, you check his black phone screen to see the time has you inbound for landing not too long from now. You twist on his hips to straddle him.

The hood had fallen back some. You can see it bunched up under his nose, leaving his mouth unobstructed for you. It hasn’t hiked up far enough to hide his eyes, though, and you look into them as you draw a line over his lips with the tip of your finger. 

His eyes are a pale, clear blue. Like an Alpine stream. Lidded heavy like yours must be as he gazes up at you.

“You gonna start coming more to Cultural Exchange Night, Colonel?” 

“...only if you’re there, Kätzchen.”

You spend the rest of the ride partially clothed, König’s head draped in your lap even though the back of the humvee is the last place you want any post-coital activities and you’re probably leaking his come everywhere on the stained felt. You do most of the pillow (humvee?) talking, drowsing on about old jobs and interesting places and people. Rambling about everything and nothing while your fingers drag across the planes of his face under the fabric of his mask.

If you weren't so certain he was listening intently and catch his inquisitive, bright gaze looking up at you whenever you look down, enraptured by your ability to run your mouth eighty miles an hour, you'd think you were dealing with a man lulled to sleep by the sound of your voice and the constant, smooth pressure of your fingertips mapping out his features. 

So you sit there, talking, with come leaking out of you to give another mysterious stain to join all the others making the lining in the humvee look like a goddamn Jackson Pollock painting. You’re hoping (praying) your daily birth control pill can hold the fucking line, here, and resolve to consider an IUD if this becomes a thing. Still, all things considered might warrant a trip to the infirmary, and washing down a Plan B with a glass of hard pinot grigio so you don't have to test out the company maternity leave policy anytime soon.

STDs didn’t even register on a brain wave—you’d already pried through his available medical face sheet KorTac keeps as need-to-know access for squad mates.

Both of you dress enough to rotate out to the lav, and you pee and tidy up with whatever scarce resources are available to you in there, but there’s no amount of sink baths that can get all this come and spit and sweat off you.

And, what’s more, you sort of love smelling like him. 

Your parting, private gesture before you return to the cockpit is kissing König hard enough where he's stumbling, knees buckling. He clutches onto your legs as you crawl up him like a depraved koala, pulling his mask up like a bridal veil so you can get to his mouth for one last taste to make him whine for you.

If Hutch and Dec notice anything squirrely on your return to the land of professional people who aren't fucking their coworkers into floorboards, they do a very good job of not saying any damn thing about it.

Later, when you’re back on base, freshly showered, feeling somewhat more human after the psychic vampire in the form of a sex-starved Austrian has wrung you out like a wet dishrag, you get an email that there’s a package waiting for you at the admin office. 

You swing by last minute, knowing that the mail call is about to shut down for the day when the support staff rotate off base. You sign for it and carry back the nondescript package back to the housing unit. 

You grab your utility knife off your desk and cut open the tape to reveal…

Some fancy sort of atelier box nestled in packaging paper? 

It's got subtle branding that screams high-class European. Gilt lettering spelling out the name of some quiet luxury fashion house you’ve only seen in highbrow social media adverts you’ve been side eyeing like a dragon looking at a particularly shiny hoard of gold.

When you open up the box within the box, you pause, let out a disbelieving laugh, and fish out an absolutely darling set of bikini-cut lace panties in black. Another in pink. The last in a shade of blue that reminds you of his eyes. Three pairs to replace all the ones lost to the cause. 

Timing-wise, it’s impossible for him to have ordered this in the span of hours that have passed since you both have more or less consummated all that repressed sexual yearning. 

He must’ve been planning this delivery for a while, a secret admirer sort of gift.

You shed out of your PT wear that doubles as sleepwear, pick the set that’s blue as his eyes, and don it. You flick on your bathroom lights and pose your lower half to use the castoff lighting to take the perfect picture with your phone.

You flick over to the only contact labeled COL. You edit his contact name to give it a little something extra, typing out a private message to COL 🥴🤤 that goes only to him. No group chats. 

My place in 10? Bring the obstbrand. 

You’ve christened the first private message to him with a candid, tasteful side shot of your ass. The lace he’s bought you rides high on your hip.

Unsurprisingly, König’s there in under five. He doesn’t even knock on the door. 

You might need maintenance to come check it out in the morning for how quickly he’s shoved it open, splintering the wood around the door jamb.

And he doesn’t forget to bring the peach schnapps.